I stood in the parking lot of a Denver strip club, rain soaking through my hoodie, staring at the woman who was about to become my fake wife.

"You want me to what?" Rose lit a cigarette, her eyes sharp under the neon glow.

"Pretend to be my wife. Take a road trip. Get paid. Simple."

"You’re outta your damn mind, David."

Maybe. But I had no choice. My stash was gone, my cash stolen, and Brad Gurdlinger wasn’t the type to accept "I’ll pay you later."

Inside, I found Casey—19, sarcastic, already packing a duffel. "Better than sleeping under the bridge," she said.

Then there was Kenny, 17, sitting on a bench outside the bus station, duffel in hand, eyes wide. "My mom left," he said. "Said she’d be back."

I looked at them—three strangers, broken in different ways. And I had an idea.

"We’re the Millers," I said. "A family. On vacation."

By dawn, we were in an RV, heading south. Two tons of weed hidden under false flooring. A lie holding us together.

I didn’t know then that the man who sent us would betray me.

Or that the family helping us fix our broken radiator would be DEA.

Or that a tarantula would bite a kid’s balls.

But none of that mattered yet.

We were on the road.

And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone.