Every summer I’d spend a week at a kids camp in the Idaho mountains where I’d transformed into a fearless explorer. I remember trekking through the woods in search of hidden forest treasure to present as an offering of servitude to my camp counselors.

One afternoon I happened upon a garter snake. I was delighted.

Being a tactile and curious child, I made fast friends.

So the snake did what snakes do. It bit me.

Flummoxed and indignant I raged at the snake’s low blow while it smugly slithered away.

As the puncture wounds hemorrhaged twin fountains of blood, a shadow of doom crossed my soul. I’d seen old Westerns and PBS nature specials. I knew what happened to people who got bit by snakes.

So without saying a word to anyone I went back to my cabin, laid down in my bunk, and waited to die.

My mind raced with thoughts of what the world would be like without me.

I thought about my campmates and how sad they’d be to find my stiff and bloated body.

I thought about my parents losing their beautiful princess and being stuck with my three nasty brothers.

I thought about the glass paperweight I stole from my classroom and convinced the neighbor kid was worth three million dollars so he’d trade me all his birthday money and candy.

I waited ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty-five. Jeez, it took a long time to die.

I could hear kids running around outside having fun and giggling.

It was annoying.

If they only knew their comrade was in the throws of her final hour they wouldn’t dare be so carefree.

Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore so I got up and went to the playground. I sidled up next to a sweet little girl and whispered in her ear.

I showed her my puncture wounds and told her how brave I was being. She screamed and ran for the medic.

Foolish child.

There was nothing a medic could do for me now.

After many probing questions it was revealed that garter snakes were not, in fact, poisonous and I wasn’t going to get the dramatic death I’d been anticipating.

Talk about anticlimactic.