Semi­trucks shed tires often without real­iz­ing, layers left behind until blown out to the rim. It’s hot at the end of the week and with all county medians mowed, foreman assigns me and another summer hire to pick up these road gators. Spend the day in the dumptruck’s A/C that smells like salt and formalde­hyde, stop every few feet on the express­way, collect shred­ded tires. An easy day. In the right spot, I can throw torn rubber up to block out the sun before it lands in the truckbed. Within the last four years, 200,000 crashes have been caused by U.S. roadway debris. 39,000 injuries, 500 deaths. My partner for the day wants to drive, says his younger self would never forgive him if he let a girl drive instead. I argue chil­dren are more likely to share, to be unaf­fect­ed by expec­ta­tions of gender, but I let him. This makes him uncom­fort­able. The radio dis­cuss­es one of our cowork­ers being arrest­ed for assault­ing his girl­friend. I remem­ber shaking his hand on my first day when the radio reveals, the girlfriend’s scalp and hair was found in the back­seat of his truck. At 80 mph, road gators can seri­ous­ly damage a vehicle. The guy I’m working with pulls at the dead skin peeling from my arm, asks if he can see how big of a piece he can get. It itches, so I let him. He is metic­u­lous and his fingers hardly touch any­thing living. Cars zip by, each one humming louder than the last. There are less than 500 people in my home­town. Sur­round­ed by sun-bleached fields, pasture, swollen in foal, a palomi­no mare watches him detach my shed­ding skin. He cel­e­brates, but I prefer harder days. Any­thing to avoid the switch from cold cab to crunch­ing corn­flower along hot road­side. We are required to wear jeans, rawhide gloves to protect our hands, safety-vests to protect us from people—all I feel is heavy and slick. A bed of knap­weed hosts a road gator larger than me. I don’t call the boy to help me lift it. I drag the tire like a table­cloth, reveal a snaken­est that shifts, writhes in the sun. One head rises. Widen­ing like a cape, its neck flares as it hisses, lashes out when its hatch­lings open their silent pink mouths. I tell him to retrieve the tire. He puffs his chest, rubs his damp arms. I wonder about the younger version of him. Later, back in the truck, a full snake­skin lies across the dash.