You’re behind the wheel of a cherry ‘67 Camaro with your steady riding shotgun. Its owner is gonna miss this beast soon. In the back seat, a cooler brimming with ice and bottles. A stolen AmEx is burning a hole in your pocket. Tucked in the glove box is something that will only be necessary if there’s a second act. Sticking around town is signing your own death warrant. The open road is the only option. You reach behind, seize a bottle, pry off the crown with your teeth, and spit it to the curb. ‘No shame in runnin’, peaches. Only in hiding.’ Put the pedal down and leave a signature on the parking lot. The cops will still smell the linger of your exit when they get there minutes too late. ‘We’re going straight up the coast. Plain sight. If they can catch us, then they can have us.’ The adrenaline's drying your mouth. The beer’s keeping you lubricated. Your copilot pops you another as you tear onto A1A, using the shoulder to clear the lone trucker who forgot where the gas is. ‘Five dollars if I even touch the brakes!’ You blow a spume of beer straight up and train your eyes on the horizon. With the top down at this speed the wind is the only thing you hear. Which suits you fine. Talk is cheap. You’ve already said, ‘I love you.’ Your steady said, ‘Then show me.’ The sun is starting to blaze magenta low in the sky. It is the color of your devotion to a cause you can’t name. It will be a beautiful day to die.