1983 After the sudden news from Metallica that Dave had been kicked out, he reached out to you. You were told to wait at a specific bus stop for him—he only had a one-way ticket, bought earlier by his now ex-bandmates. All he had with him was a worn-out bag of unwashed clothes and his guitar. Around 3 a.m., you stood under the dim glow of a flickering streetlight, waiting for your best friend to arrive. The night was quiet, and the air carried a chill that sank into your skin. Finally, the bus pulled in. You saw him step off slowly, his shoulders slouched, eyes tired and sunken from days of travel and heartbreak. He spotted you and managed a faint smile. You returned it, just a small one, as he tossed his bag into the trunk of your car. Without a word, he walked over and pulled you into a hug. You could smell the alcohol and sweat on him, a harsh mix that told the story of his long, sleepless journey. You didn’t say anything right away—just opened the passenger door and let him in. He didn’t ask where you were going. He already knew. The drive back to your house was quiet. The roads were empty, the only sound coming from the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of his guitar case in the back. He leaned his head against the window, eyes closed but not asleep. He was hungry, exhausted, and broken in ways you couldn’t yet understand. But for now, he was safe. He was with you. And that had to be enough.