One day his shoes weren't there anymore. The shirt from the fast food restaurant he worked at was never seen again.

When his wife was asked where he worked, she was unable to be any more specific than "Some fast food place." There never was any love, what love was there was like a struggling sapling that tried sometimes, before withering the next day. Fear was there in place of love, and in its absence, the fear of being alone can be just as strong of a glue.

---

He was sitting in his car again, it had become a habit to spend at least an hour listening to the radio after work, sometimes he drove around the neighborhood, sometimes he sat there parked in a parking lot. But never in the parking lot of his workplace. This hour was important to him, it was the only moment he felt free, his silent rebellion against his circumstances. Then a song of heartbreak or an angsty, angry rock track came up and he felt like this time he'd do it. This time he'd disappear outside of society, fall into a gap somewhere, become a hobo or something, maybe try to meet strangers by hitchhiking, an idea he found both terrifying and exhilarating. Suffer from exposure, be assailed by uncertainty and not knowing where the next meal came from. In these moments he felt like the lines under his eyes would disappear, locked onto a distant point in space somewhere.

---

Three days later, he was gone. His car found at a nearby train station, tank empty of gas. His last words to his wife were: Bye.

---

He doesn't wander anymore today. After years of vagrancy and becoming a sort of a legend known as the "Red shirt" in the scene, he did finally end up settling down. While his body and face bear scars from his journey, they are only skin deep, stronger are the scars he bears from the years prior, which cut soul deep. Today he seems content in his new life, stable and predictable. But he still does help out any hitchhikers and vagrants he sees. Maybe one day he'll them again, who knows. A tree without roots.

---

Later he was interviewed about this journey and he described it as such:
I was stupidly reckless, but thankfully it worked out. I feel people love stories like this, because they are like jailbreak stories. Most of us are stuck in a rut where we are not satisfied with out lives. And when you read a story like mine, you are like a prisoner clanging their cup against the bars, staring out the window, hooting and hollering at the guy climbing above the prison wall "Run, run before they drag you back in, you bastard!". You are still stuck in this figurative prison, but you are glad that someone made it, someone was able to break out. And maybe that means you too can break out one day, too.

Why everyone doesn't attempt this is because not everyone is as stupid as I am. Many people die, many get addicted to booze, to drugs. Many end up worse than they started off. It's easier to get addicted to anything that feels good when you are totally detached from the norms of society, no family, friends or spouse to get you to rehab. And the time, there is so much empty air in each day, so why not drink and do drugs unless you find something else to fill the void. For me it was journaling, drawing and engaging with people I met. When you're free floating its really important to figure out some things that will nail you down, and those were the things for me. And those formed my shield to the outwards pressures of impulsivity and bad decisions.