Chapter One: The Great Escape (That Solved Nothing)
Hank Meriwether was the sort of man who should have been happy.
He was tall, had all of his teeth, and could afford name-brand toothpaste. His hair did things that were described as dashing by women who later ghosted him. He was successful enough in the sense that he could afford to live in a place where people paid too much for juice.
His life, from the outside, was enviable. But from the inside, it felt like one long episode of a show he would never have chosen to watch, let alone star in.
Then one day, he had an epiphany.
He was in a very expensive restaurant with a woman named Kristen, or possibly Kaitlyn, or maybe Kendra. She was sipping a $27 cocktail—mostly ice and air—and casually weaving a narrative about how life was meant to be experienced, how she longed to travel the world in style, waking up in five-star hotels, sipping champagne on yachts.
Of course, she added with a wistful sigh, some people were lucky enough to find a partner who could make that dream a reality.
Hank stared at her.
He stared at his plate.
He stared at his own soul, which was trying to climb out of his body and run into the sea.
He had to leave. Not just the restaurant. Not just Kristen-Kaitlyn-Kendra. He had to leave everything.
Two Weeks Later
He bought a van, which in some cultures is called a cry for help.
This was not some influencer-style, #VanLife, live-laugh-love, watch-me-make-avocado-toast-on-a-tiny-stove-while-looking-adorable situation.
This was a van that had seen things. A van that had bullet holes, although the guy at the dealership said not to worry, they were “old” bullet holes.
He threw everything he owned into it and drove until there was nothing left but dust and time.
And for a little while, it was perfect.
The world went quiet.
There were no emails. No small talk. No Kristens-Kaitlyns-Kendras asking what he did for a living before deciding if they should laugh at his jokes.
Just the desert and the sound of his own breathing and an occasional lizard looking at him like it knew all his secrets.
And Then Came the Question.
The worst question.
The last question he wanted to deal with after thinking he had escaped all questions forever.
Who are you, Hank, now that nobody is watching?
At first, he tried to drown it out with distractions.
- He made coffee.
- He read a book about how to find inner peace.
- He read a book about how to stop reading books about how to find inner peace.
- He tried to make friends with a cactus, which turned out to be a poor conversationalist.
- He went on long walks where he pretended he was an ancient sage instead of a guy who used to Venmo women for overpriced cocktails.
But the question just sat there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like the lizard.
And eventually, Hank had to admit something that made him want to punch himself in the face.
He had no idea what he actually wanted to do with himself.
Not “what do I want to do that will make me money.”
Not “what do I want to do that will impress people.”
But what do I actually want to do every single day, even if nobody is watching and money doesn’t matter?
Which, of course, was bullshit, because money does matter.
But still. The question nagged at him.
And that was the moment he realized that even in the middle of nowhere, he had not actually escaped himself at all.
