“All roads lead to here,” Ryan said as he looked forward from behind the steering wheel.
He dragged me to the Galleria that day, to pick up another pair of running sneakers at Foot Locker. Ryan had more shoes than anyone I knew.
I chewed the plastic straw from a soda I bought at the Pretzel Shack as we emerged from the darkness. The radio sung out the latest summer anthem on a local rock station. We surfaced onto the roof. The sun blinded us with the kind of white-hot light you’d associate with heaven’s glare. Ryan flipped down the visor and released the gas pedal slightly. We rounded a corner.
It was mid-August. Ryan pulled into a space. Up here, I could see the haze strangling the office buildings with waning strength. The highway, in the distance, circled like a snake. In this town, if you stayed on any of the local roads long enough, they would eventually lead you back, in a loop, to exactly where you started.
We always dreamt about getting out. Ryan and I lived next door to each other for most of our lives. He was my first real friend and the only one who stuck around. Anyone who stayed in this town long enough regretted it. To stay meant to die, slowly, at your own hands.