At one point in early adolescence I found myself at church camp, some kind of over night spiritual retreat for kids. I'm not sure why we were there, and am assuming my dad made us go. My brother and I. It was totally awkward, but we managed to have some fun. I remember sitting with some kids who were being read to, some kind of bible story with pictures. I thought about how I wasn't into bible stories but it was nice to be part of this little group, sitting closely and warmly together, somebody else's family. One afternoon we were walking through some grass and my brother spotted a snake in the grass, a small one, a gardener. I reached down to pick it up and it jumped up and bit me on my little finger. My brother then grabbed a stick and wailed on it, killing it. We picked it up holding it from its head and dangling, its body still intact, I proudly told a few people that I got bit by a snake and that my brother had killed it in retaliation. There were two little holes on my pinkie, no venom or swelling, just a simple bite. The snake probably didn't deserve what it got. The little holes stayed on my finger for a long time.