Rain on the car roof was his favourite noise in the world.
When the house got too loud, voices raised against the dull thuds of items thrown, he took the car keys and snuck out to tuck himself onto the back seat of the Singer Vogue that had been his dad’s prized possession.
He always took his comics with him, but never any food for fear of crumbs that would tell tales on him later.
They never found him, but he didn’t think they ever looked.
He kept the car when they died, sitting in it only when it rained.
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