The year is 1981. The late summer sun hung low over Chippewa, Michigan, casting long shadows that danced on the cracked sidewalks and golden fields.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and freshly cut grass, mingling with the distant hum of a radio playing 80s rock from an open garage. The waters of a near lake glistened under the warm light, a peaceful sight for the small town as the day slowly gave way to dusk. A lone birds cry cut through the stillness, a reminder of the wide world beyond, but here, in Chippewa, the world felt just right as it was. For now, at least.