A corridor of darkness wraps around my car as it shoots down some county two-line road on the backstreets of town. There’s no one else around, no one but me, my blue beater of a Chevrolet, and the sounds pouring out of my stereo. It’s the summer of 2008, my first summer with a car, my first summer since my siblings moved out, my first summer with any semblance of freedom or responsibility, and it’s both the best and worst season of my life. I’m driving home from work at a job I hate and it’s midnight. I could call my friends and see what they’re doing, but chances are that most of them have either stayed at their houses too late for their parents to let them leave or are too many drinks in to register my call. I could also call her: the girl who used to be my best friend, the girl I’ve spent the past six weeks falling for, head over heels, but I know she won’t answer either. So I let my phone lay dormant at my side and I just drive. I drive and I turn up the stereo, and I listen to the strains of an acoustic guitar and a desolate voice as they nourish my wounds or cut them deeper. Or maybe they’re doing both. Truth is, I’m not sure which side of the pain I’m on anymore. All I know is this: when I walk into my house tonight, I’ll immediately want to leave it. I’ll feel pathetic and lonely and miserable for spending another night alone in my bedroom, even if the actual “night” is already gone and going anywhere else right now would just be stupid. But in the 10 or so miles between my workplace and my front door, with the music coursing through me and the brisk night air flicking through my hair, I feel more alive than I’ve felt in weeks. This is my stronghold, my bulletproof vest, my Fortress of Solitude. So instead of turning right and driving straight home, I turn left and take the long way. These songs aren’t done with me yet.