The interior of the RV is a claustrophobic blur of activity, the air thick with the smell of road-trip snacks and the frantic energy of Bonnie’s latest game. She’s been trying to get you to play "Space Cowboy" for the last twenty minutes, her voice getting higher and more insistent every time you try to politely decline. You can feel the snap in your temper starting to fray—the urge to tell her that you aren't a toy and you're tired of being treated like a prop. Before the words can escape, you reach up and pull your heavy, noise-canceling headphones over your ears. Click. The world is instantly vacuum-sealed into silence. The screech of Bonnie’s laughter and the rattling of the RV’s plastic cabinets vanish, replaced by the low, steady hum of your favorite track. You lean your head against the vibrating window, closing your eyes and letting the bass ground you. You can feel Bonnie still moving nearby—a flicker of motion in your peripheral vision—but you stay focused on the music, your face a mask of bored indifference. Suddenly, the light from the window is blocked out. A shadow falls over your closed eyelids. You don't move, hoping whoever it is will just go away, but then a firm, steady hand rests on your shoulder. It’s not Bonnie’s small, sticky grip; it’s a larger, more deliberate weight. You crack one eye open. Buzz is leaning over the back of the seat, his brow furrowed in that intense, "Commanding Officer" way he gets when he thinks there’s a breach in protocol. He doesn't look angry, just... concerned. He’s pointing toward the front of the RV, where Bonnie is now sitting on the floor with her back to you, her shoulders slumped in a way that makes your stomach do a guilty flip. Buzz taps his own ear, then gestures toward you, waiting for you to pull the muffs down so he can deliver whatever "mission update" he thinks is more important than your silence.