Page 59 of Within These County Lines

I turn back to the old man, fumbling for my phone as an excuse. “Actually, uh, he just texted me and said I can do this on my own.” I clear my throat. “You can take me back now.”

The man nods. “Right this way.”

As I follow him, my shoes squeak against the floor, the familiar metal shelves groaning beside us. Xander trails just behind, his presence a shadow.

“What has you interested in the Tree?” the old man asks.

I shrug. “I just want to know more about why people write their names on it.” I glance at Xander.

“Ah, yes. Love. An eternal question.” The old man sighs. “Let me know if you find the answer.” He grips a shelf for balance. “Have you fixed yourself on there with a nice young lady?”

A deep laugh escapes the back of my throat before I can stop it. “Uh—no, not really.”

“One day,” he muses. “One day.”

“I wonder who the lucky young lady will be,” Xander whispers. He clutches his hands behind his back as he walks.

I wrinkle my nose. “Shut up.” I nudge him with my elbow. “At least I put my name on there with another person.”

He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Damn,Stetson. I was joking. But low blow.”

“Sorry, stress.” I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. “This is a big moment.”

His hot breath tickles my ear as he leans in. “It doesn’t seem like you handle stress well.” A shiver shoots down my spine.

I open my mouth to respond, but the old man interrupts us. Or me.

“Now, the Ardor Tree is just a nickname, you know that, right?” he asks.

I nod, refocusing.

“So, I’m not sure what you’ll find specifically on the tree itself, but it sits on the Thaddeus Gregor Preserve. That land was a grant from William Penn to the Gregor family sometime around 1700.”

I make for the boxes on a shelf labeled Parks and Preservation. My mouth goes sour. “Please don’t tell me these are sorted by year.” I stare at him with my jaw slack.

He chuckles, then coughs into his fist. “No, no. Fortunately all the Gregor Preserve records are in one spot. They’re on the fourth shelf down.”

Relief washes over me. “Awesome. I’ll let you know if we have questions.”

He starts to walk away but pauses, lifting a finger. “Oh, and, son. We close in an hour, so you’ll need to finish by three forty-five.”

As he disappears down the aisle, Xander lets out a groan. “He’s kidding, right? We have to dig through three hundred years of Penango history in forty-five minutes?”

“Apparently.” I exhale. “Let’s not waste another minute talking. I’ll start with the left side of the shelf. You take the right.”

We get to work, pulling boxes from the shelves. Dust coats my fingertips almost instantly as I lift the cardboard lids and sift through brittle manila folders.

The first box is completely unlabeled. I fish out a slip of paper and skim its contents:

The 200-acre Gregor Preserve contains meadows, uplands, and mature woods, and provides passive recreation and over eight miles of mown and wooded natural surface trails.

I smirk and shake my head.

I’m a rational person. Or at least, I used to be, before I ended up in a basement with my invisible friend searching for the origins of a moving tree.

Math has always been my thing because it makes sense. The numbers add up the same way no matter who does the calculations. Unlike English class, feelings, or this entire summer.

If Murray and I worked through the same math problem and came up with different answers, one of us would be right and the other wrong—it’s simple. But if we read the same story in English class, wrote about completely different themes, and turned in wildly different essays, we’d both get an A.