Lucky Daye and I have something in common. Some years back, the singer–songwriter, whose aversion to references to time rivals that of Mariah Carey, drove from Atlanta to Los Angeles in his Jeep with the same “I’m doing what I gotta do” attitude that led me to flee the Peach State and head west in my Grand Cherokee just two weeks prior to our interview. I had one of my best friends and a cargo area packed with meticulously chosen items with me. He made the roughly 32-hour drive solo with his belongings in his truck because he had nowhere else to go. Both of us spent that time on the road thinking about one thing: “How I’m going to get everybody back for trying to take away the gift God gave me.”
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