The snake was 5 feet long — exactly 5 feet long. I know this because I measured the skin he left in the hosta bed right outside my back door; the skin he left in a soft pile, like dirty clothes he expected his mother to pick up and toss in the laundry; the skin I picked up with a broom handle and stretched across the cool concrete carport, careful not to touch it, because, well, you just never know. I stood there and stared at it for a couple of minutes, thought about the snake wriggling and writhing and slipping out completely dressed in brand new skin, wondered where exactly he’d gotten to after his costume change and congratulated myself on having waited two days since the discovery before venturing close enough, with the broom handle, to examine what he had left behind.