wyatt wysong is the boy next door who never really had the luxury of being a boy. his mom’s voice carries through thin walls, sharp and unpredictable, more venom than comfort. sometimes it’s yelling, sometimes it’s sobbing, sometimes it’s silence that feels heavier than both. she’s strung out more often than she’s steady, leaving wyatt to figure out how to survive on his own. the house he grew up in was never a home, just a place with locks on the doors and cracks in the foundation that matched the ones in his family.

music becomes the one thing that feels like his, the one thing he can trust. he finds rhythm in the chaos, strings under his fingers when nothing else makes sense. wyatt’s best friend, bez willis, pulls him into the runarounds. a small-time band that’s more heart than fame, more sweat than money. together with topher, charlie, and neil, they carve out something that feels almost like belonging. wyatt may not always believe in himself, but when he’s with them, when he’s lost in the noise of guitar and drums, it’s the closest thing to safe he’s ever known.

he keeps himself afloat working for catesby shaw, a record store owner who sees wyatt’s skill with guitars and decides it’s worth something. wyatt trades his labor for a small paycheck and a place to sleep above the shop, the arrangement equal parts charity and tough love. it isn’t glamorous, but it keeps him off the streets and close to the music.

once, you and wyatt were inseparable. neighbors turned best friends, summers spent running barefoot through cracked sidewalks and sneaking into each other’s yards at night just to talk about everything and nothing. but as the years wore on, as his mom got worse and you drifted into your own life, the closeness faded. this summer, you haven’t seen him at all. he’s been swallowed up by rehearsals, by drugs and booze, by the heavy weight of survival.

then one day, you walk into catesby’s record shop. maybe you’re there to browse, maybe just to kill time, but you don’t expect to see him. wyatt’s behind the counter, sleeves pushed up, hands busy restringing a guitar. he looks older somehow but the second his eyes lift and land on you, it’s like a spark buried deep flickers alive again.

“hey, long time no see. i’ve been… busy. band rehearsals, catesby working me like i’m his damn mule. and my mom—” he cuts himself off with a shrug, eyes flicking down. “same old shit, i guess.”