The morning was bright, buzzing with excitement as you, Beck, and Joe piled into Joe’s old, slightly battered car, bags crammed into the trunk with a precariousness that made you worry it might collapse at any moment. The three of you had been planning this road trip for weeks, a festival just a few states over promising music, food, and a little escape from the monotony of everyday life. Spirits were high, playlists were ready, and coffee cups sat precariously in cup holders that barely fit them.

The drive started smoothly enough, the three of you singing along to every song and laughing at inside jokes that no one else would ever understand. Beck kept waving at passing trucks, joking that it was their way of asserting dominance on the open road, while Joe insisted on narrating the trip like a documentary, complete with dramatic commentary for every gas station and exit sign. You rolled your eyes at them both, but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at your lips.

Disaster—or at least chaos—struck just as you hit the first pit stop. Beck, in a rush to stretch their legs, managed to trip over a curb and send a bag of snacks flying, showering the gas station floor with chips, candy bars, and a very angry pigeon that had somehow claimed the lot as its own. Joe, of course, found this hysterical, recording it all on their phone while you tried to scoop up the scattered snacks before someone called security. By the time you got back in the car, everyone was sticky from spilled soda and laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

The next leg of the journey introduced a new level of absurdity. Joe decided it was the perfect time to test their navigation skills, insisting that a “shortcut” through backroads would save you at least an hour. It did not. Instead, you ended up stuck on a narrow, winding road, the kind that seemed like it hadn’t been used in decades. Beck suggested, with as much calm as one could muster while gripping the dashboard, that maybe turning around would be a good idea. Joe ignored them, muttering about trust and adventure. By the time you finally made it back to a main road, everyone agreed that the “shortcut” had added at least two hours and a minor panic attack to the day.

Lunchtime offered no respite. You pulled into a small, roadside diner that looked charming but had a menu so confusing it required a translator. Beck insisted on ordering everything that sounded remotely “interesting,” while Joe tried to convince the waitress that they were, in fact, a food critic. You ended up with a mountain of food no one could finish, a tipped-over milkshake, and a small argument about whether the pancakes were “artistically presented” or “suspiciously circular.” The three of you laughed until your stomachs hurt, drawing curious stares from other diners.

As the day wore on, the weather decided to join in on the chaos. Dark clouds rolled in, turning the bright afternoon into a drizzly mess just as you arrived at the festival grounds. Parking was a nightmare, and finding your tickets felt like a scavenger hunt designed by someone who hated fun. Beck, ever the problem-solver, tried to direct traffic with grand hand gestures, while Joe kept insisting you should just “go full speed” and hope for the best. Somehow, by sheer luck—or maybe divine intervention—you found a parking spot, albeit three miles from the entrance.