Chapter 1

Travis Parker sat slouched on the worn-out sofa in his family’s cramped living room, the dull hum of the TV the only thing masking the tension that never seemed to leave this house. His mom was in the kitchen, banging pots around in a way that felt more like a protest than a meal prep, while his dad sat at the dining table, his usual place of power, muttering angrily into his phone about work. His four younger siblings were spread across the house, arguing about whose turn it was to use the computer or which show they were going to watch. It was chaos, but it wasn’t unfamiliar.

Travis stared blankly at his phone, re-reading the emails he’d gotten that morning. Rejection. Every single college had said no. Even the ones with acceptance rates so high they practically begged for students to apply. He wasn’t surprised—not really. His GPA hovered somewhere in the danger zone, and he couldn’t even remember what he’d written in his personal essays. Something about “discovering himself” or some garbage like that.

“Travis!” His dad’s voice boomed through the house, snapping him out of his haze. “Get in here.”

He dragged himself to the dining table, bracing for what was coming. His dad sat there, his hands folded, his lips pressed into a thin line. His mom stood in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly ready to back him up.

“So,” his dad started, tapping his fingers against the table. “We got a letter today from school. Wanna explain why you’re failing four classes?”

Travis shrugged, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “It’s not like it matters. I’m graduating.”

“Barely!” his mom snapped, her voice sharp and unforgiving. “Do you even care about what happens after that? You didn’t get into a single college, Travis. What’s your plan? Huh?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Maybe I’ll figure something out.”

“Figure something out?” His dad’s voice rose, his face turning red. “That’s not good enough, Travis. You’re eighteen. You’re an adult. If you think you’re just going to sit around this house all summer doing nothing, you’ve got another thing coming.”

His mom chimed in, her tone colder now. “You’ve had every opportunity, Travis. Every single one. And you’ve blown it. We’re not going to enable you anymore.”

“What does that mean?” Travis asked, though he already had a sinking feeling he knew.

“It means,” his dad said, standing up and towering over him, “that once you graduate, you’re out. You’ve got two weeks to figure out where you’re going to live. This isn’t a free ride anymore.”

Travis stood there, stunned, the weight of their words crashing down on him. He felt his fists clench, but there was nothing he could do. They’d made up their minds, and nothing he said would change that.

“Fine,” he spat, his voice shaking. “I don’t need this place anyway.”

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him and heading next door to the only person who didn’t treat him like a total failure: Joe.

Joe’s house was the complete opposite of the Parker household. It was messy but comfortable, a sort of controlled chaos. The scent of weed and paint filled the air, and half-finished canvases were scattered across the living room. Joe was slouched on his recliner, a bong balanced precariously on the armrest, when Travis barged in.

“What’s up, kid?” Joe asked, his voice lazy but friendly. He adjusted his backward baseball cap and turned down the music playing from his speakers. “You look like you just got hit by a truck.”

“Close enough,” Travis muttered, flopping onto the couch. He stared at the ceiling for a moment before the words started spilling out. “They’re kicking me out, Joe. My parents. Said I’ve got two weeks after graduation, and then I’m done.”

Joe frowned, sitting up a little straighter. “What the hell, man? That’s rough.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I deserve it,” Travis said bitterly. “Didn’t get into any colleges. Grades suck. I’m just a waste of space to them.”

Joe shook his head. “That’s bullshit, dude. You’re, like, what? Eighteen? You’re still figuring things out. They’re just being hardasses.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve got nowhere to go.”

Joe scratched his scruffy beard, looking thoughtful. “Well… you could crash here if you want.”

Travis blinked, sitting up. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah, man,” Joe said with a shrug. “I’ve got the basement room. It’s not much, but it’s better than being on the street. And, you know, I could use the company.”

Travis hesitated. He didn’t want to impose, but the thought of staying in Joe’s laid-back, no-pressure world sounded like heaven compared to his family’s constant judgment.

“You sure?” he asked.

“Dude, of course. What are friends for?” Joe said, grinning. “Just don’t touch my art stuff. Or my snacks.”

For the first time that day, Travis smiled. “Thanks, Joe. Really.”

“No problem, man,” Joe said, leaning back in his recliner. “We’ll get you settled after graduation. And hey, maybe this’ll be good for you. Fresh start and all that.”

Travis leaned back on the couch, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. For the first time in a long time, things didn’t seem quite so hopeless.

“Fresh start and all that,” Joe said, reaching for the bong and taking a slow hit. He exhaled, the smoke curling lazily into the air, and gave Travis a sideways glance. “Plus, who knows? Maybe hanging out here will rub off on you. I’m kind of a genius, you know.”

Travis snorted. “Yeah, a real role model. What are you working on, anyway?” He gestured at the cluttered coffee table, which was covered in paint tubes, brushes, and a sketchbook half-buried under an empty bag of chips.

Joe leaned forward, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it open. “This,” he said, holding up a page covered in swirling, intricate designs, “is my latest masterpiece. I’m thinking of turning it into a mural. Maybe something for the shop.”

Travis studied the sketch, impressed despite himself. Joe might have been a stoner who didn’t have his life together, but the guy could draw. “That’s actually sick,” he admitted.

“Damn right it is,” Joe said, grinning. “Art’s the one thing I’ve never screwed up. Keeps me sane, you know?”

Travis nodded, though he wasn’t sure he fully understood. He’d never been passionate about anything—not like this. He envied Joe for that, even if the guy didn’t seem to have a plan beyond his next joint.

Joe tossed the sketchbook back onto the table and leaned back in his chair. “Anyway, we’ll get your stuff moved in after graduation. No rush, though. Take the next few days to chill.”

“Yeah,” Travis said, though he didn’t feel particularly chill. His parents’ ultimatum was still ringing in his ears, but at least he had an escape plan now. That was something.

Joe stretched and stood up, wandering toward the kitchen. “You hungry? I think I’ve got some frozen burritos or something.”

“Sure,” Travis said, his stomach growling at the thought of actual food. He settled deeper into the couch, letting the quiet chaos of Joe’s house wash over him.

Joe disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a joint tucked behind his ear and a lighter in his hand. He flopped back into his recliner and raised an eyebrow at Travis. “You look like you need to relax, dude. Want in?”

Travis hesitated for a split second. He’d smoked a couple of times before—nothing serious—but right now, unwinding sounded like exactly what he needed. “Yeah, why not?”

Joe grinned and lit the joint, taking a long drag before passing it over. “Welcome to the Chill Zone,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled toward the ceiling.

Travis took the joint and copied Joe’s movements, coughing a little on the exhale but quickly finding the rhythm. They passed it back and forth in easy silence, the tension from the day melting away with each hit. Joe reached over to turn on some music—a low, trippy beat that filled the room like a warm blanket.

After a while, Travis couldn’t stop laughing at nothing in particular. “Man, this is… way better than being home.”

“Right?” Joe said, his voice lazy and amused. “Told you. Weed fixes everything—well, most things.”

As the high settled in, Travis’s stomach growled loudly enough to break through the music. Joe’s eyes lit up. “Munchies time,” he declared, standing up with surprising enthusiasm for a guy who usually moved at half-speed. “Let’s raid the kitchen.”

Travis followed him, laughing as they stumbled into the tiny, cluttered space. Joe threw open the fridge and started pulling things out without much regard for expiration dates or whether they actually went together.

“Okay,” Joe said, holding up a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread. “Sandwiches. But, like, gourmet stoner sandwiches. We’ll put chips in ‘em.”

Travis grabbed a box of leftover pizza from the counter. “Or we could just eat this.”

“Why not both?” Joe said, already smearing peanut butter onto a slice of bread. “We’re going full buffet mode tonight.”

Within minutes, the kitchen was a disaster zone. Travis and Joe had spread out everything they could find—chips, cookies, leftover pasta, a tub of ice cream, and even a random jar of pickles. They sat cross-legged on the floor, laughing hysterically as they ate like they hadn’t seen food in days.

“This is the life,” Joe said through a mouthful of pizza. “No parents. No rules. Just vibes.”

Travis nodded, stuffing a handful of chips into his mouth. For the first time in forever, he felt like he could breathe. Maybe things weren’t so hopeless after all.

The kitchen was a battlefield of empty wrappers and half-eaten snacks, the air thick with the scent of melted cheese, peanut butter, and the lingering haze of weed. Travis leaned back against the cabinets, his legs splayed out on the linoleum floor, a pickle spear in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. Across from him, Joe was meticulously constructing what he called “the ultimate stoner sandwich”—a chaotic pile of bread, chips, peanut butter, and a questionable dollop of hot sauce he’d found in the back of the fridge. The music from the living room drifted in, a lo-fi beat that pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing perfectly with the lazy rhythm of their night.
“Dude,” Joe said, holding up his sandwich like it was a trophy, “this is art. Like, culinary art. Picasso wishes he’d thought of this.”
Travis laughed, nearly choking on a chip.

“You’re so full of it. That’s just a mess on bread.”

“Nah, man,” Joe said, taking a massive bite and grinning through a smear of peanut butter.

“This is freedom. You don’t need some fancy chef telling you what tastes good. You just… make it happen.”

Travis shook his head, still smiling. He took a bite of his pizza, the crust crispy and the cheese gooey, and for a moment, he forgot about the emails, the rejections, his parents’ ultimatum. It was just him, Joe, and this ridiculous feast in a kitchen that felt like a sanctuary. The fluorescent light buzzed faintly overhead, casting a warm glow over the chaos, and Travis felt a strange sense of belonging. Joe’s house wasn’t just a place—it was a vibe, a pocket of the universe where the rules didn’t apply.

Joe leaned back, wiping his hands on his faded tie-dye shirt, and reached for the joint they’d left smoldering on a cracked saucer. He relit it, took a drag, and passed it to Travis.

“You ever think about how dumb it is that people stress so much about, like, everything?” Joe said, his voice slow and dreamy. “Like, college, jobs, all that crap. It’s just… made-up rules. Society’s way of keeping you in line.”
Travis took a hit, the smoke curling in his lungs before he exhaled. “Yeah, but you need that stuff to, like, survive, don’t you? Pay bills and whatever.”

Joe waved a hand dismissively, like he was swatting away a fly. “Nah, man. That’s what they want you to think. You don’t need a degree or some soul-sucking job to live. Look at me. I’m doing fine.”

Travis raised an eyebrow, glancing around the cluttered kitchen. Joe’s house was a rental, the walls stained with years of neglect, the furniture a mishmash of thrift store finds and hand-me-downs. Joe didn’t have a steady job—just odd gigs at a local record store and the occasional commission for his art. Yet he seemed… happy. Content in a way Travis couldn’t quite wrap his head around.

“You’re saying I don’t need to figure out a plan?” Travis asked, his voice tinged with both hope and skepticism. “Like, at all?”

Joe grinned, his eyes half-lidded but sharp with conviction. “Exactly, dude. You don’t need their system. You’re young, you’re free, you’re you. Why waste your life chasing someone else’s idea of success? You could just… live. Crash here, play some games, smoke some weed, eat some pizza. That’s the good stuff.”

Travis leaned his head back against the cabinet, staring at the ceiling where a water stain bloomed like a Rorschach test. Joe’s words were sinking in, wrapping around him like the warm buzz of the weed. It sounded so simple, so possible. No parents yelling at him. No deadlines or rejection letters. Just this—late nights, good food, and a friend who didn’t care about his GPA.

Joe stood up, stretching with a groan, and wandered over to the living room. “C’mon, let’s fire up the console. I’m gonna kick your ass in Street Fighter.”

Travis followed, still clutching a pickle spear like it was a talisman. The living room was a glorious mess—blankets draped over the couch, empty soda cans scattered like fallen soldiers, and Joe’s ancient PlayStation 3 humming under the TV. The screen flickered to life, casting a blue glow across the room as Joe handed Travis a controller.

“Prepare to lose, kid,” Joe said, flopping onto the couch and cracking open a can of Mountain Dew.

Travis smirked, settling in beside him. “You wish, old man.”

The game started, and soon they were lost in the pixelated chaos of punches and kicks, shouting insults and laughing so hard Travis nearly dropped his controller. Joe was relentless, his Chun-Li executing combos with a precision that betrayed how many hours he’d sunk into the game. Travis’s Ryu kept getting knocked out, but he didn’t care. The rhythm of the game, the trash talk, the way Joe cackled every time he landed a perfect kick—it was fun. Pure, unfiltered fun, something Travis hadn’t felt in months.

“Man, you suck at this,” Joe teased, pausing the game to take another hit from the joint. He passed it to Travis, who was still grinning from their last match.

“I’m just rusty,” Travis said, taking a drag and coughing slightly. “Gimme a few rounds, I’ll catch up.”

Joe leaned back, his eyes glinting with mischief. “You know what makes this game even better? Munchies and mods. I hacked this thing to unlock all the characters ages ago. No grinding, no paying. Just straight-up vibes.”
Travis raised an eyebrow. “You hacked your PS3?”

“Hell yeah,” Joe said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why play by their rules? You don’t need to. Same with life, man. You don’t need a degree or a 9-to-5 to be happy. You just need to know what makes you feel alive.”

Travis stared at the screen, where Ryu was frozen mid-punch. Joe’s words were starting to feel like gospel. He thought about his parents, their endless lectures about “responsibility” and “future.” The word hung in the air like the smoke curling around them, heavy and full of promise. Travis felt his chest tighten, not with the usual dread, but with something lighter—something that felt like possibility. Joe’s world was a far cry from the suffocating structure of his parents’ house, where every conversation was a checklist of his failures. Here, in the glow of the TV screen and the haze of weed, life felt like it could be something else entirely.