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“Can you grab it?” she shouted while the dog whipped it violently back and forth.

“I’m not touching a snake!”

Woofarine snarled and gave it one final sonic-speed shake, then flung the snake to the ground. It was disemboweled and writhing on the black asphalt.

I stood there, still holding my dog by the harness like a six-pack of beer. He was rotating midair, covered in guts and looking proud of himself.

Larissa was staring at us, wide-eyed. She had blood splashed across her white shirt.

A guy on a bike chimed his bell, waved as he passed us, and ran over the half-dead reptile, putting it out of its misery.

It was a long moment before she said anything. “Woofarine Christopher Wright,” she whispered.

I looked at our unhinged little dog. “We’re gonna need therapy after this,” I breathed.

“Couples therapy,” she said. “We’ll get half off.”

That did it. I started laughing and so did she.

None of this was humorous. The snake was dead, we were covered in gore. The whole thing had taken less than thirty seconds and we were both in shock, but it was so fucked up it was funny.

I was wiping tears from my eyes when I finally got it together.

“The poor thing,” Larissa said, shaking her head at the snake.

She looked for a stick and pushed the limp body to the side of the trail.

I set Woofarine down and he darted for it again, but I wrapped my hand around the leash and held him back.

She looked down at herself. “Gross.”

“You have some… It’s on your cheek.”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand and recoiled at the smear.

I pulled a sanitizer wipe from my fanny pack and handed it to her.

“Woofarine Christopher Wright?” I said, watching her wipe her face.

“He’s your son.”

“You’re his mother.”

“Not today.”

I smiled.

“This isn’t doing it,” she said, dabbing uselessly at her shirt.

“Maybe we can find a stream,” I said.

We walked for another half mile before we heard the trickle of water. We had to hike down an embankment to get to the creek. We did the best we could to clean up. The water was freezing. I washed the dog. He looked like a wet rat when I was done. Then Larissa took off her shirt to rinse it while I stood with my back to her on the side of the trail.

“I’m sorry,” she said from behind me. “I can’t walk six more miles with snake brains on me. I have to get this off.” I could hear the shuffling of wet rocks as she hopscotched across the stream to the little clear pool I’d used to wash the dog. “I can’t believe this,” she mumbled.

“This would make a really good Two Truths and a Lie.”

“Ha. My dog killed a snake and covered me in innards when I was lost in the woods. I graduated high school. I met my boyfriend while I was barefoot after a Jaxon Waters concert.”