Page 6 of Within These County Lines

I wave.

He stares for a moment, expressionless. Then he looks behind him, as if I’m speaking to someone else.

“Yo!” This time I shout. “What is your problem? I’m talking to you.”

He flinches.

For a split second, I feel guilty for snapping. His finger slowly lifts to his own chest.

“Are you . . .” He swallows. “Are you talking to me?”

“Who else would I be talking to?” I throw up my hands.

His expression changes. “You can see me?” His voice cracks.

“Obviously.”

His back straightens. “What am I wearing?”

I squint. “Uh, a yellow bathing suit. Nothing else.”

He screams, then holds up his book. “What am I reading?”

“An encyclopedia about dogs.”

“You can see me!” This time it’s not a question.

“Yeah? Why wouldn’t I be able to see you?”

Without warning, he springs to his feet and hurls his book into the grass. The small wooden table beside him tips over and sends the Coca-Cola bottle crashing onto the concrete.

He lunges toward me. His body slams into mine with full force. I stumble, and my heel catches the pool’s edge. His arms clamp around me, tightening like the Ardor Tree’s roots. I twist, struggle, and claw at his grip—until his body begins to shake.

A choked sob escapes him, and slowly, his hold loosens.

My hands hover over his back, caught between my instinct to comfort him and the urge to run.

4

I search the area for whatever might have scared him. Maybe moving trees. Or Murray.

But there’s nothing. Just the thick summer air and the sound of his heavy breaths against my chest. His tears soak through my shirt as he lets out a full-body tremor like he might shake apart.

The last time I saw someone full on sob like this was Whitley at her grandma’s funeral. But this is something else entirely. It’s panic, grief, exhaustion, something five times heavier. He’s about to hyperventilate in my arms.

I grab his shoulders and push him back just enough to see his face.

“Hey.” I lift his chin with two fingers. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? What happened?”

He looks at me through tears, innocently searching my face as if I hold an answer he’s been looking for forever. Snot trickles from his nose down and across his lips. He doesn’t even wipe it away.

“You . . . can . . . see . . . me.” He struggles to say each word, his voice wrecked.

I force a steady breath, keeping my expression neutral, careful not to let my confusion slip through and risk offending him in his unraveling state.

“I’m sorry,” I say gently. “But I don’t understand.”

His breathing is quick, uneven. With a shaky hand, he reaches up and grazes my cheek. My muscles tense even though his touch is nothing like bark—it’s softer, hesitant. His palm continues to drift up, threading through the waves of my hair. My pulse stutters. His other hand begins to trail down my forearm, then he picks at my arms like I’m a dandelion waiting to be wished upon.