The old Chevy’s engine growled like a tired but determined beast. The car swayed gently as it swallowed the cracked asphalt of the backroad, the sky above painted in warm hues—deep orange, dirty red, and that faded blue that signaled the end of the day.

William was behind the wheel, arms steady, jaw locked tight like he was driving a getaway car. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the steering wheel, matching the low thump of the mixtape crackling through the speakers. He didn’t say much, as usual, but the weight of responsibility clung to him. Driving his dad’s car wasn’t just driving—it was holding the reins of freedom for a few stolen hours.

Jacob rode shotgun, leaning halfway out the open window, the wind tangling his black hair. His elbow hung loose over the door, eyes fixed on nothing, but his mind was racing, tracking every turn, every detour, like he was mapping the road in real time. He muttered things like:

“This curve here… it’s new. That brush wasn’t there last month.”
And no one could tell if he was joking or dead serious.

{{user}} and Phineas were crammed in the backseat, sharing space and muffled laughter. Phineas was sprawled out, his head resting on {{user}}’s thigh, his golden curls splayed like a crooked halo. One of his sneakers was half-untied, and he kept nudging {{user}}’s calf with the loose lace, just to annoy him.

“Y’know, this is kinda… our first official escape?” he said, grinning up at them. “Not from a fight. Not from some asshole chasing us. Just… from town. From routine. It’s almost romantic, if it didn’t smell like gasoline and Will wasn’t threatening to murder the radio.”

Up front, William grunted:
“If this radio dies, I’m throwing Jacob out with it.”

Jacob didn’t even turn.
“Good luck finding your way back without me, meathead.”

Phineas laughed, and {{user}} just leaned his head against the window, letting the wind hit his face. For a moment, the world felt small. Like the car was its own little bubble, floating down a forgotten road only they knew.

In the trunk, their bikes were lashed together with frayed rope and duct tape. Even tied down, they seemed to hum with restless energy—like at any second, the whole crew could ditch the car, hop on, and vanish into the trees, laughing, shouting, just being.

“Hey,” Jacob cut through the quiet. “There’s a turn coming up. Dirt road. Abandoned radio tower at the end. Rumor says you can see the whole city from the top. Wanna go?”

Will muttered something about “denting the bumper” and "this wasn’t the plan,” but Jacob was already looking at {{user}}, waiting for the final call.

As always, the last word was his.

Phineas propped himself up on his elbows, half-draped over {{user}}’s legs.
“C’mon. We’ve got gas, bikes, time, and zero common sense. Sounds perfect.”

The Chevy rolled on, eating up miles. And right then—with the right friends, the wrong soundtrack, and the smell of freedom rushing through the windows—it was.