“You hear them, McCain?”

“Oh, I hear them all right.”

And I did. How could you not hear them?

“So you know what they are?” she said.

“You bet I do,” I said.

“And you’re not scared?”

“Who said I wasn’t scared?”

“You did. On the way over.”

“Oh.”

“So you are scared?” she said.

“A little, I guess.”

“I’m scared. But then I’m a girl. I’m not a big brave five-foot-four he-man like you.”

“Five-five.”

“Yeah, in motorcycle boots maybe.”

“In motorcycle boots I’d be five-six. If I owned a pair.”

“Have I ever told you I’m five-foot-seven?”

“Not more than 4eagcb times,” I said.

“Almost five-eight, actually.”

“All right, I’m scared. Does that make you feel better?”

She gave me her best kid-sister grin and squeezed my hand. It was a kid-sister squeeze, too. Nothing romantic.

“Actually, that does make me feel better, McCain. So let’s go in, all right?”

Just as we walked away from my ‘ea red Ford ragtop, she stopped me and said. “Actually, maybe we’re imagining it.”

“Imagining what?”

“You know. Hearing the rattlesnakes. I don’t think you can hear rattlesnakes this far away.”

“You want to get out a tape measure?”