“He doesn’t want us!” Wick explodes, shoving shirts into the duffel. “And we sure as hell don’t want him. We have enough leverage now to buy our freedom. Fuck the money, fuck the cars, fuck this whole fucking life. I mean,” he turns to me, breathing hard, “Lex, what’s keeping us here?” This is not a rhetorical question, I realize. ‘Father’ is my instinctual answer, but I know it’s not true. We’ve been planning to get away from him since middle school. School is a better answer. Graduation is in two months. I’m still waiting to be accepted into a good med school, and running now would be
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