The light is still gray when grandma gently shakes me awake and puts a piece of cold hominy bread in my hand. The sun is rising as we reach the brambles where the berries hang red and ripe. My bare feet are wet with dew. Thorns tear at my arms. The plump orbs thump into the lard pail. I pop a fat berry into my mouth and let the tart juice burst deliciously over my tongue.
Grandma has wandered off again, I suddenly realize. It is while I scramble wildly to find her that I step on the big copperhead.