Page 2 of Within These County Lines

I don’t want the next gay kid in Penango to stumble across the tree and mistake this heart for something it wasn’t. This isn’t the kind of love they should hope for.

Sometimes love doesn’t last. And most of the time, it’s better if it doesn’t.

More chunks of bark fly from the tree as my fear hardens into anger. Every time the rock connects with the trunk, a sharp jolt of heat surges through my fingers. I squeeze my eyes shut and keep swinging.

Time passes. I’m not sure how many seconds or minutes. But when I finally stop, breathless, a fresh patch of pale bark stares back at me. I step aside, shoulders sinking as I take in the mess I’ve made. Now there’s space for someone new. Maybe one day I’ll bring another boy here to carve our names. But never someone from within these county lines.

The rock slips from my calloused hand, falls to the ground, and rolls a few feet down the hill. I wipe my dry lips before turning away from the Ardor Tree.

But the forest floor stops me from moving with a rumble. My feet falter.

“What the . . . ?” I ask aloud. I spread my arms for balance just as the ground settles. It’s quiet, only for a few seconds, before the world shakes again.

This time, harder. Much harder.

I fall.

“Oh my gosh. Earthquake!” I yell out the warning as if I’m not alone. My knee slams into a thick root. I wince. “There’s an earthquake!”

I’ve never experienced an earthquake before. How long do these last? I wonder if one of the nearby factories exploded. I search for smoke on the horizon but see something else.

The Ardor Tree’s roots slither around me like a pit of snakes. They slink in and out of the ground, over rocks, up other trees, and through the sewer pipe. I rub my fists into my eyes, unsure if what I’m seeing is real or just a hallucination brought on by the hours of running through the woods.

I try to clear my vision, but no matter how many times I blink, the roots keep moving. The tree canopy above me sways, then the leaves fall in thick clusters. I shield my face from swirling debris.

This is not a normal earthquake—if it’s even an earthquake at all.

“Help!” I scream, but no one is around. I’ve run too far. Safety in this county is just an illusion.

A deafening boom shakes the air behind me. I whip around just in time to see a massive branch swinging down from overhead like a wrecking ball. I throw myself to the side, barely avoiding its impact as it slams into the earth with a force that rattles my bones.

Another boom.

More branches descend, their offshoots twisting for my body. I can’t dodge them all. One lashes my cheek, and my head nearly spins off my shoulders. I stagger, then collapse to the ground, too exhausted to get back up. My muscles are spent.

The roots wind around my limbs and slowly pull me into the earth.

I give in, staring at the endless navy sky. Tears slip past my temples as I mourn its possibilities that remain just out of reach.

The faint stars disappear with one fell swoop, like someone shoveling a final patch of dirt over my grave.

2

The next morning, I arrive at the Penango County Health Department at exactly eight thirty a.m. to begin my summer job as a pool inspector.

One earbud plays the Stuff You Should Know podcast in my left ear while my right takes in the squeak of shoes scraping against the linoleum.

The hosts are talking about the ocean currents, describing their force and unpredictability. The closest I’ve been to the ocean is staring at a screen saver in the school library. But the way they talk about its power tempts me to drive straight to the coast and throw myself in, just to be spit out somewhere new.

Yesterday was dark, to say the least. A complete crash out.

I woke on the forest floor beneath a star-filled sky, after the Ardor Tree’s roots choked me until the world went black. The ground was still, and the branches calm, as though nothing had happened. A pair of squirrels scurried along the tree’s limbs as if they were the safest path through the woods, probably just to humiliate me.

It all passed like an unexpected nightmare. I was sweaty and startled, but fine.

At home, Mom and Dad had no idea what I was talking about. They said they never felt an earthquake—had never heard of one happening in all Penango County history. Mom blamed it on my terrible sleep habits. Dad asked if I was drunk. I wasn’t. And even if I was, my time with Murray would have sobered me up real fast.

In the bathroom mirror, my cheek, where the branch had whipped me, was smooth, untouched. No marks, no scars, nothing on my arms where those twisting branches should’ve left something behind.