Being lower middle class in Flint wasn't easy; everywhere else in the U.S., Connor would have been considered poor, but in Flint as long as you weren't living on the streets, you were okay. Not having much money to spare, Connor would sometimes steal from the local corner store. Just some chips and a soda was all. Little did he know, many kids thought and did the same thing in his town, which led to the store's closing soon after; scarce green bills. The local store wasn't the only place poor Connor stole from. Oh, there were department stores during Christmas. Markets. The restaurant his own mother waitressed at; the good 'ole "dine and dash". Of course, Connor always had a price to pay after doing such things. His mom always knew when he had those sticky fingers. He'd walk home with wandering eyes and a suspicious look on his face, sometimes, maybe an even "sick" look. His conscience revealing itself was what it was. For doing this, he'd receive a scolding and maybe a punishment like washing the dishes, but nothing major. His mother would never make him return the things he took. She couldn't. The boy was hungry and desperate. Stealing things got Connor what any boy his age "needed". Chips. A watch. A present for his friends. New clothes. She couldn't take something away from him that she couldn't provide. Sometimes, stealing was the only way, or the easier way, perhaps. Although this was all true, she never once told Connor's father about this "terrible" act he committed every week. Ever since mid July, he'd been acting so odd. Mean. Very mean. What was going on? Stress maybe? Yeah, Flint was very stressful. Lately, he'd spent each night at work, later and later. Stress...?

"Mom... I'm going to the bookstore," Connor says as he grabs his backpack and swings it to his back, "I'll be back by 5."

Connor's mom knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd go to the bookstore, pick up a book and read almost half of it before he placed it back, hidden so he could find it the next day for some more reading. He'd even draw in a fresh sketchbook from the shelf and sit in the back corner so no one could see. This was stealing, but what was the boy supposed to do when his freshly mean father wouldn't buy him another drawing book or even allow him to work on his art in the house anymore? This hobby of Connor's was recently banned from his father's presence; not wanting to get his best art piece ripped to shreds, he had to go into hiding to do his "horrible" act. Of course, Connor had to hide this sketch book in the store as well. If his father caught eye of this, he'd hit him in a second, leaving yet another bruise on his son's body.

After some time at the bookstore, Connor looks over at the clock, realizing the time reads 6:30p.m. He was late! He told his mother he'd be home by 5 and he was late. Good thing his dad was working overtime lately. If he found out about this, all hell would break loose. Connor needed to rush now. He needed to get home before his father. After throwing the sketch book under a big pile of about 10 others, Connor's hands begin to shake and sweat, along with a pant in his breath as he speeds to the store's exit. He needed to get home. Realizing that about 3 minutes had probably passed, Connor picks up some speed as the sun reaches it's last peak of the day and darkness chases after his steps. Now, he needed to run. He needs to run!

Books jump in his backpack as he goes faster and faster. He was out of breath! But he needed to continue running. If he didn't, he'd be doomed. He'd be...doomed. Suddenly, he reached the corner of Franklin and Roger. Franklin...Roger... which way was home again? Connor couldn't think! Not with this kind of pressure. "Which..which way?" he asks himself under his confused breath, "R-roger." Off he went now, on his way home. It was probably about 6:37 now. Oh good. Good. His dad usually got home by 7:15 these days. Good. He had time. But that didn't mean he could stop. He needed to get home early. What if his dad pulled up to the driveway earlier than expected? What if his dad saw him running in panic to get home? Would he have mercy? Maybe? Not if he was out drawing. But how would he know? Because his father knew.....

5 minutes until home. He could do this. He was already half way through Roger Ave. He was good. This was good. Until... Until his father pulls up next to him in his run down pickup, sending out a few putts and a squeak as it reaches a halt.

Ohh... poor Connor was doomed. There was no point on running now. He was caught. Maybe he could get a ride home? His heart beating a million a minute, barely even able to swallow these beats, Connor was desperate for almost anything now. Even if it meant some terrible bruises in the morning. He was going to get it anyway.

Silence... as the father gets out of the car and approaches exhausted Connor who is trying to catch his breath, which was an almost impossible process at the moment. Suddenly, Connor could feel his chin being forced up from his chest to the sky and shockingly.... a slap in the face. "D-d-"

"Shut the fuck up, boy," he says with a straight face and continues with an unchanged aggressive tone, "Now, I am not even gonna let you get in my pickup, you understand me? You wanna stay out late. Fine. You'll get it when you get home. Now, you walk yourself home. You're lucky I'm not locking the doors on you."

Connor would have rather those doors been locked on him. That way, he couldn't enter the pit of hell. Were normal kids supposed to feel this way about their home? Walking home gave Connor an out to all of that pain... so... why was he even going back? He could just leave now. He could just stay at the book store or sneak on a bus to some place random. Some place away from "home". Why not? Unfortunately, Connor was at the mark between 16 and 17. But if he was 18... no body would be on his tail for leaving... He could just... be... but....