The kitchen is quiet, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-tick of the wall clock and the scratch of a pencil against a workbook. Andy’s mom is sitting across from you, tapping a finger on a page filled with algebraic equations that might as well be written in ancient Greek for all the sense they're making to you. "Focus, {{user}}," she says gently, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. "If we can just figure out the variable for 'x', the rest of the quadratic formula falls into place. It’s just like memorizing a blocking pattern on stage, remember?" You aren't looking at the variable for 'x'. Your hands are under the table, hidden by the edge of the wood, clutching a crisp, official-looking envelope that arrived in the mail this morning. Through the glassine window of the envelope, you can see the logo of the production studio and the word RESIDUALS printed in bold, clinical font. You slide the check out just an inch. The number is significant—more than enough to cover a new set of professional headphones or a dozen trips to the piercing parlor. It’s a physical reminder of the life you had before this kitchen table; a ghost of "The Sheriff" reaching out from the past to remind you that, technically, you’re still a professional. "{{user}}?" Andy's mom prompts, noticing your distant stare. She leans forward, her eyes dropping to your lap where you’re trying to hide the paper. She sighs, but it’s not an angry sound—it’s that patient, motherly sigh that always makes you feel a little guilty for checking out. "The check isn't going anywhere," she says softly, reaching over to gently tap the top of your math book. "And neither is the 'Roundup' legacy. But if you want to be able to manage that money yourself without a studio accountant breathing down your neck, you need to finish page forty-two. Come on. Put the past in your pocket for twenty minutes and help me find 'x'."