Page 1 of Within These County Lines

1

Warm blood trails down my forehead and into my eyes, turning the familiar emerald woods bordering my town into a copper-stained blur.

My breath comes fast and thin, each inhale barely filling my lungs. My heavy stomps crunch leaves and snap twigs beneath me like a chase scene straight out of a horror film. But the ache in my limbs, the tight pull of my muscles, keep reminding me this is real.

“Stetson, wait!” my ex-boyfriend, Murray, yells in a shrill voice as he runs after me.

He’s my ex-boyfriend as of ten minutes ago.

I keep my back to him and quicken my pace.

His voice used to be my favorite sound. Its melody a line I blindly followed because wherever it took me felt like home.

Now it’s an alarm, telling me to flee.

I wonder how something so familiar can become foreign, but then he calls out for me again and the pounding in my chest becomes the new beat I follow toward escape.

“I’m sorry!” he shouts. I gulp more air. “Please come back. We can get past this!”

The blood reaches my lips. I spit, but the taste of salt and metal lingers on my tongue. His shouts fade into the background as they’re lost beneath the sound of my own ragged sobs.

I run until the sky melts into dusk, no destination in mind. The woods are familiar enough that I don’t need a trail. My feet know the way, even if I don’t. I only let up when I’m sure Murray is far behind, then force myself to silence the shaky breaths that might give me away.

Cross-country felt like a mistake when it led me to him sophomore year outside of the football stadium where he practiced. But now it’s my salvation. My legs carry me far, fast, and away from our relationship once and for all.

When I finally stand still, my heart slams against my ribs as it slows. Colorful specks appear in my vision. I’m unsure if they’re from the blood and sweat coating my face or the brain fog blooming in my head. I reach for the shifting circles, my fingers grasping at nothing, as if they can be squashed like bubbles. I want them to burst and disappear, along with the memory of their cause.

I get dizzy as I chase them, and before I know it, I hit the ground hard.

But I don’t mind. The cool soil seeps into my skin. It’s a welcome bit of relief after being on my feet since morning. This is the safest spot I’ve been all day, miles deep in the woods as the sun sets and the coyotes begin to howl.

When my awareness creeps back, I scrape my fingers through loose dirt, uncovering the top of a concrete sewer pipe buried like bone beneath the earth. My eyes follow its path until it emerges at a slope, where a thick, orange liquid drips from the rim, slow and syrupy. The entire opening is drowned in graffiti—neon yellow, green, pink, and orange clash against the murky browns of the woods and the shadows of tangled leaves.

I drag myself toward softer ground, but my shoulder slams into a tree. Wincing, I tilt my head back. Carved hearts cover its bark, climbing skyward until they vanish into the canopy. The tree’s roots stretch down the hill and twist around the pipe as if trying to crush it closed.

A long, slow sigh escapes me. I’ve been here before. I don’t know how I didn’t recognize it sooner, how I didn’t realize where I was in these woods. Almost everyone in my hometown of Penango, Pennsylvania, has stood in this exact spot at least once.

This is the Ardor Tree.

Couples from Penango County’s Stillwell Trail High School come here to carve their names into its trunk, believing it will bind them together forever. But I’ve come to learn that’s far from true. Some promises are meant to break.

I push myself to my feet and take a slow, unsteady lap around the tree, trailing my fingers over the carved names. Then I reach the one I know best. My hand stills. My breath catches. And I pause.

Stetson + Murray.

I press my palm against our names, hard. The rough bark picks at my skin like tiny shards of glass. Heat rises in my neck, my blood simmering. This is what Murray always wanted—Penango County permanence. How was I ever supposed to move on from my relationship when it’s carved into this town?

I wonder how the other names on this tree have fared, if they made it out of Penango, if their love stories had happier endings.

Michael and Alyssa sit right above us. Maybe they own a house outside of Pittsburgh with two kids in a quiet neighborhood. Below our heart, Emily & Duncan rest in the bark. I imagine they got married right after graduating from Stillwell Trail High but packed their bags for Chicago. They got out.

I search the tree for another heart like ours, two boys’ names intertwined. But it’s hard to tell. A heart a few steps over reads Jesse ’n Mark. It could be two guys. It could not be. But does it really matter? I don’t want to be tied to Penango forever, stuck wondering about the lives of people who left their marks before me. That’s how it goes around here. People worry about their neighbors until their own life has come and gone.

I roll my eyes before spitting at a rock half buried in the mud. We’re raised to stay put. The world builds fake walls around us—county lines and carved hearts—to keep us trapped. If we leave, we’re either abandoning our home or breaking someone’s heart. We’re told we need to start fresh or start over.

Why can’t we just continue?

I pick up the rock, still slick with my bubbling saliva, and slam it against the Stetson + Murray engraving. The sharpest edge chips the S from my name after only a few swipes. My strength takes my breath away.