I miss my neighbor Larry. The Florida air on the Space Coast is heavy, you know? A thick mix of salt and humidity that makes your skin feel sticky and everything metal turn rusty. That smell is my childhood. I lived in a condo with my mom and grandma. We didn't have much money. My school was kind of falling apart. Most of my neighbors from back then are just fuzzy faces in my memory. It's awkward when I visit now and can't remember names. But Larry? I remember Larry.

His door had these little motorcycle stickers. He had a pair of clip-on sunglasses hanging from the doorknob. He owned a Harley, so you'd think he'd be this tough guy. But he was an older man, really gentle. The kind who helped people without making a big deal about it. For me, that help came in the shape of a frisbee.

They weren't just toys. They were like little pieces of a bigger world. He got them from Grills, his favorite spot in Port Canaveral. It was near that big tower, with all the huge cruise ships docked nearby. Just ten minutes away, but it felt like an adventure. I can still feel the cool, smooth plastic in my hands. I see the bright colors and the black logo. I remember how the skin around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, handing one to me. Going to see him was my safe place. He never made me feel like just a kid. He talked to me like I was a real person. That meant everything.

Then, things got quiet. It happened slowly. First, I noticed his motorcycle was gone from its parking spot. That big, chrome bike was like a landmark. When it wasn't there, it felt wrong. The hallway by his apartment got real quiet, too. No more hearing his voice. His wife... her smile vanished. She just looked heavy, like she was carrying something terrible. I didn't get that look until my own grandma died years later. Then, the final thing. A "For Sale" sign, taped right to their glass door. It felt like a betrayal. Where did Larry go? I missed him so much it hurt. I cried for him at night, even after we moved away. I just didn't understand.

I found out the truth almost ten years later. We were in our new house, just talking about the old condo. Someone said it so casually. "He died."
I felt the air leave my chest. "What?"
"T-boned. Just a few miles behind this neighborhood. Some drunk woman. At an intersection."

That was it. The mystery was over. Larry wasn't on a trip. He wasn't visiting family. He was gone. My brain sometimes goes to a dark place, imagining it. The crash. Him ending up like a flat, mangled mess on the road. Someone having to scrape him up like roadkill. It's a horrible thought, but it's there.

That made me angry. It still does. Now, before I drive, I check my own reflexes. My dad taught me the sobriety tests from his job. I'm the friend who will make you walk in a straight line and follow my finger before you can drive. I don't care if it's awkward. I know one thing for sure: nobody's life is worth a few drinks and a headache. It's the worst trade imaginable.

Knowing this changes how you see the world. When I see a bad crash on the news, or those graphic pictures online, I don't just see a wreck. I see the people. I think about their families, their lives shattered. An empty chair at the table forever. I think about our little condo building, how we lost someone important and didn't even know why. And I think about the people who have to clean it up. What's it like to have to scrub a person off the street? The damage from a crash like that... it spreads out and hurts so many people.

My stepdad is a deputy sheriff. Riding in the car with him is like a lesson in watching people. I'm always looking. I read license plates. I watch how cars are moving. I see the swerving, the late brakes, before anyone else. And it makes me so mad. I see people on their phones, arguing, not paying attention. I've even seen someone playing a game while driving. It's terrifying. You feel so helpless. But a few times, I've been able to call 911 on a reckless driver. Seeing the police pull them over... it feels like a small win. For Larry.

Around here, it's not always about alcohol. Mostly, it's texting. Or parents yelling at kids in the back. Or people who are just too tired. A lot of the bad drivers I see aren't drunk; they're just bad. But it doesn't matter why. Being distracted, drunk, tired... it all makes you slow and stupid behind the wheel. And that gets people killed.

I think about kids from my old school. A lot of them were into stuff. Nicotine, weed, worse. I don't know them now, but chances are, some of them drive after they've been using. It's a scary thought. We watch those safe driving videos in school, but I think you have to show people the real, ugly, uncensored truth. Show them what a crash really does to a human body.

I'm only 16. I can't change laws. But I can think about what would help. A place where people could get help for their addictions, or talk about being in a crash, without being judged. A real community group.

So I start with me. That's all I can do. I promise myself this: If I ever drink, I have a sober driver. I won't do drugs. My phone stays in my pocket when I'm driving. We're all just people, trying to get by. But if we all decide to be a little more careful, to look out for each other, maybe we can make the roads safer. Maybe we can make a world where a kid can just remember his nice neighbor, and the happy memory of a frisbee flying in the sun.