Free Adrenaline Crush by Laurie Boyle Crompton Page B

try to act as if I nearly chopped my leg off on purpose. “I’m used to a hatchet,” I explain.
    â€œOh, well, in that case, I think I brought one.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I’m getting the hang of it,” I lie. I’m actually getting worse as my arms get tired, but I refuse to admit defeat to him. I grip the ax with new determination and will myself to channel a lumberjack.
    Instead of laughing at me as I expect, he says, “Fine,” and moves to stand close behind me. He puts one hand on my hip and covers my hands on the ax with the other. “What you want to do is find the seam in the wood and really lodge the ax in there hard.” His voice flows through the curtain of my hair. “Then use the weight of it to do the work for you.”
    With a firm thunk he demonstrates this one-handed, while my fists remain on the handle as decoration. The ax head buries itself in the wood. Pierce guides my hand in raising the ax and the log travels up with it. Together, we drive the ax down against the hard ground, and sure enough, the blade buries deeper into the log. The split is nice and wide now, and it’s with satisfaction that I lift the ax to deliver the death blow.
    I feel Pierce ease off my hip as he allows me the victory.
    Crack! The log separates and I grin. “See that?” I call out.
    â€œGood job,” Miss says, as she throws a handful of kindling into the fire pit. Somehow, that chore doesn’t seem so girly anymore.
    â€œI think you’ve got this.” Pierce gives a hop backward before turning to help with the giant red cooler Frank and Sparky are carrying. Frank’s fake arm sticks out from under the lid so it looks like there’s a body crammed inside. I can’t help but laugh.
    Miss recites a little motivational speech about how proud she is we’re all supporting Polly, and then she asks Sparky if he minds getting the fire going.
    Despite our sadistic therapist’s taste for irony in having the burn-scarred guy build the fire, I’m glad Sparky starts on it right away. We’re a week and a half into August, but it’s a little chilly up here in the woods by the time he gets it rolling.
    The smell of the campfire sets off something deep and happy in my brain. Like a photo album just fell open, I’m remembering a dozen camping trips with my family all at once. I smile at the image of me and Harley catching frogs as Mom and Dad argue about where to set up the tent. The warm days of swimming in lakes and cool nights roasting marshmallows blend together in my mind.
    After we’ve slogged through the rituals of cooking, eating, and cleaning up, the group sits on canvas camp chairs holding our hands toward the licking flames. Polly is busy scanning the black tree line, even though it’s too dark to see anything by now.
    I’m wedged between Miss and Polly and my leg refuses to find a comfortable position in the chair I’m in. As I shift my weight my crutches slide down with a loud clatter.
    Before any of us know what’s happening, Polly jumps up, spins around, and frantically starts spraying her bear spray into the empty air behind her chair.
    Pssssssssht echoes through the woods as a growing cloud of fog shoots out of the nozzle.
    Polly grunts as she continues gripping the can with both hands, elbows locked. The mist spreads and my nose starts to sting with a spicy stench that reminds me of wasp spray. I watch through burning eyes as a blurry Miss just sits there observing calmly. The rest of us seem stuck to our chairs.
    Everyone, that is, except Pierce. He bounds over to Polly and grabs her hands from behind. Polly’s face contorts with fear and she tries to turn her spray in his direction. I hold my breath, waiting for him to get a faceful of bear spray, but Pierce continues to hold her hands firmly, all of his muscles flexed.
    He whispers something in her ear.
    Finally, the spray stops, her arms go limp,