Houston had no intention on stopping his car anywhere on the drive from who-knows-where, Virginia to Lost-as-Heck, Anywhere Else. But unexpected Police checkpoints messed up his plan and he found himself driving back into the Virginian city just a little bit before the sunset.

Driving a car wasn't as hard as he thought it would be. Once he got over his nerves, and he stopped shaking as much, Houston let out a deep breath, and focused on control. Control over the car-- a clunky, old jeep that smelled a smoking bar--, control over his breathing, control over his body, and finally a control over his future. He could go wherever he wanted and no one would catch him.

That still didn't mean he was going to drive straight into a police checkpoint.

Clunky, old jeeps don't do U-turns nearly as well as the movie depicts them to.

There were dozens of paper maps stuffed under the passenger seat. Houston had taken an inventory when he parked in spot near an empty dog park. There was a minimal amount of cameras out, the barest hints of civilization in the connecting park. Houston didn't think a lot of people would go out of their way to notice a guy with a car stopping for a moment, much less remember him enough to describe him to the cops.

(He was wrong)

Houston, once he had consumed a snack bag of beef jerky and downed a whole bottle of Coca-Cola to ease his nerves, took an inventory of the car. He hadn't really been paying attention when he first jimmied the lock and then peeled apart the insulation on the wires between the pedals, but now he had time to rifle around.

His bag sat in the passenger seat, with wrinkles of age and the sag of having been worn just a bit too much. The Mystery Machine logo was horribly faded from overuse and grime, and the cloth had long since given up on keeping the items inside dry from rain. Still Houston couldn't leave it behind. Never could.

In the glove box was a couple unpaired speeding tickets, a granola bar, two Twinkies, registration papers, and a user manual for the car. Under the passenger seat someone had forgotten about their muddy boots which were a couple sizes too big for Houston himself. In the door pocket were paper maps faded with weathering.

Houston huffed and flicked through the back of the car. Dirty towels, an empty box for cigarettes, a shirt that smelled like a bar, several industrial markers in black and brown, and lots of dirt. Under it all was the most useless thing: a guitar. He tossed it back on the seats without any hesitation.

He rubbed the back of his neck cursing under his breath. He wasn't exactly surprised that there was nothing of worth inside the vehicle, but he was disappointed all the same. He pulled his backpack towards himself with a huff and rifled through the pockets. He still had a couple shirts that were clean from the last time he dropped by a laundromat in a shady area of whatever town it had been. He kept his burner phone in a plastic sandwich bag, for safety. He learned that trick after the last time he had gone swimming unexpectedly.

Gas station snacks made up sixty percent of the space inside, but he by passed all of them to dig into the bottom. Another sandwich bag, expect this one had a wad of twenties-- the last bit of the cash he had withdrew from his own account before he left.

Counting them a habit, even though he knew exactly how much was there: One hundred sixty American dollars. He thought that was pretty good, considering he had started out with six hundred, six months ago.

He bought what he needed, and stole what he couldn't if the price was just a little too high. And honestly, how much of a profit where the gas stations losing when he pocketed three chocolate bars? It couldn't have been all that much considering what they made on the water bottles he bought.

He hadn't planned on staying the night in this stupid town.

Frustrated wasn't a word he used often. Houston was, first and foremost, sly as a fox. Clever ideas and tricks came to him on the fly, without prompting just as long as he kept a cool head.

Unfortunately his inability to keep a cool head was exactly the reason why he was standing outside a stolen car, in the middle of a town he should have been leaving four hours ago.

Frustration was exactly what Houston called his dilemma. A puzzle, a knot. But Houston was good at both. He just needed some time.

Which was exactly what he didn't have.

Another car pulled into the lot. Houston bristled and it had nothing to do with the chill of the early night.

There were no flashing lights, but it was rare that Houston saw a police car and didn't notice it straight off the bat. The officer took a full moment to get out of his car, leisurely and unhurried. Houston forced his legs to still, his shoulders to relax. He pretended like he hadn't heard the car pull up, and only turned around at the sound of the officer closing his door again.

"Hello, Officer!" He said, with a charismatic smile. "What can I do for you?"

The man was a good weight, a little over in his years, but still fit. Houston ignored the alarm in his head that told him he needed to start running now; if he waited the man might have a chance at catching him and Houston if nothing else could not afford to be caught and returned in handcuffs to his father. The officer regarded him while rubbing the slim of his neck which peeked out from his wide shoulders and supported his square head almost like a rolling office chair. His eyes were tired, made of the same grey smoke that twist from under his police cap and made up the thick mustache over his lips.

"It's a little late to be out driving, kid." He said, in a grandfatherly tone. Houston wiped the palm of his hand on the back of his jeans, trying to stand up straighter.

"Yes sir, it is." He told the man, "I was just on my way home." Houston turned back to his car, praying his movements weren't as jerky as he thought they were. He just need to get back in the car and close the door before the officer saw how he had shredded the underwires and hotwired the vehicle. From then he could seat belt himself smile at the man again and carefully drive himself to anywhere but here.

The Officer didn't look convinced, "You know they were saying there was a robbery in town little while ago."

Houston swallowed hard, glancing back at the man, "A robbery?" He repeated as if this was the first time he had heard of such thing.

"You know, kid, why don't I just give your parents a call and let them know you're okay-"

"No!" Houston blurted out, mentally punching himself, when the officer raised an eyebrow, "I--uh-- I just talked to them! On the phone. They said to drive safe and-- uh..." Houston tried to think of something that normal parents would tell their kids, "Pick up some milk on the way back!"

"Is that right." The older man drawled. "Then you won't mind me asking for your license now, would ya?"

The truth was that Houston minded a lot. His blood froze in his veins, but his brain was anything but cold and silent. He had a million words on his lips, shoved in his throat, burning his tongue. But in the face of it all, he choked.

He was done for. He had no license, no proof of identity. This officer would run him down and handcuff him and drag him the precinct kicking and screaming. They'd get his fingerprints and he'd forcefully taken right back home. He wouldn't survive the night back in that house.

He could still run. He'd have to abandon the car, which wasn't too bad, but it was his ticket out of the city. He could get another, right? A better, newer model that made good U-turns and didn't smell like a burning house. He might even get lucky with the next one because it would have something more than a goddamn guitar in it. He knew he was fast, he just needed to be faster than the old man a car away--

"Michael!"

Instinctively, Houston turned towards the noise. In the dying light, he could make out a rather large teenager rushing towards the cars from the way of the dog park.

"Michael! You were right!" The boy was nearly twice Houston' height, with the wide shoulders of a football player. He wore his hair in a shaggy mane, and his face was still round with baby fat. Someone who had yet to grow up. Was he on drugs?

The boy grinned at Houston' bewildered expression, huffing and puffing out of breath. "You were right, Michael, It was right were you said it was!"

He held up a sad looking piece of leather and Houston guessed was suppose to be a wallet. Then he seemed to notice the Officer, "Oh hello there sir! Was my brother causing any problems?"

Houston was an only child, but he thought that if he did have a sibling, they'd definitely not smell like a gas station hobo.

The officer considered the new comer with skeptical eye, "You two are brothers?"

Houston couldn't blame him. The only thing that was similar about them was the fact that they were both boys. Subconsciously Houston ran a hand through his bright ginger curls.

"Yes sir, we are!" The other boy said with a confidence that made Houston's stomach twist.

The officer trained his wizened old eyes on Houston. It took him a moment to recognize that he was suppose to nod. He nodded like a rusted gear, slowly, awkwardly as if he had no clue why he was nodding. The other boy hissed a breath of relief from his lips the second he did.

"We were on our way home now, but I couldn't find my wallet." The other boy continued, "Michael suggested that I left in the park were we had walked through. He was right!"

Houston played off a flinch when the taller boy put an arm around him. "yeah," He said, faking a smile the same way he had perfected years ago. Adults love that smile. He hated it. "I called Mom and Dad, to tell them we were on our way back. They asked us to pick up milk."

"Us." It tasted weird on his tongue. When was the last time he had thought of someone more than himself?

"Then we better get going." The boy said, "Have a good night officer!"

The man should have stopped them. His Officer senses should have been blaring alarms at how different they looked, at the way Houston had flinched, the strange uneven conversation, and the million ticks and quirks in their faces that said they were complete strangers.

He didn't say a word.

The other boy climbed in the driver's seat and put the truck in reverse. Houston didn't think either of them were breathing until the car was long on it's way away from the dog park. He watched the rearview mirror for any sign of flashing blue and red, but it never came.

"What did you do?"

Houston jumped in his seat, "Excuse me?"

"What did you do that you couldn't talk to an officer?" The other boy asked. It was casual, nonchalant, and completely and totally an impossible question. He glanced around the car between making sure he didn't crash into the red sudan riding the speed limit. "Did you steal this car?"

Houston covered his mouth with a hand, hiding the smile that didn't belong because it never did. "Yeah." He said.

"Where do you live? I'll drive you home."

"I'd rather throw myself out of this car." He hooked the door handle and grabbed his bag, not for emphasis, but because he was ready to do it.

The boy was quiet He absently scratched his knee and checked his mirrors before sighing. "Where are you going?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because I don't want to be driving all night." The boy gave a crooked smile to Houston the moment they stopped at a red light. His boyish features bathed in the ruby color, making him appear even younger. "What's your name? I'm Isaac."

"Dallas." Houston lied.

By the time they moving again, Dallas was already thinking of ways to get rid of Isaac.