Start with a plan, any plan. Become the high school track star. Date a football player. Realize that you use your body more than your brain and apply to college. Apply to many colleges—strive for the ivies and nothing less than one thousand miles away from home.

Realize that your competition is tough. Stalk your competition on Facebook. See their uploaded Polaroid pictures of mud huts where children slept and your competition’s white hand starkly feeding a village of emaciated black bodies. Read the comments left on this picture by their humanitarian family, their hippie friends, and former teachers. Ask yourself whether you had ever received three hundred likes on one picture. Ask yourself if you even have three hundred Facebook friends.

Withdraw your applications and take a gap year. Spontaneously become a Forrest Gump and hitchhike your way across the country. Travel in luxury cars, rusty cars, and uninsured cars. Ask the drivers to write down their names on an old piece of scratch paper so you can friend them on Facebook. Offer to pay for gas, though you haven’t much spending money as you are traveling from town to town for philanthropic reasons. Philanthropy doesn’t pay much. Know this is a lie, and very few people will catch it. Listen to stories, children bickering, and old men snoring. Become a Walter Mitty and jump out of a car after the driver confessed to murdering her ex-boyfriend’s girlfriend. Craziness reminds you of your mom. Wonder why you even got into this woman’s car in the first place.

Wander into a town. Population: 404. Find a phone booth. The payphone needs a quarter. Ask a strange scruffy man for spare change. He examines your body up and down, asks you to spin around a couple times, and to give him your cell phone number. You stand still and say that if you had a cell phone, you wouldn’t be asking him for monetary assistance. He drops two quarters your feet, and walks away. Wonder if you should have asked for his name. Think: “he doesn’t look like the social media type,” and carry on.

Insert the quarter and begin to punch in your parents’ area code. Get frustrated that you have to use a dirty payphone, and angrily hit the next three digits. Feel the last time you were angry. Remember the spontaneous conflicts between you and your mom. Wonder why you don’t miss your family. Hang up the phone. Walk away from the phone booth and find a diner that serves free iced water. The waiter asks if you would like to eat something, and you reply that you haven’t much money (philanthropic reasons) and you just attempted to call your parents. Cringe as you say “parents.” He feels sorry that your family won’t answer and begins to tell the entire tale of his existence and how he proudly never left Population: 404. But he’s not your collegiate competition so you zone out for the rest of his tales, and set aside the iced water.

Thank the waiter for his time and spend the night just outside of town but not where the hobos sleep. After all, you are not a hobo—just a traveler with no money. See the stars and reminisce at how your mom used to take you outside and watch the same sky. She had a giant telescope that she would roll onto the patio and aim at certain objects. Recall how your early favorite was the moon, but only because it was big, white, and bright. Later she would show you a red dot called Betelgeuse, a green and purple thing called Orion, and a giant disk called Andromeda. But then she told you that stars were moving through space faster than the fastest airplanes could fly and that all of those objects would all one day be destroyed. Think about how only your mom would ruin something loved by her daughter. Shudder at once thinking your mom had an ounce of care in her body, get up, and walk back into town while avoiding the hobos.

Stand solemnly outside the diner that served you free iced water. Wait until a shiny car passes and rolls down their passenger-side window and asks you if you need help. You say that you haven’t any money because you had travelled through the United States feeding starving homeless children and that all you wanted to do was get back home to Washington. He said that the westward train wasn’t too expensive, and that he would give you just enough cash to get from Population: 404 to Washington. You pulled out that dingy piece of old scratch paper and asked the man kindly for his name, so that you would repay him once you got home. After he drove away a poorer man, you looked at where he signed on the paper, and read: “Pay it forward.”

Enter the dingy train running through Population: 404. Get on the cleanest looking car, and sit far away from anyone. Realize that sitting far away from people only encourages them to sit by you. One grimy man with a backpack and a thick German accent tells you that he walked across the entire United States for the past three months and raised money for his dying son. He believes that he is now able to afford the surgery to fix his son. He asks you what brought you out to the Midwestern United States, because he couldn’t really imagine people wanting to live there. You can’t lie. You confess that you craved an adventure, and that you needed to run away from the chaos of your family. Mainly from your mom. This trip was supposed to give you new perspective. Only you don’t feel that much different now from when you first left. He asks what you learned. You don’t respond, and instead you check the date on your wristwatch. You ran away over one month ago. He says that you should probably get back to your family and they are certainly worried about you. He says that he bought a satellite phone so his wife and son could track his trek across the United States and talk with him for two minutes every night. He tells you that he gets to wish his son goodnight and he loves his family.

You feel overwhelmed by the presence of this man. You ask him to write down his name on your old piece of paper so that you can contact him in the future. He writes his name below “Pay it forward” and chuckles.

“An excellent idea,” the man said, grinning and repeatedly tapping his finger on the paper. “Why did you say you learn nothing?”

“Was, uh, was I supposed to learn anything?” I stammered, not used to reciprocating conversation after mainly observing others for the past month.


Watch this mysterious man walk off the train. Ask to quickly borrow someone’s phone so you can Google his name. See that he has been interviewed by national television and has inspired millions of people to do something for the ones they love. Click on the videos motivated by this man. Watch people crying while they confess that they should treat their family better. Think about your family, but don’t cry. You are almost home.

Catch a free shuttle. Ask the driver to drop you off at a park near your house. Stare out the window at the familiar sights of your childhood. Remember splashing through puddles with your parents and trick-or-treating in expensive costumes. Shudder when you think about your mom and how you will soon see her.

Enter the code to your driveway gate. Feel your back shutter as you remember your mom telling you that she never wanted you back in her house again. Think that you never really wanted to see her again, and that you were just coming back for your dad. Hear the hum of the gate motor as the gate swings open. Walk up the driveway for a minute and stare at your house. See skid marks on the driveway. Notice that the lights are turned off and the fountain isn’t running. Observe how the landscaping looks depressed.

Stare into one of the kitchen windows. Reminisce over the tears and bruises that occurred within that house. Remember the loud sounds of shattering china and differences of opinion. Recall how you slammed a glass door and it left shards of glass in your hands and feet. Remember yelling so loud that things seemed to rattle off the countertops and leave dents in the floor. Place your ear against the familiar front door. Listen carefully for the steady tick of your parents’ pendulum clock. Wince when you sit for more than an hour and hear no chimes. Walk around to your bedroom window. There is no furniture. Look at all your pictures on the floor, facedown. Gaze at the hole you punched in the wall the day before you went on your adventure. Laugh because you thought that someone would fix that hole and things would be better once you got back. Laugh again because you spent a day with a man who had walked across the United States because he believes in love.


Tread down to your neighbor’s house and politely ask to borrow their phone. Hear their gossip bounce off their marble floor. Dial your dad’s phone number. Listen anxiously as the phone goes to voicemail. Call again. Call for a fifth time and hear your dad’s voice. Ask him to meet you at the house. Smile politely and thank your neighbors for letting you use their phone. Notice how their expressions grew more worried as they asked many questions. Truthfully answer all their questions. Reassure them that you are okay. Remember that these were the nosey neighbors. They ask you what had happened. Ask yourself if you even knew what happened—with your family, you know. Reply that your mom probably took another expensive vacation alone. The woman says that she would like to go on an expensive vacation alone, too. Excuse yourself from their home, and walk back towards yours.


See your dad’s car abruptly stop in front of the gate. Think about his possible reactions before you make eye contact. Picture a calendar and realize that a month is a long time. Make eye contact with your dad. Look at his familiar smile. Feel slightly better. He asks you if you would like to get in the car and that he brought you your favorite Starbucks drink because he missed you and he really hopes that you are doing okay. Thank him for the Starbucks, but ask him why he isn’t going into the driveway.


Speak louder and tell your dad that idling is bad and ask him again why he isn’t pulling into the gate. Juggle the drink between your right and left hand, awkwardly waiting for your dad to respond. Wonder again why your dad hasn’t asked you where you had been or who you were with or if you are doing okay. Listen instead to your dad clear his throat.



“We don’t live here anymore,” says your dad. Cringe as his deep voice cracked in the middle of the sentence.


Sit quietly and listen to his heavy breath. Consider what your dad meant. Judge by the look in his eyes that he feels sorry. Know that you are now a much more reflective person, and refrain from saying anything. Assume that your dad will clarify. Instead, get pushed hard against the seat by his fast acceleration. Hear him angrily shift the gears. Watch as the mansions blended into houses, and the houses blend into apartments. Notice as the trees transformed from groomed to unkempt. Observe as the cars turned from factory luxury to modified ghetto. Ask your dad where he is taking you. Get no reply, only harder shifting and more illegal driving maneuvers.


Wake up when the car begins to move slower. See a cheap sign with the word “condominium” painted across it, and again ask your dad what you are doing here.


“We live here now,” says your dad. “Would you, uh, click that button under that bush? It’s for the garage.”


Feel as your heart sinks down to your stomach, as the color in your face disappears, and as your words become unspeakable. You can’t move. Your dad asks you to open the garage door again, but you can’t move. Witness as your dad opens the door and gets out of the car, kicks the garage door button, gets back in the car, and drives into your new single-car garage. Stay in the car with your dad. Mumble something and hope for a response. Feel nothing when your dad says that he cares about you and that he will always support you. Wonder if he would walk across the continent for you. Know that your mom would rather watch you dehydrate than walk across the United States for you. Now you can’t confront your mom about all the horrific things she did to you. Search for a resolution.


Understand that your parents are getting a divorce. Learn that your mom stole your car and your sister. Learn that your mom also stole your house and your boat and your dog. Remember how much you hate your mom. Have the urge to scream at your dad and tell him that you met a man who hiked across America because he loved his dying son. Have the urge to scream to everyone in this dingy complex. Ask why your dad was left with almost nothing. Grow sadder when your dad tells you that you will only have to live in this place for a year and he still owns the house in California. You didn’t want the house in California. You wanted the one with a family.


Remember how one month ago you honestly told people that you had a perfect life. You had a beautiful home. You had a family of four and a dog. You had a new car. You had a boat and took expensive vacations. But then again you didn’t have a perfect life. Think back to that house and what it had to endure. Remember how your mom told you that she never wanted to see you again and that you were such a disappointment to her. All you ever did was get straight A’s and apply to Harvard. Remember how she would abuse you, and when you complained to your friends they told you to shut up because you had a perfect life. People on the outside thought you had a perfect life.

Swear to yourself that you will never end up in an inland suburban condo surrounded by other inland suburban condos. Look at the people who live in these places, some with babies, some with dogs, but all with mundane cars. Stare through the cheap plastic blinds and note how the people who share your walls probably have mundane jobs and watch mundane television shows when they have nothing else to do, which is most of the time. See that you have no longer have anything that distinguishes you from your new neighbors. Find it hard to live in a place where people have little ambition. Wonder if these people heard the story of the man who hiked across the United States for his dying son.

Be inspired to become even more unique. Change your middle name. Start to do drugs. Enjoy the high that the drugs give you. Enjoy driving fast on the high that the drugs give you. Write about these things. Write about your divided family and lying your way across the United States. Write about your mom stealing your car and your house and believing your whole life that you had, once again, the perfect life. Write about trying to run away from it all, only to come back to a worse situation. Apply to college again, this time with a story to tell. Tell these stories in college interviews.

Feel awkward when your college interviewer asks you what you love. She gives the example of loving her family. You tell the interviewer that after being abused and returning from a spontaneous hitchhiking trip only to discover that the abuse remotely continues makes it hard to love anything. She feels sad for you and starts to ask you a less personal question. You can’t help but interrupt and tell her the story of the man who trekked across the United States to save his dying son. You talked about your conversation with him on a dingy train, and about the man who paid for that train ride told you to pay it forward someday. Say that you want to love something so much that you would walk across the entire North American convenient for it. This makes her smile. She shakes your hand and says: “Welcome to Harvard University.”

Feel accomplished. Feel proud. Feel sad. Feel abused, experienced, and satisfied again. Know that love still remains a foreign feeling. Search again for a resolution.