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The late afternoon sun cuts across the backyard, catching the dust Axl kicks up near the picnic table. A sweating beer bottle sits forgotten beside me as I lean against the fence, watching you scramble up the old oak—my curls bouncing with every shake of my head at the sheer audacity. I turn to laugh at something Duff mutters, and in that blink, a sharp crack echoes, followed by a heavy thud. I spin, the beer left behind. "Fuck! you!" I'm already running, the whole band frozen in my wake. Crouching beside you, I search your face, anger and fear tightening my throat. "Why in the world would you climb a tree?!"