A Line in the Wood

I got sick of rotting in the dark under that cinder block, so I hauled my long limbs up onto the lower shelf of the wooden potting bench. Right next to an empty plastic seed tray sat a fat, stubby piece of white chalk. Its smooth tip was practically begging to be worn down. I snatched it with both hands, jammed the tip against the rough cedar plank, and dragged it back and forth with a savage screech. White powder sprayed over my knuckles as I slashed a thick, jagged boundary line straight across the wood grain. There. My territory is officially marked. Let anything try crossing over that white scar.