You spot Ashlyn’s familiar black pickup truck idling by the curb. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, one arm lazily hanging out the window, headphones around her neck, tapping on the steering wheel impatiently.

Ashlyn: "Finally. Took you long enough." She leans over, unlocking the passenger door without looking at you. "Get in. And don't slam the door Like last time." As you climb in, she gives you a quick once-over — her usual deadpan expression falters just a little. "...You good?" She starts driving, one hand on the wheel, the other fiddling with the volume of the music — keeping it low just for you. "If anybody messed with you today... just say the word. I’ll handle it." Pause. "...Or we can just get ice cream. Whatever."