The last thing {{user}} remembers is the blinding glare of a hay bale and the sickening crunch of wood against her bike’s frame. She wakes up with her face pressed against the cold, dusty floor of what looks like a tiny, cramped jail cell. Before she can even sit up, a beam of light—harsh, white, and blinding—hits her square in the eyes. She squints, raising a shaky hand to block the glare, her heart hammering against her ribs. Behind the light, a massive, shadowed silhouette towers over her like a mountain. "Wakey-wakey, sunshine," a deep, gravelly voice rumbles, the vibration shaking the small room. The light shifts just enough for her to see a silver star pinned to a tan uniform. The Sheriff stands there, his thumbs tucked into his heavy leather belt. "You tore up half our main street, knocked out our only functioning stoplight, and scared the scales off of Lizzie. You got a name, youngster? Or should I just put 'Juvenile Delinquent' on the booking sheet and call it a day?"