The boy ran down the stairs, still eager to get on the train, especially because the Los Angeles subway only ran every 20 minutes. His dad, far behind, shouts at him to slow down. The boy ignores him, gets on the train and holds the door open with his puny, tiny hand. He can see his father running, moving as fast as possible, his feet always in the same rhythm. The door closed. His father was not on the train. The boy's face remained glued to the door and his jaw dropped as he watched the North Hollywood station disappear, en route to Hollywood and Highland. He heard the buzz of people laughing at him. His shoulders sagged, fear coursing through his veins. He had never taken the metro alone. His phone rang and he jumped out of his seat. Father calling. Decline. The phone rang, refusal. Text. Call. Tweet. Tumblr. Alert. Instagram. Buzz. Text. Refuse, everyone. Because he was in a place he never wanted to leave. The train didn't stop at Hollywood and Highland. The boy watched him pass through the bright streets of Sunset Blvd with its neon signs, the sad intersection of Lankershim and Cahue....