Beulah didn’t put up a struggle; she’d lost all interest in making a meal of Wahoo’s father. The alcohol in the bourbon was highly irritating, and she kept opening and closing her mouth in distaste.

It took a few minutes for Mickey to catch his breath and for the circulation to return to his legs. He was able to hop along beside Wahoo as they lugged the big snake back to her tank. Then they went inside to take care of Mickey’s foot, which looked like a purple pincushion.

“Promise you fed her? Tell the truth, son.”

Wahoo felt awful. “I must have forgot.”

“Springtime is when they get active and really start chowing down. I’ve only told you about a hundred times.” With a groan, Mickey sprawled on the couch.

“Dad, I’m really sorry.”

“Soon as we’re done here, you go fetch her a couple of big fat chickens from the freezer. And nuke ’em good in the microwave, okay? Pythons don’t like Popsicles.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wahoo emptied a tube of antiseptic ointment on his father’s foot, and with a butter knife he spread the goop over all the puncture holes. There were too many to count. Pythons weren’t poisonous, but a bite could cause a nasty infection.

“I’m sorry,” Wahoo said again. “I really messed up.”

“Enough already. Everybody makes mistakes,” his dad told him. “Heck, I shouldn’t have been playin’ with a snake that size, like she was a fuzzy little poodle.”

“Hold still, Pop.”

Mickey stared up at the ceiling. “Look, I know this ain’t exactly a normal life for a kid your age.”

“Don’t start again,” Wahoo said.

“No, I mean it,” Mickey went on. “What would I do without you and your mom? I’m lucky she stuck around all these years.”

“Yes, you are. Where’s the gauze?”

Wahoo waited until his dad’s wounds were bandaged before telling him what Julie had said about the Expedition Survival! contract.