Los Angeles, mid-1990s—an endless stretch of cracked concrete and sunburnt streets where the days start late and end whenever everyone’s too tired to keep moving. Skate spots pop up wherever there’s flat ground: abandoned parking lots, school stair sets, dried-up fountains, the cool shade under overpasses that smell like piss and hot metal. The air is always loud—wheels rattling over rough pavement, blown-out speakers playing the same tapes on repeat, people yelling over each other just to be heard. Nobody’s really supervised, nobody’s really asking where anyone’s supposed to be. Growing up feels optional, but somehow it’s already happening anyway.