To whoever stole the van
If, for some reason, you decide to take my family's van for a ride around the country, don't come to Chicago.
Because if I see you in that Dodge Caravan, you're in trouble. I learned to drive in that car. I set the presets on that radio after each trip to the repair shop. And if you've still got the back seats in there, look over your right shoulder. That was my captain's chair, and on Saturday night you stole it.
But if fate sends you my way — hundreds of miles from the front of my family's house — simply stop the car. Then get out and give it back.
Because if I see you, I'll chase you down the street. If you step on the accelerator, I'll only run faster. If you floor it, I still won't stop. Because when you hit 80, the van will start to shake a bit and you'll flinch. And that's the moment I'll grab onto the bumper and dig in my heels.
When the van jerks to a halt on the pavement, open the door and run. Because I don't like it when my family gets robbed.
