“Yip.”
“Don’t wake anyone or I’ll never hear the tail end of it.”
The first two pop-up canopy tents we approached were both cockeyed. No longer upright, they swayed in the wind like drunk cowboys on a Saturday night. I straightened them both and retrieved their tent numbers from the grass. The power and water appeared to be in order, so I moved on. At each tent, canopy, or shelter, I placed a check on my list that water and electricity were in working order and that the contestant number and set of ICA rules were attached to the electric pole with an extra-large rubber band. I’d decided on the rubber bands the previous afternoon after the first dozen sets blew across the parking lot and into the scrub faster than a jackrabbit on speed. Fortunately, my uncle had thought of everything and handed me a full bag of rubber bands as I headed out the door. He knew a thing or two about outsmarting the winds of the high desert.
When my Chi and I reached the last setup, a high pitch tent with side flaps zipped shut, I was stumped. But it was early and my brain was foggy. It was only after marching Lenny around the tent two times that I realized the owner had erected the harem-style shelter over the electric and water supply.
“I have not injected enough coffee to handle this . . .” I waved my hand in the air.
“Yip.”
“Accident waiting to happen! That’s exactly what I was thinking. But someone’s got to go in there and check it out, and you and I, my friend, have drawn the short straw.” About twenty feet beyond the tent in question, near a copse of bent mesquite trees and prickly pear cacti, rested an RV of epic proportions—a fifth wheel—if I had my terminology correct. I was 98 percent sure the owner would rather sleep in that luxury double-wide than the modest polyester shelter before me, but I’d tread lightly. Three panels were part mesh and from where I stood I could make out various shapes that looked like kitcheny stuff: coolers, a generator, and plastic tubs.
“Hellooo.” I knocked twice on the side of the tent, which was like trying to lasso creamed corn. Then I tried the zipper and found it unlocked. “Here goes nothing.” A band of gold now hugged the horizon, banded by a rippling sea of periwinkle clouds into the mile-wide sky. This welcoming light infused the east side of the tent, while the remainder lay in shadow. I gathered Lenny into my arms, gingerly unzipped the brown and tan panel, and stepped inside.
I immediately tripped over a nest of rattlesnakes coiled on the tent floor. As I jumped to my right, kicking my feet as fast as mixer blades in a blender of poisonous reptiles, I realized I’d been attacked only by lifeless extension cords.
“Yip.”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said.
I noted a folding table covered with spices, a cutting board, and some very sharp knives—a perfect place to leave the contestant’s number and set of rules—but whoever belonged to this tent had better watch themselves or they would do themselves an injury. I attached the rules to a knife on the table and turned to go. The wind caught the unzipped panel, fluttering the canvas like a flag on the Fourth of July, driving sunlight into the dark recesses between the containers and coolers.
Something under the table caught my eye, and the air flew from my lungs like a clay pigeon from a trap. I couldn’t breathe. Then realization dawned as I recognized Lucky Straw.
Of course, it was the strident chili cook’s tent. It was filled with too many supplies, yet organized from top to bottom like the cereal aisle in a Walmart—all except for the extension cords. “Sorry,” I whispered. His eyes remained closed in a deep sleep. I turned to go and paused for a second look. He was wearing a chef’s apron with no shirt underneath. I felt my cheeks warm until I realized he wasn’t completely naked. A hand lay over his heart as if he’d fallen asleep saying the Pledge of Allegiance to the Texas flag.
From our earlier encounter, I gathered he was a health nut, but he was obviously a rugged outdoorsman if he slept without sleeping bag, blanket, or pillow. Suddenly, the blood drained from my face, my head floating like a stringless balloon. Maybe he’d suffered a heart attack. I retreated far enough to tie Lenny’s leash to a tent spike, returned to Lucky’s side, and drew a deep breath before kneeling down beside him. I held my breath and lightly placed two fingers on his wrist. His skin was neither warm nor cold. In the dim light, I thought his chest rose infinitesimally, but I wouldn’t have staked my life on it.
No pulse. But I was lousy at the pulse thing. I forced myself to relax and tried again, this time at his neck. I waited several seconds. Nothing. I fumbled for my phone, lifting to my knees to yank it from the depths of my pocket.
I dialed 911 and prayed I was wrong.
“Yip, yip.”
My gaze drifted from Lucky’s cold body and across the fairgrounds as I filled in the dispatcher. Uncle Eddie was leaning against his truck, talking fervently with someone on the phone. He was going to be so upset. He’d worked so hard.
“Miss, miss!” The dispatcher’s voice held irritation.
“Yes, I’m sorry.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yes, but I took the class six months ago. How many pushes and puffs?” My mind flooded with images of the first murder victim I’d failed to revive. Dixie Honeycutt.
The dispatcher gave the lifesaving information carefully as if speaking to a child, but I still struggled to take it all in. I placed the phone on the table and began. It wasn’t perfect technique,
