Rock River — Bill Maynard

Ursula studied the next jump. It was a long one over a really fast current. The nearest rock was small, smooth, and wet with spray. As usual, she jumped first, flinging her long arms ahead of her, barely reaching the first rock with one foot and letting her weight carry her forward to a bigger, drier rock a couple of feet beyond.

Now it was my turn. I stared at the black moving water.

"What's the matter, Luke? Are you chicken?" she asked.

It was a good question. Was I brave or wasn't I?