Selling My Soul for His Aston Martin.

　And I did. I worked at random restaurants, I did karaoke gigs, I babysat. I was even a clown at a child’s party once.

　I’ll tell you this: Never again.

    My best friend, Lindsay, was my cheerleader and occasionally my partner in crime. She had enough money to make Donald Trump look like a hobo, but she was very humble. A little insane, but humble. She’d offered to just buy the car for me several times, but I’d always refused. I didn’t want her to think that I was her best friend just for her money.

　Finally, at the end of senior year, I found an affordable, wickedly awesome car. I paid the entire thing off.

    I was so proud of me. Every time I saw the car I felt a huge sense of accomplishment.

　I opened the door and slid in, shutting it behind me. I fumbled in the dark with the keys for a moment, then stuck it into the ignition and twisted. The car roared to life, making the dashboard and stereo glow blue. The radio buzzed lowly, a man’s voice coming through the speakers.

　I loved my car.

　I pulled out of the hospital parking garage slowly, passing dark Hondas and inactive ambulances. I turned into the main parking lot in order to exit (the hospital format was totally wack). A car pulled in front of me, and in front of that one, another.

　I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The cars moved slowly along, infuriatingly slow. Couldn’t I just go home and sleep?

　While the drivers in front of me acted like total idiots, I looked toward the hospital.

　There was a woman towing an innocent-looking little boy into the hospital, clutching her purse in one hand and a giant teddy bear in the other. An old woman in a wheelchair being pushed around by a man who I assumed was her husband. All of their lives looked normal.

　I rolled up the windows and turned on the air conditioner. It was hot, even at night. In fact, the ice pack was now a sopping mess of water and small chips of ice. I opened my door (since apparently, there was no hope of the cars in front of me moving anytime soon) and opened the sandwich bag, dumping the water onto the ground. I shut my door, balled the still-wet bag up, and shoved it into my pocket.

　Not the smartest move, but oh well. I wiped my hands on my jeans and put them back on the steering wheel.

　My head still hurt. Badly. I was still dog tired and therefore, ready to get out of the car and beat someone for holding up traffic. By now there were at least two more cars behind me; a bright blue Corolla and a minivan.

　Out of boredom, I decided to watch people go in and out of Falcon Hospital again. A guy my age with a limp. Two girls, one bleeding from the head. I made a face. Gross.

　There was one mysterious character who was exiting the hospital. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. His shoulders were hunched forward and he was wearing huge, dark sunglasses. The hood was up over his face.

　He stopped on the curve, looked both ways, then lifted his foot to cross the street...

　And all hell broke loose.

　Out of nowhere, about five cameramen jumped out of the bushes that were surrounding the doors, cameras flashing brightly against the brick walls.

　The mob began to grow as people began pulling up, the guys jumping out while the car was still moving and running up to this poor guy. I couldn't even see him anymore. Suddenly, the was a break in the crowd as he trampled the camera guys, hauling ass toward...