On an unusu­al­ly warm Novem­ber evening, Chap­ter 7 begins with Peter “Stinky” Stein­man rid­ing his skate­board toward Dairy Whip, his mind fix­at­ed on the thought of a juicy burg­er. The mist clings to the streets, cast­ing a hazy glow beneath the flick­er­ing street­lights, muf­fling the usu­al city sounds. He bare­ly notices the dark­ened sil­hou­ette of an old van parked near a shut­tered gas sta­tion, his focus instead set on reach­ing his favorite hang­out before his stom­ach forces him home.

The nick­name “Stinky” had fol­lowed Peter for three years, ever since a mis­step into dog feces on his way to school had cement­ed his unfor­tu­nate rep­u­ta­tion. No amount of teas­ing or attempt­ed rebrand­ing could shake the moniker, though with time, he had learned to accept it with a mix of frus­tra­tion and reluc­tant amuse­ment. Now, at fif­teen, he had big­ger worries—like scrap­ing togeth­er enough mon­ey for food or ensur­ing he made it home in time for WWE Smack­down with­out dis­turb­ing his moth­er, who was pre­oc­cu­pied with work and her efforts to stay sober.

Upon arriv­ing at Dairy Whip, Peter finds his friends, Richie and Tom­my, fin­ish­ing off their drinks, prepar­ing to leave. Tom­my has din­ner plans with his fam­i­ly, and Richie is expect­ed to help his dad with some­thing at home, leav­ing Peter alone with noth­ing but his grum­bling stom­ach. He attempts to kill time by prac­tic­ing a few skate­board­ing tricks in the park­ing lot, but after sev­er­al failed attempts and bruised pride, he gives up, real­iz­ing his grow­ing hunger is mak­ing it impos­si­ble to focus.

His pock­ets near­ly emp­ty, Peter debates whether to approach “Wicked Wan­da,” the infa­mous Dairy Whip cashier, and ask for cred­it. He quick­ly dis­miss­es the idea—Wanda had nev­er extend­ed favors, and tonight would be no dif­fer­ent. He steps away from the Dairy Whip, sigh­ing as he kicks a loose peb­ble along the side­walk, begin­ning the long walk home with noth­ing but the hope that he might find some­thing edi­ble in the kitchen.

As he trudges down the dim­ly lit street, Peter is star­tled by the voice of an old­er man call­ing out to him from the side­walk. The man, slight­ly hunched and wear­ing a well-worn jack­et, ges­tures toward a van parked near­by, explain­ing that his wife is stuck in her wheel­chair with a dead bat­tery. The old man offers Peter ten dol­lars for his trou­ble, but Peter, eager to prove his self­less­ness and chan­nel his inner action hero, refus­es pay­ment, envi­sion­ing him­self as a real-life John Wick or Jack­ie Chan—someone who helps because it’s the right thing to do, not for a reward.

With a sense of chival­ry swelling in his chest, Peter nods and fol­lows the man toward the parked van, con­fi­dent that this would be a quick favor before head­ing home. How­ev­er, as he steps clos­er, a strange unease prick­les at the back of his neck, the dim glow of a sin­gle street­lamp cast­ing an eerie shad­ow over the vehi­cle. Some­thing about the van feels off—it’s too still, too con­ve­nient­ly placed, but Peter shakes the feel­ing off, remind­ing him­self that para­noia is for kids, not some­one like him.

Still, his instincts whis­per a warn­ing, caus­ing him to hes­i­tate just as they reach the vehi­cle. Sens­ing his reluc­tance, the man’s tone soft­ens, offer­ing reas­sur­ance, but Peter seizes the oppor­tu­ni­ty to renegotiate—he’ll take three dol­lars instead of ten, just enough for a burg­er, fig­ur­ing that if he’s going to be late get­ting home, he might as well not be hun­gry. The man chuck­les and agrees, motion­ing for Peter to step clos­er, but by now, the sink­ing feel­ing in Peter’s stom­ach is no longer just hunger.

For a moment, he con­tem­plates turn­ing back, retreat­ing to the famil­iar safe­ty of the Dairy Whip and its blind­ing flu­o­res­cent lights. But the thought of food and the desire to prove him­self push him for­ward, seal­ing his fate in an instant. Before he can ful­ly reg­is­ter what’s hap­pen­ing, Peter “Stinky” Stein­man unknow­ing­ly steps into the final moments of his ordi­nary life, obliv­i­ous to the fact that he will not be mak­ing it home to watch Smackdown—or any­where at all.