Page 28 of Kind of a Bad Idea

I haven’t been to this side of the camp often—I’ve been too busy working on the infrastructure on the other side—but I remember thinking it would be a good place to teach bouldering classes down the road. The rocks around here aren’t tall enough for proper climbing, but there’s a lot of fun to be had with smaller rock formations, a bag of chalk, and some crash pads.

Though nothing about that sounds like fun right now.

My shoulders are on fire. I work out like a beast, but even my impressive shoulder press hasn’t prepared me for the awkward way I’m carrying this weight.

I’m considering strapping one bag to my front, while keeping the other on my back—even though it will be hard to see over the top of the tall pack—when Binx reappears.

She’s wincing and walking a bit more gingerly than before, but when I ask her about it, she snaps, “I’m fine, Seven. I’m not made of glass, I promise. And I can carry my pack now. My hip isn’t sore at all anymore.”

I don’t dignify that with an answer. I just turn and continue moving east along the faint deer trail, slowing my pace slightly to accommodate for her ginger gait, which only gets worse as the miles pass. By the time we’ve reached a part of the land I definitely recognize from my four-wheeler treks with Sprout, her brow is locked in a furrow of pain.

“I have ibuprofen in my bag,” I offer.

“I’m fine,” she says in a strained voice, wincing again as she steps over a rock in the path.

“You look fine,” I say dryly. “What with all the wincing and limping.”

She glares my way. “Okay, Sarcasm Man, I’m not fine, but it’s nothing an ibuprofen is going to help.”

I return her scowl. “Then what is it?”

She averts her gaze, muttering, “Nothing. It’s fine. I’ll be fine. We’re almost there.”

“We’re not,” I correct her, not in the business of peddling pretty lies. “We have at least two miles left, maybe three.”

“That’s fine,” she insists. “I can make it two miles. I have to make it. Like you said, you can’t carry me.”

“Is it your hip? Are you?—”

She sighs. “No, Seven, it isn’t my hip.”

“Then what?—”

“It’s chafing, okay?” she cuts in, with a mixture of annoyance and what sounds like embarrassment, though I can’t say for sure. I’ve never heard Binx embarrassed.

“Chafing? Where?”

She winces again. “My inner thighs. These pants are fine when they’re dry, but when they’re soaking wet…not so much.”

“Why didn’t you say something before?” I ask, grinding to a halt. “I have Band-Aids in my pack.”

“Yeah, so do I,” she says, “but I didn’t want to slow us down. Your head almost exploded when I asked to stop to pee.”

“It didn’t almost explode. I was just worried about losing the light before we made it to camp.” I pop the clasp on the straps holding both packs around my waist, letting them slide to the ground. “But chafing is serious. It could get infected or bad enough that you won’t be able to get back on the trail tomorrow.”

“God forbid,” she mutters, but she obediently shuffles over to me when I point to the ground beside the pack. “You know, we could just wait it out at the camp. If they don’t hear from us for a few days, they’ll come looking. They might even come sooner. Wendy Ann is my most logical sibling. Sooner or later, she’s going to realize she did a dumb, illogical thing and want to make it right.”

“I’m not going to hold my breath,” I say, locating my first aid kit and setting it on top of Binx’s closed pack. I pop it open, sifting through the various sized bandages as I add as nonchalantly as possible, “Drop your drawers. Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

“I can do it myself,” she says, holding out her hand. “In private.”

“I’m sure you can, but it’ll be easier to get the wounds cleaned and the bandages in the right position with help. We need to get this right the first time. I only have enough supplies to last for a few days.”

Her head falls back with a sigh, but she grumbles a surly, “Fine,” and reaches for the button on her pants. “But you can’t judge my disgusting underwear. I swear, they were clean before I fell down a hill and rolled around in the mud.”

“Not something I’m worried about right now,” I say, keeping my expression impassive as she drags her zipper down and gingerly guides her pants around her knees.

I will not let her see that the sight of her in underwear—even modest underwear grimy with mud stains—does things to me. She’s just so beautiful, so perfect, so…Binx.

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