The membrane, the culvert, the quiet

She made me show the bag on camera and the hatch membrane slid out of nowhere — translucent, almost pretty, and it hit my boot like an accusation. I swore before I could stop myself and I know that clip is doing rounds in the herp group now. Pieter leaning into frame claiming it proves I kept a cobra. Of course it does not prove that. A hatchling membrane means the egg was in the bag at some point and I pulled it out when I tipped the contents. It means I missed it during the sort. It means I was sloppy or I was rushed and either answer is ugly. Naledi photographed everything and I just stood there with my mouth open like a rookie.

I keep coming back to the culvert decision. Twelve hours. I had a twelve-hour window I already missed because I stood on my own stoep and waited instead of driving. Pieter's van sat there with its headlights throwing a shape into Oom Hannes's doorway and I watched it like it meant something. It did not mean anything. He was just parked. I could have loaded the cooler and left and I did not and now I am sitting here with the bag sealed and the holding room quiet and I cannot stop thinking about the night I said no to the money. That is the moment I keep replaying. Not the loss. The part where I chose something I cannot name.