Page 35 of Within These County Lines

Xander’s fingers go still against my scalp. The night air hums with cicadas and trilling toads. “Nothing else? I don’t get why you can see me when no one else can.”

“That list wasn’t weird enough for you?” I tip my head back and catch the dark silhouettes of tree branches stretching across the gray sky. And then it hits me.

“Wait.”

He stiffens. “What? Something else happened?”

I swallow. “I went to the Ardor Tree after I broke up with Murray. And it . . . it attacked me!” I’ve tried so hard to block out the memory I nearly forgot it.

His hand moves to my chin, pushing it up until our eyes meet. His expression is unreadable.

“You were at the Ardor Tree before this all happened?” he asks.

I nod. “Last Sunday.”

His lips press together. His head tilts slightly like he’s fitting a puzzle piece into place. “I was at the Ardor Tree right before I disappeared.”

My heart skips a beat. “If we were both at the Tree . . . and I’m not dead . . .” My breath catches. “That might mean—”

Xander’s mouth falls open. “Neither am I.”

18

On Sunday, I curl up in Dad’s armchair with my laptop, watching live music videos that the internet selects for me, too spent to change the queue. My week-long state of fear and confusion has exhausted me. I struggle to keep my eyelids open even as an up-tempo beat pulsates through my eardrums. Every time a scene changes and cuts to black, Xander’s face flashes across the screen.

“Food!” Dad yells as he rushes through the front screen door. He grips two grease-covered brown bags in his left hand and a beer can in his right. He enters the kitchen and flicks on the pendant lamp hanging over the wooden table. The bags land on the counter with a crunch.

“What’re you working on?” he questions, looking at my laptop.

“Who’s working on what?” Mom asks as she walks into the living room from the bedroom hallway. “It’s Sunday night. I don’t want to hear about any type of work.”

“Nothing. It’s just music.” I slam my laptop closed and take out my earbuds. “I couldn’t possibly do another second of work. I don’t think a full-time job is for me.”

“Your first forty-hour work week will do that to you. Welcome to the real world.”

“What happened to your head?” Dad asks as I waddle to the kitchen. It’s the first time he’s seeing me up close in a while.

“I fell at Whitley’s house,” I say.

“It looks like you didn’t get the cream from the pharmacy like I told you to,” Mom says. “The wound is slow to heal.”

“It’ll be fine.”

Dad chomps on a fry, then mimics a fist punch, hitting me with a gaze sharp as a tack, seeing right through my lie.

Mom digs into the food bag and pulls out a salad. “What’s this?” she asks, holding it out to Dad.

“Your salad.” Dad’s forehead wrinkles.

Mom sighs. “I said I wanted a cheeseburger but should probably get a salad.”

“Yeah. Then I asked which is it, and you said a salad.”

“I said, I guess a salad. Which means you were supposed to treat me to a cheeseburger.”

Dad scoffs. “And if I got you a burger, you’d be mad I didn’t get a salad.”

Mom ignores him and turns to me. “What’d you get, honey?”