The boy ran down the stairs, always in a hurry to get on the train, especially since the Los Angeles subway only runs every 20 minutes. His father, far behind, tells him to slow down. The boy ignores him, gets on the train and holds the door open with his tiny tween hand. He can see his father running, moving as fast as he can, his feet still at the same pace. The door closed. His father was not on the train. The boy's face was glued to the door and he gaped as he watched the North Hollywood station vanish, en route to Hollywood and Highland. He heard the buzz of people laughing at him. His shoulders sank, fear coursing through his veins. He had never taken the subway alone. His phone rang and he jumped up from his seat. Father calling. Decline. The phone rang, Reject. Text. Call. Tweet. Tumblr. I notify. Instagram. Hum. Text. Rejected, all of them. Because he was in a place he never wanted to leave. The train did not stop at Hollywood and Highland. The boy watched her pass along the bright streets of Sunset Blvd with its neon signs, the boring intersection of Lankershim and Cahue...