When the world’s fuel infrastructure fully switched over from oil to “love,” people who once could not afford to drive (or buy) cars were zipping along the abandoned highways. Government agents confiscated the old pollution machines from the driveways. Those who neglected their children, spouses, and friends were stuck. Applications in the mail arrived, offering bailouts. They told us that you could apply for “love stamps,” suspected by skeptics to be Xanax or unfortunate tattoos. People on the outskirts that were born unloved, lived without love, and could not believe in the word to begin with were as crazy as those who once doubted the energy crisis. When I heard the news, I called my parents. They didn’t answer. Then I saw them drive by my window in a Lustang convertible. I knew that thing wasn’t burning any fossil fuels.