By Jenny Doocy

Taylor Johnson parked the rusted old pickup truck in front of a suburban mansion, two houses down from the intended destination, and sent a short text that simply read here. Being chivalrous and walking up to the door, at the risk of being seen in this part of town, was not an option. In other situations a quick honk would have sufficed, but seeing as neither of them wanted to draw attention to their meeting—that is, any more attention than a beat up truck in this neighborhood would cause—a text message seemed the way to go.

Taylor waited for Jordan Smith, releasing nervous energy by drumming two long, slender fingers against the steering wheel, body moving to the rhythm of the music coming from the old radio, sneakers tapping against the pedals to match the beat of the fingers.

Photo by Steve Halama

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