Bread and Snakes

The day I came home, there was glass shattered all over the back porch.

What happened? I asked.
Wetbacks broke in.
Wetbacks?
Yes.
How do you know they were wetbacks?
Because they stole a loaf of bread.
A loaf of bread? That's it?
Yes.
That doesn't mean they were wetbacks.
Yes it does. Anyway, our neighbors saw four wetbacks in the brush the same day.
Hm. And they only took bread?
Yeah.

The night after that happened, my mom shot the ninth monthly rattlesnake under the house. Twice. Blew it to hell, then had to drag it out of there with a hoe. The smallest one so far, she said. Only four feet. It had some greasy yellow proto-snakeling sacks in it.

I keep telling them to get off that mesquite flat, a few hundred yards from the highway to Laredo, crawling with rattlers, mice, and apparently men. Funny to move from Five Points to the country, and feel less safe.
But at least there are people out there who only steal bread. I guess they know what it's like to be stuck better than anyone. Not so different from Five Points, probably.