New York City. The city of bright lights, busy streets and skyscrapers. I was so excited when I first got here. Probably broke a record for most times anyone has ever listened to Empire State of Mind while I was on the way up here. Well it was a concrete jungle alright, but my dreams weren't going to come true here, and there was definitely something I couldn't do – start a successful writing career. 3 weeks on the job and I'd been fired already. Apparently investigative journalists are only supposed to expose people who aren't related to the editor. Stupid me. Anyway it was too late to think about that.

I looked at my phone and wondered if I should call my mom. She deserved to know the truth. But she had been so proud of me, so excited about this wonderful opportunity. I didn't want to have to tell her I had failed.

I thought maybe I could go back to blogging and hope someone else would see my work and give me a chance. It wasn't likely though. Lightning doesn't strike twice, and I had used up my share of good luck. My one big break and I'd screwed it up. Messed it up. Mama never liked that word, and even though she's wasn't there to be disappointed I just couldn't bear the thought of it.

That's my overactive imagination kicking in. It had always been my Achilles heel. It'll be the death of me someday.

My gaze fell on the car keys sitting on the beat-up little coffee table I bought from a thrift store. I picked them up, hopped off the couch and grabbed my jacket. Maybe a drive would clear my head. I decided to drive upstate, hoping that the sight of fields and farmland would remind me of home and lift my spirits. It couldn't hurt. It was only 5:00 in the afternoon and I had nowhere to be the next day. Or the next day. Or the next...

With that in mind I grabbed my purse and headed out.

As I locked the door I wondered how much longer I would be able to keep this apartment with no job. I scrimped and saved all through college but my savings wouldn't last long. That's just part of growing up poor with a dead-beat dad. Well, not completely a dead-beat. He tried his best… Not many people want to hire you when you've got no college degree, a drug addiction, and an almost-criminal history. I started to worry that I would end up just like him. He always said I would.

I shut my eyes tightly to block out his voice. It had always been there, in the back of my mind. It had just gotten louder in the week since I lost my job.

I turned the key and prayed the car would crank again. The engine made a sputtering noise which I was sure wasn't good, but it was running. It was an old car and it needed repairs, but it was mine. At least they couldn't take it away from me.

For hours I drove, drowning myself in my own thoughts, struggling with the demons I'd been fighting since high school. I thought they were weaker than this, but my latest failure seemed to have given them new strength. And that voice was louder. My dad's voice. The voice that almost pushed me over the edge back then. I swore I'd never get that low again and dammit I don't intend to.

The "low fuel" light was on so I pulled over at the first station I saw. I probably didn't need to waste money and gasoline on that stupid road trip, but I was just too depressed to care.

Down. Not depressed. This wasn't depression. I swore I would never let myself get depressed again. Being down is hard; depression is hell. A daily hell on earth, war raging in your mind, physical pain that makes it hard to breathe. This was not depression and I would survive this. Like I'd survived everything else.

Before I leave the gas station I turned on some music. Music increases dopamine levels by up to 9%. I was grateful Spotify was still free. I drove away and forced myself to pay attention to the upbeat song that didn't fit my mood at all, hoping some of Demi Lovato's confidence would rub off on me. Most days it cheered me up. That day it was mocking me.

By 8:00 I'd left the big city behind me. The farms were nice, but I was aching for home now. Six months ago I was aching for adventure. No one ever tells you how hard adventures really are.

9:00 passes. I should probably head home but I found a place to buy a cup of coffee instead.

10:00. The coffee wasn't helping. I hadn't eaten anything since the ramen noodles I'd had for brunch about 11 hours ago. I told myself I couldn't afford lunch, and I didn't want to stop for dinner. Oh well. Maybe I'll fall asleep and die, I thought coldly.

"No!" I told myself, my voice loud in the empty car. "I'm gonna survive this. I'm a fighter. I'll never get that low again."

Suddenly I saw something in my rear view mirror. It looked like a person but it was moving far too fast. I was certain that unless vampires actually exist, I was hallucinating. I continued to stare at it, and forgot to look at the road until it was too late.

By the time I saw the curve I was halfway off the road and all I could do was hit the breaks and scream as I plunged into a ditch. The airbag bloodied my nose and hurt my left arm, but at least I was still conscious. I struggled to hold back my sobs as I wondered how badly damaged the car was. And how badly damaged I was. I couldn't afford a wrecker or an ER bill.

I saw a figure on the road behind me, a man. He was tall and muscular. My right hand reached almost instinctively for the loaded pistol from its permanent residence in the glove compartment.

"Hey!" he called, "You ok in there?"

Maybe he wanted to help, and if I ever needed help it was right then, but he was a man, and it was a dark road, and I was terrified. There were probably lots of better ideas, but all I could think of in that moment was to pretend to be unconscious. Then maybe if he was up to no good he'd just leave.

He came up to the window and knocked on it. My heart was racing but I kept my eyes closed, my body still, and my right hand concealed from view, still gripping the gun tightly. He tried to open the door, but it was locked.

Then he did the last thing I would have expected – he pulled the door off the car with his bare hands. I only thought I was terrified before. I opened my eyes and pointed the gun at him, trying desperately to keep my hand and my voice from trembling as I cried out, "Back off!"

He raised up his hands and replied, "Woah! I'm only trying to help."

"Well I'm not a damsel in distress and I don't trust guys who can rip off car doors so you just stay away from me!" I shouted, surprised at my own ability to make a coherent sentence.

"Please Ma'am, you don't have to be afraid of me, I'm not gonna hurt you. That arm looks pretty bad. There's a place not far from here where you can get medical attention. Please just put the gun down."

Something about his voice sounded familiar, comforting even.

"How do I know I can trust you?" I asked, "What's to keep you from snapping my neck as soon as I put this gun down?"

"Ma'am, I promise I don't want to hurt you. I understand you're scared right now but you're gonna have to trust me anyway because you need help." As he spoke in that gentle voice, he knelt down slowly and I got a glimpse of his face.

Suddenly everything made sense. Why his voice sounded so familiar, how he could pull the door off my car, how he could run so impossibly fast…

"Captain America?" I asked softly.

He smiled and nodded.

"Thank God!" I said as I lowered my pistol. The adrenaline must have been wearing off because everything was hurting worse and my vision suddenly went black.