Untitled, Part 1. The characters/cars in this story are fictitious. Any relationship with real-life people or cars is coincidental.

 It’s 2:03 a.m. and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling are significantly less luminous than they were three hours ago. Oliver’s been turning over and over and over and he’s decided he’s going to do it. The hurt his mother will feel when she discovers he is nowhere to be found crosses his mind, but it can’t be helped. He’s got to do it.

 He remembers a conversation he had with his best friend, Lila, a day ago.

 “Sometimes, I just feel like packing some clothes and hopping on a boat to Chile.”

 “Wouldn’t you miss your family and your friends?” she had asked.

 “Yeah, I suppose,” he had replied. But right now he didn’t feel any remorse for wanting to leave. He hated it here, and he’d be damned if he was going to stay another night.

 Oliver swings the covers away and slides out of bed, careful not to make a sound. His foot sinks down and the floor creaks. He pulls his sweater out from under the bed and finds his pants. He grabs the keys to his 84’ Nissan Maxima and makes his way out of the house.

 Outside, Oliver makes his way across the driveway. He’s giddy with thrill of what he’s doing. He can’t be controlled. He’s his own man. He wiggles the key back and forth to open the car door.

 He’d bought the car for five-hundred dollars off an old benevolent couple who had no need for it, and didn’t need the money. It was worth at least one grand. The car ran, but it had its fair share of quirks. Click.

 Inside the car, Oliver turns the ignition. He backs up and looks both ways. Road’s clear, of course. No sane person would be so far out in the country at this hour.

 He pulls out of the driveway. The lights to the house flick on. “Shit!” Oliver says. He’s left his shoes in the house. He hits the gas and doesn’t look back. He won’t need shoes where he’s going.