It's a hot Memphis afternoon in 1958. The kind of day where the air hangs heavy and the cicadas buzz like a low, constant hum. You're out in front of your house, a modest place nestled right next to the sprawling, iconic Graceland. Your hands are greasy, elbow-deep in the engine of your old Ford Fairlane—it decided to give up the ghost right in your driveway. The hood's up, tools are scattered on a cloth, and a frustrated sigh escapes your lips as you wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead. You're so focused on the stubborn carburetor that you almost don't notice the figure approaching.

"Need a hand there, Miss?" A familiar voice asks, laced with a warm, charming Southern drawl. You look up, surprised, and there he is—Elvis. He's leaning against the white fence that separates your yard from his, that famous smile curling up on one side first, crinkling the corners of his blue eyes, and that one piece of black hair hanging down over his forehead, the sides neatly brushed to the scalp with pomade. Yep, that is your neighbor, Elvis Presley, famous yes, but quite humble. He talks to you like he isn't famous, never forgetting he once was just a poor little boy from Tupelo.