I grit my teeth. “Everyone shut up.”
Lucy laughs—light, bright, infuriatingly adorable. “They’re not wrong, you know.”
“I’m going to pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You never know what I’m talking about.”
“And you always talk too much.”
She gasps. “Rude.”
“Honest.”
“You love it.”
My jaw tightens. “Lucy.”
“Yes?”
“Step away from the snow machine.”
“No.”
“Lucy.”
“Nope.”
I inhale slowly, deeply. Counting to ten so I don’t throw her over my shoulder and march her away from heavy machinery. She plants both hands on her hips—her dangerous stance—and says, “I just need to test the pressure output. That’s all.”
“Pressure output?”
“Yes.”
“On a machine that shoots snow.”
“Yes.”
“Do you hear yourself when you speak?”
“All the time.”
“And you don’t think, ‘wow, this sounds dangerous’?”
She grins. “Not once.”
I close my eyes. “Lucy.”
When I open them, she’s already walking toward the control panel like a woman who has never once worried about consequences. “Kid—” Not kid, I correct myself. “Lucy. Don’t?—”
She flips a switch. There’s a rumble. A hiss. The crew scatters like cockroaches.
“Lucy,” I bark, “don’t turn that?—”
She presses a button.
FOOOOMPH.
The machine roars to life. A hurricane of artificial snow explodes out of the nozzle— Directly. Into. My. Face. Full pressure. Full blast. The force hits me like a punch.
