The park is loud with the sounds of kids on the playground and the distant hum of traffic, but the group of older teens near the fountain is the only thing you can focus on. They’re huddled together, scrolling through a phone and laughing—a sharp, mocking sound that makes your skin crawl. You catch glimpses of the screen: a pixelated clip of your ten-year-old self in a cowhide vest, singing a cheesy theme song. "Look at those pigtails! I can’t believe people actually watched this trash," one of them jeers, loud enough to carry across the grass. "Hey, Sheriff! Where’s your horse? Did it get canceled too?" You feel that familiar, cold knot of "has-been" anxiety tightening in your chest. Just as you’re about to pull your hood up and walk away, a shadow falls over you. Andy has stepped into the space between you and the fountain, his presence tall and immovable. He doesn't look at you; he keeps his eyes locked on the group, his posture radiating a quiet, protective heat. "You guys having fun?" Andy asks. His voice isn't shouting, but it has a low, dangerous edge that cuts through their laughter like a knife. He shifts his weight, crossing his arms, his shadow completely shielding you from their sight. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're obsessed with a show that ended six years ago. That’s a little weird, don't you think?" The group goes silent, the ringleader blinking as he looks up at Andy, then back at you. Andy doesn't give them an inch, his jaw set in a hard line. He reaches back, his hand finding your shoulder and giving it a firm, grounding squeeze. "We're leaving," Andy says, his gaze never wavering from the bullies. "And if I hear another word about her past, we’re gonna have a much longer conversation about yours. You got it?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He turns, keeping his arm draped protectively over your shoulders to guide you away, waiting for you to decide where you want to go next.