I was thirteen years old when my parents had a big fight. Oh, not huge, as fights go, but I was young, and this was the first I'd seen them go at each other's throats. It left my mother red in the face and gasping, like someone had punched her in the stomach.

"Come on," My father snarled, lip curled, and he grabbed my arm hard enough to leave a bruise. I hesitated, watching tears fill up slowly in my mother's sad blue eyes, earning myself a sore shoulder as he jerked my arm hard and roared, "Come on, Justin!"

He pulled me to the truck, our pathetic, red, hopelessly out-of-date Ford. The doors wouldn't lock properly and the bed had several holes in it. The passenger's window was completely gone and there were no mirrors save a small fragment leftover in the broken rearview frame. My mother refused to drive that car. She usually refused to ride anywhere in it, as well.

With an enraged snarl my father shoved the key in the ignition, giving it a savage twist and listening as the old engine rumbled slowly to life. For some reason, my father was perversely proud of the noise the rickety old truck could make. He pulled back from our squat, one-level house in a shower of gravel and dust, spraying the broken lawnmower that sat in our dead lawn. The landscape behind our house reflected my feelings: a whirlwind of turmoil, sprayed with sheets of dust and swirling clouds of tiny insects, leaping across the barren yellow grass like dancers on a stage. Part of me was dedicated to my father – he had raised me, after all, to be proud, to be loyal, to be strong.

But another part wanted to convince me father into letting me out and running into the house to where my mother, I was sure, was crying her heart out. One glance at my father's stony visage and I realized I would have been better to throw myself off of a bridge than attempt to wheedle him into letting me out.

Jumping out was less promising than either of those options as we careened out of out driveway, the truck teetering dangerously on two wheels for a few seconds. We lived at the end of a practically deserted street just outside of a small town, and after one small turn, the road was perfectly straight and leading out directly into nowhere.

My father took blatant advantage of the flat, level road and managed to coax more and more speed out of the wailing engine, rocketing down the pavement like a crazed maniac. Which indeed he was.

"Dad!" I yelled over the roar of the engine, watching the scenery pass by with frightening speed. "DAD!"

"What?" he yelled back, fury still burning in his eyes, and I quailed inwardly.

"Dad, can you please SLOW DOWN?" I yelled anyway, silently praying he kept the wheel straight as he turned his head slowly to look at me. Amazingly, he gave me a grudging nod and gently lifted his foot off the gas pedal. He and I were silent after that.

I remember a couple of houses flying by, and a gas station or two. I tried to remain calm as the hours got longer. Nothing much marred the monotonous scenery as the sun slowly sunk towards the horizon, and my father's anger ebbed away with its setting, until finally, he jerked the wheel to the left and did a U-turn on the barren road.

"We're going home," he muttered unceremoniously, and stomped on the gas pedal. I was beginning to think everything was going to be fine when the engine, strained to the limit, coughed, and sputtered, and died. My first thought was to scream and start beating my fists on the dashboard, but I refrained. If I had, my father's own pounding fists would have crushed my hands.

"Damn!" he roared, a noticeable dent appearing in the warped plastic. He slumped back in his seat and sighed. "How far back was that last gas station, son?"

I contemplated the last gas station we had scene. "Too far," I replied honestly. We had passed it about an hour ago, doing eighty. We had seen nothing since.

"We'll have to wait for someone to rescue us, then." My father mumbled, defeated. I tried to smile encouragingly.

"This road can't be that deserted." I said, hesitantly, and he let out a snort.

"Sure, son." He said, one rough, brown hand reaching over to rough up my dirty blonde hair. "Sure."

An hour later and the sun had almost sunken completely beneath the horizon, stray shafts of gold and red peeking over and glimmering the distance. The sky shaded from scarlet to a deep violet to a velvety black, a spangle of stars strewn across the sky. I had left the cab to clamber into the bed of the truck, stretching out along the cold metal with a thin blanket draped across my knees. My father was snoring in the front. I vowed to stay awake in order to flag down any approaching car. It seemed fitting to discover that the emergency lights, which had worked fine a month and a half ago, were dead.

Five minutes later and my own eyes drifted shut.

Something bright flashed across my eyelids, jerking me awake. The light swept over my forehead and I realized it was car. A truck, to be exact, as I sat up blinking sleepily and squinting towards the headlights. Vaguely I wondered why it wasn't making so much noise.

"Hey." I called, stifling a yawn and raising my arm into the air. "Hey!" The truck slowed as it reached me, and I leapt feet-first over the edge of the bed.

"Gotta problem, kid?" the driver rumbled. He was a big, darkly tanned man, nearly blending in with the night.

"Our engine died." I said, rubbing my arms. The night had gotten cold while I slept. "Can you give us a jump?"

"Sure thing." His reply seemed build up in his chest and come spilling out like an avalanche. I could barely understand his speech. He gave me a wave back from his truck and pulled up next to the front of my own, then jumped out the door in a surprising show of agility for a man his size. From behind the driver's seat he pulled jumper cables, the metal glinting at me with reflected light. I ran to prop the front hood up for him.

It took him a few minutes in the near dark, but he finally got the jumper cables attached and walked back to his truck.

"Stand back, son." He called, and gave the ignition key a swift turn. His engine rumbled and became louder, and an echoing thunder came from my father's truck. It quickly died out, though.

"Try again!" I shouted, and he turned the key again. Nothing.

The third time, the engine coughed disagreeably and began to shake violently, grudgingly gaining power, and out entire truck seemed to shake from the noise. The man quickly detached the cables and stowed them back into his cab.

"Be careful next time, son." He said warmly. "Next time you might not be so lucky." He truck lurched forward and started on down the road, and behind me I heard my father stirring.

"I can't believe you slept through that!" I cried, throwing the door to the cab open and climbing in. "There was a guy, and he gave us a jump! We can go home now!"

"What?" my father said groggily, and I shook his shoulder in an effort to rouse him.

"Come on come on come on, Mom's pro'lly worried sick!" I exclaimed. This got through.

"Your mother!" he cried, and sat up, nearly knocking his head against the rearview mirror. "I have to get home and apologize!"

"Then get the truck going already!" I yelled. He gave me a warning glance, but I was in too good of a mood to notice. He rubbed his eyes a few times and stepped on the accelerator – more gently this time – and started heading in the direction of home.

When we got there, my mother came rushing out into the yard; cheeks wet with tears, and wrapped me into a bone-crushing hug. To my father she did the same, and he gruffly accepted the show of affection with a small smile. Then we retreated into the house, where dinner was waiting, stone cold, to be ignored for a little while longer.