It was just after seven when I began to see signs for Iowa City—a dismal, gray Midwestern town I’d never given two shits about before this mad adventure. Growing up on the streets of Detroit, hopping from one juvenile detention center to the next, I’d hardly allowed myself to think beyond 8 Mile Road, never mind imagine life elsewhere.

Of course, now, I didn’t really have a choice. The Detroit Seven had made sure of that.

Speeding down the stretch of highway, I guzzled my drive-thru coffee—which was more like a cocktail of far too much sugar and nearly gone-off milk at this point—and reminded myself of my mission: find the office of Wes Kraemer, crooked loan shark and uncle of my ex-friend, Vinnie, who’d told me that on my trek south, stopping there for cash was a sure bet.

Vinnie hadn’t liked me for a few years by that point, but he’d sensed I was in the kind of trouble that was life-altering and maybe even life-ending. He’d lent me the last hand of help with a yell over his shoulder: “As long as I never see your ass around here again.”

He’d mostly been Aaron’s friend, anyway. And now that Aaron was dead, my last attachments to Detroit were snipped, gone. I didn’t give two shits about Vinnie, and I would forget his name the moment I ripped off that godforsaken loan shark.

Pulling off the highway, I steered my car beneath the shadows of the overpasses. I gripped the steering wheel tighter, feeling the adrenaline pump within me—a reminder that no matter how many times I broke the law, it still gave me a dangerous high. My eyes watered as I knocked back the rest of my coffee and returned it to the cup holder, then turned up the radio.

It was an old vintage track, one my grandmother had played in her little run-down house before everything had turned to shit. Don’t you fucking hate memories? “Blue baby blue,” she’d sung to me, gazing into my eyes. “Just a tow-headed kid,” she’d called me, with love in her voice. She died when I was 12, putting me out on the streets. There, I became prime pickings for the juvenile detention system, and for the life of a drug-addled dropout. I was primed for a life of violence.

At 28, I was still blond, but it was a darker shade now, without the sheen of my early 20s. My body was strong and muscular, and I was over six feet tall, although I hadn’t measured myself since high school. I hadn’t seen any reason to. It wasn’t like, before a fight, the man whose face you wanted to blast in wanted to ensure you were shorter than him, or taller. It only mattered who struck first. And with my hard, thick biceps and quick, animal-like motions, I won almost every fight I entered. If I lost, I always left with a grudge.

Of course, those grudges had to be abandoned now—now that all I could see was the horizon ahead of me.

I’d been on the road almost two months by this point—two months since that wild, bloody August night, and it was now nearly Halloween, one of the longest nights in Detroit. Frightened neighbors who couldn’t afford to move to the suburbs of Royal Oak kept their cats and dogs and children indoors with their fingers on their phones, ready to call the police if anything got out of hand.

Not that the police ever did much to help in those neighborhoods. They were lackluster at best, ensuring that gangs, like the Detroit Seven, were the ones who ultimately decided who was safe and who wasn’t.

Shoving my hand into the car’s side compartment, I drew out a cigarette and pushed it between my lips, lighting it with a quick flash. Damn, I hadn’t meant to get involved with the Detroit Seven. It had been Aaron’s game: just sell a few ounces of weed here and there to make enough to pay for rent and food. But rent and food were soon not enough for either of us. We wanted more: nicer cars, nicer women, nicer restaurants—everything. We were soon rolling in dough, stocking it in the cupboards and beneath the mattresses, just like you see in the movies. We were high from the power of it.

But they’d taken it all when they’d taken him.

Detroit had nothing for me now, especially since my grandmother had been my last living relative and people like Vinnie had abandoned me when I’d gotten in too deep with the Seven. The open road—that was it for me. And then Mexico. Maybe South America after that. Who knew?

“Jesus,” I found myself whispering as I passed by a billboard advertising the state fair—something that had happened at least two months before. “The Biggest State Fair in All the World!” the sign read. It featured a cartoon cow waving from the top of a Ferris wheel that looked as if it were about to tip over.

“Fucking hilarious,” I muttered.

I’d only heard my voice a handful times over the previous two months, when I spoke to people at gas stations, ordering cigarettes or paying for fuel. I always paid in cash, never giving my name. I usually slept in my car, but when I felt I had the money for a cheap motel off the highway, I took the opportunity to sleep in a bed—speaking a bit too long to whomever was on duty about my travels on the road. I’d make up one story or another about my “fiancée back in Kansas” or my “daughter, first grade, staying with my mom right now, while I’m traveling for work.”

I liked to make things up about my life, as I recognized what a hollow shell it was right now. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hollow forever. From the bottom of the well, you couldn’t see many of the stars.

The sun had completely set by the time I found Wes Kraemer’s loan offices on the outskirts of Iowa City. The building looked dilapidated, crooked, with half the roof needing new tiles. Outside, the building had a massive sign with the words “Wes Kraemer—For All Your Loan Needs” and a phone number. I found myself snorting. Who wouldn’t think this guy was some kind of crook just by looking at a sign like that? The guy reeked of bad dealings.

The place was locked up, dark, with the broken blinds covering what they could of the windows. I eased myself out of the Mustang and then crept toward the back of the loan office. My blood pumped past my ears, making me feel like a rabbit on the edge of the forest, poised to spring across the road. I had to be fast. I couldn’t allow my fear to hold me back.

The back window was easy to pry open using the tools from my trunk. With the window up, I waited for an alarm to sound, and was grateful when the silence continued, beating its gravity into my ears. With a quick gasp, I hustled through the window and let my left foot hit the ground to catch my weight. The carpet—a dirty beige that smelled vaguely of deodorant—made things a bit quieter. After getting my other foot inside, I crept through the back office, my eyes adjusting to the darkness.

In my experience with these crooked places, the money was often nearby, easy to retrieve, as these men liked to sit around, cartoon-like, and count their bills with their oily hands. I’d often done it myself during my brief time with the gang: stacks of 100s, 50s, 20s all in a row, making me feel like some kind of master. It had all been in my head.

A rusted safe was in the corner of the next room, near a desk, with a single lock clicked into place. I had to snicker at its simplicity. Sure, the crime scene of Iowa City was nowhere near the one in Detroit, but with stacks of bills around, wouldn’t you take precautions?

Still, feeling grateful, I broke the lock and then gazed into the interior at the dozen or so stacks of 50s, all green and stinking of whatever dull and grimy place they’d come from. These weren’t bills that had been lined up in any bank recently.

“Fuck yes,” I muttered to myself, collecting the bills. This was more than enough for gas, food, and any bribes I might need to pay on the way to Mexico. If I had to hide out or ask someone to cover for me, I had enough. I could almost feel the Detroit Seven sniffing at my heels, hunting for me.

This was a stroke of luck, perhaps my first since Aaron had passed. Reaching to the right, I grabbed an open suitcase, which had been collecting dust next to the desk. I flung the bills inside, bouncing them off one another. Jumping up from the carpet, I walked toward the open window, high on adrenaline.

This was the first crime I’d committed in months. It was a necessary one, without the pomp and circumstance of the dealings back in Detroit. Perhaps I didn’t miss the thrill of it after all. My bones ached.

The sooner I was out of Iowa City, the better. Beyond the Mexican border, I’d find freedom. Beyond the border, I could choose a new name, a new life—and forget about the one I was leaving behind. Jesus, it would feel good to stretch my legs for more than a few hours at a time. It would feel good to find peace.