On the ride down from the airport, Jamie asked "Are there any snakes?" hissing the esses just a little.

"Yes," said Annabel, "but you can avoid them. Rattlesnakes can move only a couple miles an hour, so you are likely to be faster than they are. But don't turn over any rocks with your bare hand, in fact never put your hand in a rock crevice or any place you can't see it. They sleep during the day, and hunt at night, so stay away from dark areas in daytime and off the paths at sunset. They'd much rather sink their fangs into a rodent than you."

For the first time in his life, Jamie was out of his depth. Laughably out of his depth. Talk about your culture shock. A rock cracked the windshield of his rented Cadillac as he drove to the site. His new cowboy boots got nailed by prickly pear spines every single day he worked with us. The altitude made him sleepy; he fell asleep on the back dirt pile every afternoon. He burned that patrician nose redder than a Santa Fe sunset. He heard the rattle of a snake everywhere he went. Jamie knew not the first thing about how to excavate an archaeological site, and it deeply shocked him. There was no way he could bring himself to ask a woman to tell him how to use a shovel. We, of course, had a great time.

And at the end of the week, Jamie got into his Cadillac and drove back to the airport. It was a relief for all of us. That night, we hiked out to the site to celebrate. The full moon rose at sunset; and the operative word here is rose, and salmon, and crimson, and maroon. The four of us perched on the ruins of the apartment block, and watched as the cosmos danced for us.

Annabel reached into her back pack and pulled out a thermos of gin and tonics, and as she poured the fluid out, we heard the rattle of a snake near our feet.

"To Las Jumanas," she said, "and the repel of invaders from the east."

Note: This story is for Shirley Jackson, from whom I stole the character Jamie Harris.