Page 11 of Within These County Lines

He’s apparently from 1801 too.

“It is,” he says, wincing. “What can I help you with?” Every word he mutters seems like it brings him pain.

“I’m from the health department. I’m looking for some old files for a pool site we inspect.”

“This way.” He waves me toward the shelves.

He taps his hearing aid as we walk. “You should lower the volume.”

I lean forward. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask.

“Your music. I can hear it. You don’t want to end up like me.” He laughs.

My cheeks warm. “Oh. Thanks. I’ll try.” I remove my earbud and tuck it in my pocket.

After a few more steps, he stops. “These are the environmental health department files.” He points to a shelf. “Sorted by year.”

“By year?” My eyes go wide. “How can I find information on a certain pool?”

He coughs. “You’ll have to look through each year’s files for the specific pool information. What year would you like?” He claps his lips like he hasn’t had a drink of water all day.

“I’m actually not sure.” I grab one of the boxes and lift the dusty lid to peek inside. It’s full of manila folders. “Are these in the computer?”

The man shakes his head. “No. We don’t have that.”

“Oh my gosh.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

I sigh. “No, thanks. I’ll start looking.”

The man returns to his desk while I sift through folders, unsure when the Pinehurst pool closed. With no clear starting point, I begin with the most recent records and work backward.

By the time I reach the 2020 box, my forearms ache from hauling dense files. Half an hour in and all I’ve discovered is that Pinehurst hasn’t been open for over five years. I heave the next box, 2015, from the shelf. I’m determined to go back no further than 2010. If the pool wasn’t around then, I’ll inspect it without any background and make do.

Running my finger along the folder labels, I hit the P section.

Pinehurst.

“Aha!” I blurt, immediately clamping a hand over my mouth. The sound echoes through the cavernous room. As I pull the folder free, the box’s lid crashes to the floor. My pulse spikes.

There are multiple Pinehurst folders.

I pry open the first one. It contains an old newspaper, but I quickly toss it aside, assuming it’s irrelevant. The next folder stops me cold. Inside, there’s a long, handwritten note. I lick my lips. Before I even start reading, a single word catches my eye.

Xander.

My heart slams against my ribs.

On site with police and fire departments. The pool is closed indefinitely due to the investigation of missing person, Xander Pomers. Pool patrons arrived this morning and found his car parked in the driveway. They discovered his keys on a chair, which prompted them to call authorities. I will follow up next week to assist with permanent closure.

My jaw drops. Hands shaking, I snatch up the newspaper I tossed aside seconds ago and scan the front page: Authorities are asking for help in locating Penango teen, missing for nearly forty-eight hours.

Below the headline, a smiling photo of Xander Pomers stares back at me—the same boy I saw at Rainbow Valley Swim Club.

My stomach lurches like I’ve just slammed on my truck brakes. Either Xander was a hallucination . . . or I spoke to a real boy who went missing ten years ago.

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