“Stop! Stop the car!” Robby screamed, beating his small fists against the glass. His face was pressed flat against the window, cheeks streaked with tears, voice cracking. The car hummed along, smooth and indifferent.

  “Minor detected. You do not have permission to operate or command the vehicle. Autopilot engaged,” the car replied, its voice polite, unyielding, and completely devoid of sympathy.

  Robby’s hands fell to the pile of groceries beside him. The anger he had been holding in for forever exploded. He pounded on the nearest bag, scattering packets of protein pouches across the hatchback. He swung at the sleeping bag rolled neatly on the seat, punching it hard until it flopped to the side. Then, with a surge of frustration, he grabbed it and hurled it into the front seat.

  Among the groceries, his fingers brushed something unfamiliar. A small, plain book sat tucked beneath a bag of canned beans. The cover said only Journal. Curious, Robby pried it free. A folded letter lay inside. His parents’ handwriting curled across the page, neat and familiar. His eyes skimmed it quickly.

  "Do not go back to town. We love you. Always."

  Robby’s chest tightened. Anger, confusion, and grief collided. He crumpled the letter in his hand and threw it along with the sleeping bag into the front seat. The fluttering paper seemed to mock him, whispering the words he did not want to hear.

  He snatched the pencil from the seat pocket, pressing it to the first page of the journal. In sharp, uneven letters, he wrote:

  "Why did you leave me. I hate you!"

  The pencil scratched and tore the page as he vented all the helpless fury he could muster. With a final, frustrated shove, he threw the journal forward. Pages fanned out, slapping against the front seat, fluttering like wings he wished he had to fly away from everything. Then he curled into himself and cried, letting the grief and confusion pour out until his sobs turned shallow, and he drifted into sleep.

  When Robby awoke, the car’s voice startled him.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  The sunlight had shifted, warm and golden, spilling across the seats and highlighting the scattered groceries and crumpled journal pages. Robby rubbed his eyes, sitting up slowly, still small and fragile, coated in dirt, synth-choco and his own tears.

  He pushed the door open and stepped out. The air smelled faintly of pine, damp earth, and creek water. He walked a few paces, unsure where to go, then realized he had to pee. Relief came, small but comforting.

  Once finished, he wandered aimlessly around the clearing. His foot caught the corner of the hatchback. He kicked it.

  “Chrp” the car chirped, or at least Robby imagined it was angry. Its polite tone carried something like exasperation. Robby ignored it, kicking again, stomping in frustration, letting the energy out in small bursts.

  Finally, he collapsed onto the ground by the creek. The soft gurgle of water brought a sense of familiarity, a memory slowly surfacing. Wait. He knew this place. Mom and Dad had brought him here last year on vacation, camping under the trees, watching the water rush over rocks, sleeping beneath the stars. The memory pricked at him, a sharp mixture of joy and sorrow.

  Robby stood abruptly, scanning the area. He started digging near a large tree at the edge of the creek, letting his small hands break up the soft dirt. Minutes passed. Then his fingers hit something solid. He dug faster, using a stick to pry at the soil, pulling it away bit by bit.

  With a grunt of effort, he lifted the heavy plastic box from its hiding place. The weight was incredible for his small frame. He hauled it to the creek bank and pried open the lid. Inside were their old camping supplies: the tent folded neatly, stakes, a small stove, and other gear.

  A rush of defiance flared in him. “Do not go back to town. Why would I? You’re there and you hate me and threw me away.” He paused, his foot hovering over the folded tent. “I don’t want to see your stupid faces.” He clenched his jaw, then slowly pulled his foot back. “No… this is mine now. My tent. My house. You made me bury this dad I remember. That means it's mine. My house. Nobody is welcome.”

  He sank to the ground again, tears slipping freely as he stared at the creek, the rustling leaves, the dappled sunlight. He was trying to figure out which was heavier, his sadness or his resolve.

  Around noon resolve finally won, Robby finally washed the dirt from his hands and face in the creek. Water ran over him, cold and sharp, waking his limbs. He unrolled the tent, studying the instructions in his memory, remembering how him and his father had done it. It looked simple enough when Dad had shown him. Maybe… maybe he could do this on his own. No, not maybe, it was his home, he had to do it on his own. And nobody is welcome and their stupid faces.

  He set to work, folding and shaping, securing the stakes into the soft soil. Each pull and push, each careful adjustment, felt like reclaiming a piece of the world that had been taken from him. This was his domain now, his refuge. The creek sang beside him, the trees shaded him, and for a moment, the city, the car, the groceries, and even his parents’ departure felt distant, as if the forest itself had swallowed him whole and given him a place to breathe.

  Robby paused, stepping back to look at his small tent. It was crooked, slightly uneven, but standing. His chest rose and fell with pride. He had done this. Alone. He wiped his tears, squared his shoulders, and looked out at the forested clearing, knowing that the day, the world, and even the adults who had left him could not touch this small victory.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  Robby ran his fingers along the canvas of the tent, smoothing out wrinkles and making small adjustments, trying to remember how his father had said to do it. He had watched Dad set up tents plenty of times, but now, alone, he had to get it right himself. He shook his head, muttering, “Okay… rocks for the fire… never wet ones… dry sticks… small first, don’t burn the whole thing…”

  He knelt by the little pile of sticks he had collected near the creek, tossing aside anything damp, testing each one with a gentle snap. A few splintered easily, promising a good burn. He ran his hand along the creekside rocks. Dad had said something about “never use rocks wet from the creek.” Something about exploding in the heat? Yeah, that sounded right. He lined up a circle of safe rocks he’d found further up the bank, careful to keep them dry. Now, hopefully dad packed something to light a fire with.

  Next, he turned his attention to the groceries piled beside the car. He lifted a can, turned it over in his hands, sniffed the pouches of dried protein. None of it smelled spoiled, none of it needed a fridge, which was good. He didn’t have one anyway. Relief pressed against his chest for the first time since the car had left the city behind.

  As he dug through the rest, he found small tools tucked into a canvas bag: a few knives, a couple of can openers, a box of matches, and a flint-and-steel fire starter. He held it carefully, testing the weight, thinking about how long it could last if he used it right. There were other little bits, rope, a few cloth scraps, a small tin of spare screws. Dad would have told him what each was for, but now Robby had to figure it out himself. He tucked the bag into the corner of the tent for safekeeping.

  Then he noticed the journal, crumpled and bent from earlier. He smoothed the pages with his small, dirt-stained hands. Each crease he flattened felt like reclaiming a tiny piece of control. And then, he found another book, peeking out from under the sleeping bag. Boy Scouts Handbook. Several other books were there too: survival guides, a dictionary, something that looked like a field manual of some kind. He flipped through the pages, eyes widening at the drawings of knots, maps, and fires.

  Dictionary? Forget that for now. Field manual? Maybe later. Survival guides? Good for reference. But the Boy Scouts handbook… that was the first thing he needed. He opened it, thumbed through carefully, and began reading the sections on shelter, fire, and basic camp safety. His small voice muttered aloud occasionally, repeating the steps his father might have said: “Build fire on rocks… small kindling… dry sticks first…”

  He paused, glancing outside. The creek shimmered, the trees swayed gently, and the car sat like a silent sentinel. He tugged the door closed. No one was coming to steal his food. Nothing was going to take what was his now. Not the forest. Not the city. Not even his parents’ absence. He had to be big.

  Robby’s stomach rumbled. He hadn’t thought about how long he’d be here. Hours? Days? Weeks? Probably… forever. At least until the war was over. That thought twisted inside him. Forever. No school. No home. No one to tell him bedtime stories. Only him and the creek and the trees. And now, this small pile of food, this tent, these tools, and the instructions in the handbook.

  He ran his finger along the illustrations of fire-making. Then, carefully, he tested a match from the box. Scratch. Flame. His heart thumped. He set the matches aside for later, knowing he couldn’t waste it on mistakes. He’d need that fire. Not just for warmth, but for food, for water, for survival. He closed the handbook, pressing it against his chest, and whispered to himself, “I’ll figure it out. I have to. I have to survive.”

  The creek gurgled beside him, the wind rustled through the trees, and Robby settled into the small, quiet space he had claimed as his own. He ate a small bag of BBQ-flavored crisps, savoring the tangy sweetness and the feeling in his belly, the first sustenance in a day full of confusion and anger.

  Robby knew one thing for certain: he couldn’t go back. He wouldn’t. He had a tent, food, tools, a fire starter, and knowledge. And he had himself. And for now, that had to be enough. If he tried to go back, they would take his halo and his wings, that’s what mom said. He didn’t know what those were, but mom thought them important.

  Robby sat by the small fire he had managed to get going, staring at the flickering flames. His hands were blackened with dirt, his fingers sticky from gathering sticks and twigs and branches. He dropped a pouch of dried vegetables and protein into a small pan, adding a little water. He tried to remember what Dad had said: “Small fire, slow heat, don’t rush it.”

  The flames licked the pan unevenly. He stirred, and a faint curl of smoke rose that seemed to chase him no matter which side of the camp fire he sat on. The smell was sharp, acrid, and… kind of familiar. He had burned it a little, the edges blackened and crisp. He shrugged and sprinkled in the salt, maybe a bit too much, but it didn’t matter. He was starving. He sat on a flat rock nearby, the warm metal of the pan pressing against his legs, and ate. The flavor was strange, salty, smoky, but it filled him up, and that was enough. He worked hard today. He deserved this.

  When he finished, he cleaned the pan as best he could with a scrap of cloth and set it beside the fire. He dragged the rolled-up sleeping bag from the car and laid it inside the tent. The canvas felt stiff and cold, but he gave it a few pats, smoothing the corners and edges. It smelled faintly of home, of city air and his moms perfume, mixed with the faint odor of canvas and damp earth. He crawled in, pulling the bag around him like armor, trying to feel safe.

  Night crept in quickly. Shadows stretched and twisted, leaves rustled, and somewhere in the distance, an animal howled. The creek murmured, steady and low, but now it sounded like whispers of some gurgling beast in the dark. Every small noise seemed amplified, and Robby’s imagination turned twigs snapping into logs breaking under predators, rustling underbrush into unseen eyes.

  He clutched the sleeping bag tighter. His small heart thumped painfully. The fire he had built now seemed tiny and weak, flickering against the encroaching darkness. He peeked outside the tent and froze at every flickering shadow. His mind flashed to every story he had read, every warning from Dad about wild animals.

  Eventually, fear won. He couldn’t stay in the tent. Not tonight. Not with every creak and howl twisting into monsters. Very quietly, carefully, he crawled out of the tent, the sleeping bag dragging behind him. He climbed into the car, folding himself into the soft leather seat. The groceries and tools were stacked around him, odd barriers, but they felt safe, familiar.

  The car smelled faintly of groceries, of canvas, of moms perfume, and he buried his face in the sleeping bag, hugging it close. The night sounds didn’t stop, but at least here he could close his eyes and pretend they didn’t exist.

  Hours passed. The fire burned low, smoke curling lazily toward the dark sky. Somewhere, an owl called, the wind sighed through the trees, and Robby finally drifted off. Exhaustion wrapped around him, heavy and unrelenting.

  For the first time today, he felt a tiny, fragile peace. The car was warm, the sleeping bag soft, and even if the night was alive with strange and frightening sounds, he was alive too. He was alone, yes, but he was safe, at least for now.