Page 17 of Within These County Lines

Just as the flames began to catch, headlights broke through the line of trees.

“Who is that?” Whitley asked, squinting toward the erratic lights.

Mr. Wyomen’s truck barreled down the drive without slowing. Whitley groaned. “Oh no.”

Our faces sank.

Whitley dropped the hot dogs onto the dirt and dragged Bennie toward the house. Murray grabbed my shoulders and yanked me back as Mr. Wyomen’s truck crashed through our setup. The firepit toppled over, sending a burst of embers and flaming logs across the ground. Our chairs screeched and twisted beneath the truck’s tires as he skidded to a stop.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Whitley shouted. “You nearly killed us!”

“Serves you right,” Mr. Wyomen slurred, stumbling out of the driver’s seat and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “Who set up all this junk in my drive?”

“We always set up the fire out here,” Whitley said. “You’re never home, so how would you know?”

“Always sounds like an exaggeration if you ask me,” he said through a belch.

“Good thing nobody is asking you.” She crossed her arms.

Mr. Wyomen shook his head and shuffled to the back of his truck, muttering curses.

Whitley rolled her eyes and pulled her sweatshirt sleeves over her hands before righting the firepit. She rearranged the surviving chairs and took a seat, crossing her legs.

Mr. Wyomen heaved a case of beer from his truck bed. “I got my crew coming over, so y’all need to disappear,” he said, twirling his finger in the air.

“No way,” Whitley said. “We just got set up. We have hot dogs and s’mores to roast.” She shot me a look. “Sit down, Stetson.”

The flames’ light flickered across Mr. Wyomen’s wrinkled face. Without warning, he stomped toward the firepit, gathered up the hot dogs, buns, and s’more supplies, and hurled them into the flames.

“There,” he said with a twisted smirk. “Everything is roasted. Just like you wanted. You got five minutes to leave before I roast something else.”

Now, in the health department parking lot, if Whitley hadn’t spotted him first, I might have thought he was another fear-induced hallucination.

He waves, then starts walking toward us.

“Do not engage,” Whitley hisses, dragging me toward the next aisle of parked cars.

“Whitley, wait!” he calls. “I’ve been looking for you.” He breaks into a jog.

Mr. Wyomen has a new position at the department doing some kind of health research for the county. He got us these jobs through his connections last month when he returned, claiming sobriety and his first steps in a long-overdue apology.

I jumped at the opportunity. A full-time gig was the perfect excuse to avoid Murray all summer. Whitley, on the other hand, only took it for the fifteen-dollar-an-hour paycheck and the promise that her dad would help with her college tuition if she agreed.

She says he has a long way to go before coming close to making amends.

His second family, the one that came first in his heart as Whitley puts it, kept him in Pittsburgh for most of her childhood. And when her grandma died, Whitley spent the rest of her days alone with just her dog, Bennie.

Her dad is one of the reasons we’re skipping town. She’s tired of everyone leaving her behind. And now she figures there’s no reason she can’t do the same.

We run to a side door, breathless, and Whitley shoves it open with her hip. “Shouldn’t we at least say hi?” I ask. “I don’t want to make him mad.”

“Do you think he ever stopped to think about all the things he should’ve done?” Whitley snaps. “No. He didn’t.”

“Well, do you want to talk about it?”

“Don’t try that role reversal on me. You’re the one who needs to fess up about your head.” She jabs a finger in my face. “Did you learn that little conversational trick from one of your podcasts?”

“No.” I laugh. “Well, maybe.” I pause. “But have you seen him since he got back?”