Page 10 of Colt

He lifts a shoulder. “I dunno.”

“You need to find it, buddy. Then you need to get dressed and brush your teeth and put your shoes on. I’ve already asked you multiple times⁠—”

“I’m going. Just give me a minute to draw, God!”

I close my eyes. My therapist told me to count backward from ten when I feel like I’m about to lose my shit. Funny enough, Dean said his therapist gave him the same tool to deal with his big feelings.

I get to eight when I hear Elvis growling.

Elvis never growls.

Also, why do I smell poop?

I open the door to see the dog standing there with…Lord, is that another snake in his mouth? It looks like it’s dead, but you never know. Please, God, don’t let it have bit him. It’s still mostly dark outside, so I can’t tell what kind of snake it is.

We see a lot—a lot—of rattlers in these parts.

“Elvis, drop it!” I hurtle down the back steps.

My son follows me to the door. “Daddy.”

“Hang on, Dean.”

“Daddy.”

“I’ll be right there⁠—”

“Daddy!”

I whirl around. “What?”

“I think I had an accident.”

I close my eyes. Wish that a lightning bolt would come down and take me out right here, right now. End it all, because it’s not even seven a.m. and already the level of suck I’ve experienced today is extreme.

And just think, after I drop Dean off, I get to work a whole day.

Parenthood is just as rewarding and empowering as they said it would be. Ha.

“Did you poop your pants?” I manage around the burn in my throat.

“Yup.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I bound up the steps and grab my work gloves. I dash back outside and carefully remove the snake from Elvis’s jaws.

Lucky for us, it’s a black snake. Unlucky for the snake, Elvis killed it.

I usher the dog inside. Dean’s in the bathroom, whining about how much his bottom hurts. His lunch box on the counter is still empty. Folder is still missing. A pair of stained underwear is on the kitchen floor.

My third cup of coffee has gone cold on the table beside my laptop. My reflection stares back at me from the computer’s blank screen. Even from several feet away, I can make out the lines around my eyes and mouth that have deepened over the past few years.

I look tired. And old.

Honestly, I look like my dad.

To be fair, Dale Wallace is a handsome man. But he’s spent a lifetime working in the Texas sun, and he looks it.

I’m beat by the time Dean and I load up in my Silverado. I crack the windows and drive slow over the dirt road that connects our little A-frame house to the rest of the ranch.