Page 32 of Within These County Lines

Nothing appears.

My gaze drifts downward to the front porch, a place I know far too well.

A key is hidden beneath an empty clay pot beside the door. The second porch step never had a tread. It’s more awkward stepping down than up, but I got used to it. The third window to the right of the door doesn’t lock. If the key ever goes missing, that’s how we get inside.

Suddenly, the front door swings open, snapping my focus back. A bearded man stumbles onto the porch. The screen door slams into the aluminum siding with a crack, like a firework exploding too soon.

He plants one boot on the first step. I brace myself knowing the second step still has no tread. His other boot drops straight through the gap, and he crashes face-first onto the lawn. A burst of laughter rings out behind him from the doorway. Murray’s mom steps outside, shaking her head.

I roll down my window farther to hear them better.

“Go on and get yourself home so we can do this again,” Mrs. Mifflin says.

“You like this view?” the man asks, shaking his backside as he rolls in the grass.

Murray’s mom smiles. She walks to the lawn, then gently kicks the man’s side. “Get up, you dufus,” she says. “You’re going to wake Murray. He’s taking a nap.”

I sigh. If she only knew her son barely slept. I look back to Murray’s bedroom window, and his black silhouette observes the scene below. I wonder if he’s observing me too.

I exit my truck.

“Stetson?” his mom asks as I walk up the front pavers. “What are you doing here?” The bearded man scrambles to his feet. His face reddens.

“Hi, Mrs. Mifflin,” I say, stopping a few yards in front of her. I’m not sure what Murray has told her about us. She used to love me. I wonder if those feelings have been lost too. “I’m here to see Murray.”

She takes a deep breath. “Well, he’ll certainly be happy to hear that.”

I swallow.

“He’s upstairs.” She points inside the house. “Been a wreck this week.”

I nod, then walk toward the door. Mrs. Mifflin grabs my arm as I pass. “If you ain’t kind to him, you’re going to regret coming in my house,” she whispers.

The bearded man snickers.

“Understood,” I say. “I won’t be too long.”

“Good. Because he needs his sleep.” She releases me and I turn my walk into a jog.

I doubt Murray is taking a nap because I can’t remember the last time he slept through the night. When we first started having sleepovers, I thought he was a psychopath plotting my murder like in one of my favorite true crime podcasts.

At two in the morning, I’d hear him cooking macaroni and cheese. At three, the shower would turn on. By five, he’d be playing video games like it was the middle of the afternoon. But it wasn’t insomnia that kept him up. Murray never slept because he never knew who his mom had in their house.

After his parents split and his dad took a trucking job, a rotating cast of strangers filled his place. Murray told me about midnight bathroom run-ins with men he’d never seen before, about times they’d mistake his bedroom for his mom’s and push open his door without warning.

But some nights, the imposter wasn’t an imposter. It was his dad. And that kept Murray awake just as much as the strangers. His dad never stayed for more than a day, but Murray made sure he was always awake to say hello.

I reach the top of the stairs just as Murray walks out of the bathroom. He’s shirtless, wearing black Stillwell Trail Football shorts. He scratches his shoulder absentmindedly before disappearing inside his bedroom.

“Murray,” I call out. He doesn’t return to the hall.

I grab the banister and take a deep breath as I survey the familiar second floor. This hallway is where I first realized just how handsome Murray was.

It was the weekend before sophomore year homecoming.

“Should we coordinate our outfits for the dance?” I asked from his doorway.

“I don’t have an outfit,” Murray said.