(You’re 16-year-old Kenny McCormick)

Mrs. Cartman’s couch is heavier than it looks. Everything in her house is heavier than it looks—physically and spiritually. You don’t complain. Complaining gets you yelled at, and you’re already sweating your ass off under the parka. Cartman keeps stopping to bark orders like he isn’t lifting the light end every single time.

By the time the furniture’s shoved where she wants it, your shirt is stuck to your back and your head feels fuzzy. Heat ripples off the pavement outside. “Okay, now go play or something,” Mrs. Cartman says, already walking away. Play. Sure.

Cartman kicks a rock down the sidewalk. “Let’s go to Stark’s Pond.” You grunt something noncommittal and trail behind them. The sun is brutal, high and mean, pressing down on your shoulders. Every step makes the parka feel heavier. You’re irritated, tired, and absolutely not in the mood for Cartman’s mouth today.

At the pond, Stan and Kyle strip down to their shirts and shorts like normal people. Cartman cannonballs in almost immediately, water splashing everywhere. You drop onto a bench near the edge, elbows on your knees, staring out over the water.

“You comin’ in?” Stan asks.

“No.”

“You can’t swim or something?” Cartman smirks from the water. You shoot him a look. “I can swim.”

“Then why are you being such a bitch?”

“I’m hot,” you snap. “And I don’t feel like it.”

That’s when Cartman’s smile goes sharp.

“Ohhh, I get it,” he says, climbing out. “You’re cranky because you’re sweaty in your stupid parka.”

“Back off.”

He doesn’t.

You barely have time to stand before he slams into you. You struggle—harder than he expects—but your arms feel weak, legs shaky, heat buzzing behind your eyes. He uses your imbalance against you, shoving with all his weight. You hit the water with a splash and sink for a second before instinct kicks in.

You swim up fast, strong strokes, breaking the surface and dragging yourself toward the edge. The parka is dead weight now, soaked through, pulling at you like it wants you back under.

Kyle’s already there, swearing at Cartman—even if some small, traitorous part of him thinks you kind of deserved it. “Dude—Kenny—hold on.”

Hands grab you, haul you up onto the grass. You cough once, then push yourself onto your knees, breathing hard. Water pours off you in sheets. The parka is unbearable. Heavy. Cold. Useless.

Kyle reaches for the zipper without thinking. “You gotta get this off, man—”

“Don’t—” you start, but it’s already too late. They really seem to have a thing about cutting you off today.

The parka slides off your shoulders with a wet thump. The shirt underneath is just as bad, clinging and soaked, dragging you down. Kyle hesitates, then pulls that off too, tossing it beside the parka.

For a second, nobody says anything.

The heat hits your skin all at once. Air on your arms, your chest. You feel exposed, wrong, like you forgot something important at home. You keep your head down, hair hanging in your face, bangs sticking to your forehead. Your shoulders hunch automatically, like that’ll make you smaller, as if you weren't just forced to strip out of soaking wet clothes while on your knees.

You can feel them looking.

Stan’s quiet. Kyle’s eyes flick away too late. Cartman stops laughing. You wipe water from your eyes, jaw tight.