Beyond the Firefly Field Read Online Free Page A

of a new project.
    â€œThis one's eighteen feet,” Phil said, lifting one end of a log after a short search.
    â€œIt is not,” Paul countered. “And it's too small around,” he added. “Now this is what we need,” he said, walking over to a larger log.
    â€œThat's way too big; we'll never lift it.”
    â€œWe can chop the end off.”
    â€œThat will take ten minutes, and it'll still be too heavy.”
    â€œWill not.”
    â€œWill too.”
    â€œDoes that count as one argument or two?” Wayne asked as he and Clayton walked away from the bickering twins.
    â€œJust one. They often argue in a string of topics, and it continues until they can't remember what started the whole argument.”
    After the ideal logs were found and placed in position, branches, leaves, and dirt were added to fill the gaps, and the ten-minute project ended up taking much longer.
    â€œThere you go, Ron,” Dillon said triumphantly as they jammed upright logs under the center of the bridge's span, marking its completion. “We just took over an hour to go eighteen feet, and at this rate, it will take us at least a week to get to the meadow.”
    â€œLet's hope for a happy medium,” Wayne cheerfully offered.
    The group needed to rest after their strenuous efforts. Twenty minutes later, they packed up and took the newly built trail across the bridge, hoping it was as sturdy as it looked.
    Once on the other side, the boys became more proficient at assembly-line trail cutting, hacking roughly one hundred yards every fifteen minutes.
    Dillon guided them up and down the gently rolling terrain. Trail dust mingled with sweat as they pressed toward their goal. Every now and then, they rested and looked back to admire their work. It was odd to see a four-foot-wide dirt “sidewalk” cut through a woods where every bit of ground had been covered with plants, leaves, and dead branches. Wherever they forged, a strange-looking scar was left in their wake.
    Occasionally, they came upon an open meadow where the going was especially easy. Just walking through the long grass and wildflowers created an easy path.
    In some open spaces, horseflies swarmed and bit the boys over and over, usually on their heads. No matter how much they frantically waved their arms and slapped their legs and heads to discourage the flies, the attacks persisted. Karl suggested that everyone cut branches from brush to swat the flies, rather than just using hands to do battle. This worked with great success, and soon the boys were on their way again.
    Around seven that evening, they approached another meadow and stopped at the edge to eat the last of their sandwiches and energy bars. Everyone was tired and sore from the effort of the last six hours, and they were glad only one more small bridge had to be built. Even the twins barely had enough energy to argue over the last bite of food, but gave a half-hearted jab at bantering anyway. It was their twenty-first argument of the afternoon.
    The boys had cut over a mile-and-a-half of trail and were sorely reminded of the one thing they'd forgotten to pack–canvas gloves. Everyone's hands were red, raw, and painfully blistered. Their supply of bandages wasn't enough to go around.
    The sunny afternoon became increasingly cloudy, and soon a light sprinkle of rain showered down. Mercifully, the biting flies vanished as the temperature dropped to a more comfortable range.
    They ate quietly, reflecting on the woods, meadows, brush, hills, and gullies they had conquered, and then recounted the blisters, scratches, bites, aches, and bruises collected as they dominated the woods.
    â€œHow much further do we have to go?” Ron whined.
    â€œWe just have to cross this meadow and hack a couple hundred yards through the woods. Don't worry, we're almost done,” Dillon replied.
    â€œIf I'd known it would be this much work, I wouldn't have suggested it,” Ron said, poking