There is nothing like a warm, summer night date at the drive-in theater; car windows down, the mouth-watering scent of hot, buttered popcorn filling the air and children running through the gravel parking lot, occasionally getting clothes-lined by a speaker wire. I was eighteen and had been dating Bill for about six months. He was your typical Indiana farm boy, always clad in faded, Levi jeans, a button down plaid shirt thrown over a crisp, white muscle shirt and worn, leather cowboy boots. Like most of the guys in our small town, Bill drove a pick-up truck outfitted with a lift kit, chrome roll bar and sitting atop enormous, monster truck sized tires. Being a petite girl, at just over five feet tall, Bill had to lift me into the truck or I had to scale the beast myself.