Thursday's Three Word Wednesday

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are bait, jump and victim.

Snare
I work through the growing dusk to set and bait the traps.
A dozen in all, set strategically along traditional migration paths.
Simple snares really, nothing that’s going to trap an appendage and cause any damage to my intended victims. Hell, I don’t even use baling wire for fear of damaging their supple skin.
I fashion the snare loops out of the softest nylon parachute cord I can find, in muted colors that blend into soft summer grasses.
It has cost me three weeks allowance to bait the traps, which is a minor annoyance, but you really can’t scrimp in circumstances such as these. Hair ribbons, nail polish in several trendy colors, eye liner, toe rings (yeah, I know, rings for toes; in consultation with my sister, which cost me five bucks by the way, she said the little rings of silver were “hot”).
Traps set, I sit Indian-style behind old man Taylors hydrangea bush and commence to eat a peanut butter and banana sandwich.
And wait it out for a snare to tighten around a sinuous wrist or ankle, the ensuing commotion triggering a tiny bell to jump and jangle, announcing a successful entrapment.
The evening is a hot and humid; there’s a scant breeze, but not enough for the neighborhood, which seems tired and a little defeated during this extended heat wave. People evacuate their porches, extinguish lights, and move conversation and Cribbage games into air-conditioned family rooms.
Good for me. Less commotion, less prying eyes.
The air is heavy, and for now the only sounds come from the buzzing of bugs, or the odd bark of a dog startled by the hum of a settling evening.
I’m nearly dozing when a bell sets to clanging. It’s the one I was hoping for, the snare that’s positioned near the Beckford place, near Mrs. Beckfords spread of expensive rose bushes.
I rush off down the sidewalk, the rubber of my tennis shoes making echoed clomps on the concrete, and race toward the snare, the now-silent bell. Hell, I hope I'm not too late.
Beth Myerson’s face is a mix of shock and irritation. She’s got her hands on her hips, on a bare patch of perfectly smooth, sun-kissed flesh between where her Capri’s stop and her short, white sleeveless blouse starts. The snare digs slightly at her right wrist, making a white mark below the rope, and an angry rose color above it when the blood is pooling.
She sees me, unclenches her teeth. The scowl evens out, blossoms into a toothy grin.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
She tosses a vial of nail polish at me.
“You want to help paint my toenails?”
And my heart melts a little.