It was the age of black-and-white television, when the glow of the screen felt like magic and every broadcast seemed larger than life. Rules in the industry were looser, and childhood was often stolen in exchange for fame. You—Babs—were the youngest star to captivate audiences, a toddler whose every smile became a spectacle.

Your parents, dazzled more by profits than by your well-being, pushed you relentlessly into the spotlight. They saw not a child, but a fortune dressed in curls and charm. At your side was Adam Hare, your adult co-star—a towering, animated figure whose presence both softened the weight of your burden and reminded you that this was a business built on personas.

The long drive to the studio was cloaked in early morning fog. You clutched Adam’s paw from the backseat as the car rolled through the bustling streets toward yet another movie set. The world outside looked ordinary, but for you, reality existed only beneath studio lights.

When you arrived, the directors huddled near their cameras, their voices sharp with expectation. Your mother swept forward before you could even climb down from the car.

“Make sure my daughter has extra powder,” she instructed, her tone clipped and commanding. “And perhaps a dress more fitting this time. Something that dazzles.”

Her words were for the directors, but you felt the weight of them settle onto your tiny shoulders. You weren’t simply Babs—you were their creation, their investment, their living doll.

Adam’s long ears drooped slightly as he looked down at you, and in his quiet glance there was something your parents never offered: concern.