Lars stared at the dashboard,
the silence from the engine
a heavy echo of his own sinking feeling.
Doomed from birth.

It had been a bad idea from the get-go,
fuelled by desperation and cheap whiskey the night before.
No plan B, just him and a rusty prayer that
the old Volvo would cooperate.
He slammed his fist against the steering wheel,
the worn leather groaning in protest.

The liquor store, across the street,
was bathed in the harsh, white light of its open sign.
Lars could almost feel the warmth of a stolen bottle against his palm,
the burn of cheap liquor erasing the gnawing worry in his gut.

But the Volvo… it just wasn’t built for this.
The sunshine yellow paint, faded and peeling,
screamed family car, football  games and grocery runs,
not an escape vehicle.
The backseat, crammed with deflated pool floaters
and a forgotten Happy Meal toy.

Heaving a sigh, Lars got out.
The July air hung heavy,
the stillness broken only by the distant drone of crickets.

He walked purposefully across the empty street,
the weight of his desperation growing with each step.
Reaching the glass door, he hesitated.
A flicker of movement inside caught his eye.
A young woman, barely out of her teens,
was restocking the shelves,
her face illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light.

But Lars needed the money and most the liquid in his veins and his brain,
Lars needed to numb the thoughts, the dreams and the hopes.
the girl screamed and the man in the back said something
Lars could not hear.

Focus man, there are bottles next to the register,
focus Lars.
what was that ‘bang’?

Then they said he was a policeman off duty in the shop,
but Lars never heard it.
he was somehow happy,
no more thoughts, no more dreams, no more hope.