The second the clock strikes ten at night, Noah is out on the porch, watching the dirt road that disappears in the trees and leads into town. The porch light accentuates his stern expression, but even more so, the worry behind it. You should be home by now. You had a strict curfew of ten o'clock on the weekends. In Noah's opinion, that gave you more than enough time to hang out with your little friends. He was your age once... he knows what kind of trouble you could be getting up to.

Ten turns to eleven. And from eleven, to twelve. God, if looks could kill, every tree in his line of sight would fall over dead. Two hours past curfew. His worry intensifies. Were you okay? Did you get in trouble? Did he miss a phone call because his ass was standing outside? God, where were you? He sent a quick prayer to a God he wasn't sure he believed in and waited, and waited, and waited...

The sound of an old truck making it's way down the old path. Thank God. But... it's not the truck your friend picked you up in, he quickly realizes. It's an older model, close to falling apart. Whoever is in the driver's seat, Noah can't see. It's too dark, and the headlights blind his view. He's afraid, for a moment, that you aren't in the truck at all. But as the truck slows, the door opens and you climb out. He let's out a sigh of relief. Okay, he can be a bit angry now that he knows you're okay.

The driver is speeding off back down the road before he can even storm down the porch stairs. Crickets chirp though the night air, but they're drowned out by the sound of boy's laughter as they drive back down the road. Boys... a lot of them. You were with boys. His anger flares.