Free Uncontrollable (The Nature of Grace, Book 2) by S.R. Johannes Page B

warm, and I’m pretty sure the wolves won’t be that impressed either. Maybe he should have referenced the "What to Wear" checklist like I told him.
    Skyler hops back and forth to keep warm like she’s in some kind of line dance at Bronco’s Bar and Grill on a Saturday night. I clear an area for the fire and form a circle with some large stones.
    “Grab those little sticks and break them up.”
    She snaps back. “Do it yourself.”
    I stand and face her. “Look, I’m trying to help.”
    She glares at me and pulls her fake fur hat down over her ears. Her nose is red, and her eyes are watering, a true contrast to her voice, which is sharp and cutting. “Yeah? Well, you’ve done enough already.”
    Her words cut me deep, and the semi-permanent lump in my throat swells. It’s the first time I’ve realized that Skyler holds me solely responsible for her dad’s death. Maybe she’d feel differently if she knew how much I miss Carl, too. Well, the old Carl anyway. Sometimes, I lie in bed at night and remember his laugh, they way he helped Dad build a tree fort for Skyler and me when we were barely in elementary school. How the four of us used to go snowmobiling in the winters. Contrary to what everyone thinks, I loved Carl like he was part of my family.
    I try hard to swallow back the untapped emotions from the past few months. “Skyler, you’re not the only person who lost someone, you know.” My voice comes out scratchy, like it’s been pushed through the splintered wall of hurt and guilt I’ve stacked around me.
    The look coming from her bright blue eyes shocks me. It’s pure hate. Not a “we are not from the same crowd in school” hate, but a real, deep down to the core hatred. And as much as I don’t like Skyler and how much she’s changed from the days when we used to catch tadpoles in the stream together, I’ve never hated her.
    She takes a breath and forces words out through her clenched teeth. “Yeah, but I didn’t kill yours.”
    My body heats up in anger at her horrible comment. Instead of lashing out, I force myself to turn away. I can’t face her anymore without showing her my weakness, my guilt. And no matter what I want to say or do, it won’t heal the damage that’s been done. Skyler will never forgive me and neither will Wyn. I suddenly feel very alone.
    As I resume gathering sticks, tears fill my eyes. I suddenly feel like crying for Carl, Dad, Mo, and my dog Bear; for losing Tommy and Wyn; for everything I did to let them walk away. A tear trails down my cheek. I hear Skyler sniff behind me. This time, I don’t turn around for fear she might be crying too.
    A few minutes later, Wyn breaks the awkwardness by crashing back into the clearing, carrying a few logs. He drops them in the circle. So much for tracking quietly.
    I dry both eyes with my shirtsleeve and drop a few more sticks onto the pile. He takes out a flint and steel from our survival pack and beds down to light the pile of tinder just like Agent Sweeney taught us. Only Wyn doesn’t know matches are in the kit, too.
    “Wyn…”
    He keeps using the flint. “Grace, let me handle this. For once.”
    I bite my tongue and wait. Little sparks shoot out, but nothing catches fire. If he’d just listen to me, I could help him. But I’m not going to say any more until he asks. Or begs. Let him be the self-appointed leader who chooses fashion over function if he wants. He can figure it out by himself. Or better yet, let Skyler help him light his fire.
    After a few tries, he glances up at me. “I could use some help here.”
    I look around. “Wait, are you talking to me?”
    “Come on. Give me a break.”
    As a brisk wind comes through the clearing, I pull the hood over my head and zip up. “Thought you wanted to handle this.”
    He stands and faces me. For a split second, our eyes lock. I see his face soften. “If you think you can do better, be my guest.”
    I smile. Wyn challenging me to build a fire is like me challenging