The road was smooth now, but her mind wasn’t.

Every mile toward Mystic Lake stirred up the memory of Sneads —

that park run by the man she called Scumbag.

He wasn’t Lula by any measure.

He didn’t shriek or bless his “babies.”

He just smiled that coward’s smile,

the kind that said “Everything’s fine!” while the place was actively catching fire.

His park was an accident waiting to happen —

gutters drooping like drunk eyebrows,

electrical cords breeding under trailers like snakes in a love nest,

and potholes deep enough to qualify as baptismal fonts.

Spine remembered how he’d knock on the siding instead of the door,

like he was afraid the structure might file a complaint.

He’d clear his throat first, then say something like,

“Just checking in!”

which always meant “Something exploded again.”

Sneads was her first lesson:

nice landlords don’t mean safe parks.

And safe parks don’t mean peace.

Sometimes they just mean the fire department knows your name.

So when she saw the sign ahead —

“Now Entering Mystic Lake” —

she didn’t smile.

She just gripped the wheel tighter and muttered,

“Let’s see if this one’s wired correctly.”