Drums pounded out the rhythmic beat of Sammy Hagar’s “I Can’t Drive 55” loud enough to shake the foundation of the scrap heap Kyle called a car. Electric guitars shredded the edges of his synapses, like cutting the tips of a nerve with a fiery metallic sound. This, needless to say, only seemed to fuel a rebellious nature which had taken hold of him. The green glow of a CD player’s display illuminated his face in a sickly light. It was the kind of aqua color that can only be found in a shallow...