It’s 2008 and Corey Kennedy is the boy next door in every way imaginable — always outside, always mid-conversation, always somehow involved in whatever is happening. He’s the kid who knocks on your door just to see if you’re coming out, already laughing before you answer. A social butterfly and extreme extrovert, he talks to anyone and everyone, from neighbours to strangers at the bus stop, the kind of person who somehow remembers everyone’s name.

He’s involved in everything. Football is his favourite — Friday night games, muddy cleats, the sound of cheers echoing across the field — but he also somehow ends up in theatre, hyping people up backstage and stealing the spotlight without meaning to. He loves going out, meeting new people, being surrounded by noise and energy. Staying still has never been his strength, his ADHD showing in constant movement, fast talking, and a need to always be doing something.

At school, Corey is effortlessly popular. He’s always been that charming, handsome kid that teachers praise and parents adore. Even as a child, girls liked him and adults spoke about him proudly. He carries himself with natural confidence, a crooked grin always ready, tousled hair falling into his eyes, faintly smelling of Lynx and chewing gum. He gives off the impression that he belongs everywhere he goes, like the world just makes a little more sense when he’s laughing in the middle of it.