“Just one big swing,” Mike Andrews boasted. “That’s all it’s going to take for a brute like me.”

I was on my knees in front of him, holding a large nail in place on top of a chopping block that was normally used for splitting logs.

It was a Saturday afternoon in early summer, the kind of Saturday that you daydream about during the last month of school. Clear blue sky, slight breeze. Cheerfully chirping birds. And nothing much to do here in Mike’s backyard except listen to the sounds of a growing argument mix with the chirping around us.

“Brute?” Ralphy Zee stood beside me and spoke to Mike. “You’re so wimpy that when a kid on a tricycle passes, the breeze knocks you over. It would take you a dozen swings, but you’d tire out before the first ten.”

“Ralphy,” I warned. “Remember what Mike’s got in his hands.”

Kneeling in front of the chopping block, I sure wasn’t about to forget. It was a sledgehammer. With a twenty-pound head.

Mike lifted it with a grunt and gave Ralphy an evil grin. He might have been trying to look tough and scary, but his freckles and red hair and New York Yankees ball cap and bright Hawaiian shirt worked against it. Mike Andrew was my age—twelve—and his grin was much more effective as a tool to charm cookies and sandwiches from the old ladies in our neighborhood who liked to pinch his cheek and tell him how cute he looked.

“Think the sledgehammer scares me?” Ralphy snarled. “Mike couldn’t break a soap bubble with it.”

Not that Ralphy’s snarl was much to scare anybody, either. Ralphy was our resident computer guy. He had the pasty white skin of someone who spends hours in front of a keyboard and screen. And the lack of muscles that goes with it, too. He had mousy brown hair that a comb could never conquer, and I’d never seen him with his shirt completely tucked in. If Mike was a charmer, Ralphy was the lovable, messy, distracted genius.

“Soap bubble?” Mike echoed. “I’m telling you, one big swing is all it’s going to take. Right, Richard Kidd?”

Whenever Mike called me by my full name, he was serious.

“Sure,” I said with a sigh, not impressed. “Whatever you say. Can you guys just get this over with? I’ve decided I want to get away from your endless talk.”

“Need to go home for a nap?” Ralphy said, still trying to sound tough. “Little boy sleepy?”

As a matter of fact, I wasn’t little. I was a shade tall for my age and had the same blondish hair as my dad. I preferred books to computers but spent as much time in sports as I did in reading. Even though it was hot, I was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and I felt uncomfortable in it. I usually wore a T-shirt with jeans.

“Tell you what,” I told Ralphy, sighing again. “You want to hold the nail for Mike? Or are you scared?”

Unnecessary as it was, I pointed with my left hand. My right hand was balanced on the big chopping block. There was a six-inch nail pinched between the thumb and forefinger, ready for Mike to drive into the wood with his sledgehammer.

“I’m not scared,” Ralphy answered. “But you’re the one who said you could pull your hand away in time.”

“Fine,” I said. “Just remember. If Mike drives the nail all the way in with one swing, you have to mow each of our lawns for the next two weeks.”

Ralphy snorted. “As long as you remember when he needs more than one swing that you guys will be mowing my lawn for the entire summer.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Mike, you ready?”

He lifted the sledgehammer high above his head. “Ready.”

“Hang on,” I said. “I just want to get this straight. It’s on the count of three, right?”

“Right,” Mike said. He set the sledgehammer down. It was so big and heavy that he wasn’t able to hold it above his head for long. “One, two, three, and then swing.”

He lifted it again. “One—”

“Hang on,” I said.

Mike slowly lowered the sledgehammer.

I continued, “I’d rather you counted ‘one’ and ‘two’ and swung as you said ‘three.’ Not after ‘three.’ ”

“But—”

“It’s my hand,” I said. “I want to be exactly sure when I should pull it away.”

“Fine,” Mike said. He lifted the sledgehammer high again. “One ... two—”

“Hang on,” I said again.

“What now?” He set the sledgehammer down, panting slightly.

“Don’t get grumpy,” I said. “It’s not like we’ve ever had a chance to practice this. I’m just thinking maybe I should count. That way you can concentrate on hitting the nail. And I’ll know exactly when to pull my hand away.”

“I know, I know,” he said. “It’s your hand.”

“Exactly.”

One more time Mike brought the sledgehammer up. He waited, ready to slam it down on the nail.

“One ...” I said. I took a breath. “Mike, make sure you don’t miss.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Get to two and three.”

“Going to start over,” I said. “Just to make sure there’s no confusion.”

“I can’t hold this hammer up here forever, pal.”

“One ...” I said. “Two ...”

Mike swung down as hard as he could.

In a blur, the sledgehammer dropped from the sky.

Thump! Twenty pounds of sledgehammer head smashed into the chopping block.

And onto the fingers holding the spike. Red mush splattered everywhere. The splat of impact was drowned out by the thump of the sledgehammer.

And by my scream.

I screamed again. Again, and again.

“Mike,” I shouted when I could find words. “You were supposed to wait for three! Not on two. On three!”

“I got too excited,” he moaned. “Sorry!”

“Sorry?” I screamed again. “Look at my finger on the ground! Broken bone!”

Sure enough, the chalky white end of bone was plain to see. Sticking out from meat and blood.

“I’ll get it,” Mike said. “We can put it in a bag and—”

A small brown dog ran up and snatched the finger away before Mike could stoop over to pick it up.

“Oooh,” Ralphy said. “I’m going to be ...”

He sagged to his knees, fell over on his back, and then threw up on the front of his shirt. Another small dog ran up to him, jumped on his chest, and began to lap away at the mess.

A few seconds later, Lisa Higgins stepped up to Ralphy and stared down at him. My little brother, Joel, followed her and reached down to pet the dog’s head as it ate.

“Perfect,” Lisa said. “Absolutely perfect.”