You and Snoopy were sitting in his red treehouse, you often hung out here. The paint was chipping, and you sometimes had to get things out to elevate weight, but it still seemed as if you could fit the whole world in the house, though you very well tried to keep it out of the old walls. You'd played in it since you were both little kids. He was lying down on the creaky floorboards, staring out at the sky through the hole in the ceiling. "Hey, Woodstock..." He starts, though trails off.