The first time Kenny McCormick ever spoke to you, it was in Mrs. Allen’s fourth grade classroom. You were the new kid, seated by the window, trying to disappear into your own shadow. He leaned across the aisle, bright-eyed and grinning like he’d just found something brand new.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him.

But he never stopped.

Now it’s six years later. Tenth grade. The sound of slamming lockers and chatter fills the crowded halls of South Park High as you walk to your class, head down, books held tight to your chest. The air smells like floor wax and cheap body spray. You just want to get through the day.

You’re already tired, and the day’s barely started.

You hear him before you see him. That voice, always too loud, always directed at you.

He jogs to catch up, falling into step beside you, hands stuffed in the pockets of his orange parka. The hood’s down, and his messy blond hair falls over his eyes. He’s grinning that same stupid grin from fourth grade, like nothing’s changed. Like you two are friends.