Lynn sat in the master bedroom, on her parent's bed.

You sit right here, her mother had said, pointing. You're going to wait here until your father gets home. Then, we'll talk about just what you did, young lady!

In her childhood, Lynn has been in this very situation for her worst infractions. When she had shattered the kitchen window with a baseball, she was sat down on her parent's bed and told to wait until her father got home. When she had knocked over the expensive family vase by playing soccer in the house, Lynn had been told to sit back down on the bed and to wait until her father's arrival. Now, here she was again, thirteen years old, never learning, always making mistakes.

Lynn hated staying still. She wanted to be outside, actually doing something. Running, playing a sport, anything but sitting in one place. It was the one thing she despised most. How could people live life like this? How could certain people sit down in front of a computer all day, working their jobs or writing degenerate fanfictions?

God might know. Lynn did not.

Road trips, too. Lynn hated those. She remembered one ride in particular, a road trip to three states away. Lynn dreaded the trip ever since her parents had announced it. When it finally rolled around, she had kept herself busy by… by playing "auto attack"… hitting Lincoln whenever a car passed… hurting him.

He was such a kind, selfless, caring brother, and Lynn would do anything to redeem herself to Lincoln for treating him like trash.

She began to cry, certainly not for the first time that day. Why was she a terrible sister?

She wiped away her tears. No. No more feeling sorry for yourself. You have a job to do. She'd just have to try twice as hard. She'd have to redouble her efforts. She was Lynn Loud, dammit! She'd give ten thousand percent!

Even if it killed her.

Lincoln sat his room alone, much like Lynn directly below him in the master bedroom.

Also like Lynn, he felt regret.

Why did he think it was a good idea to trust a random man from off of the street? Especially such a weird one. There was a catch, there always was. Never trust someone wearing a denim jacket. What is this, the 60's? A Stephen King novel?

All he had wanted was for Lynn to feel regret for the luck incident. What he had not wanted, however, was for her to go crazy trying to please him. Sure, it would be nice if she didn't force him with a bat to come to her games or maybe for her to make an attempt to connect more with Lincoln, perhaps trying out a video game with him (she might even find it fun) or maybe even getting him a glass of water if he wanted one while he was busy reading comics in his room.

Certainly, though, what Lincoln didn't want was for her to go completely bonkers attempting to make up for her mistake. In fact, her doing so has achieved the opposite effect. Her attempts of pleasing Lincoln had, in turn, only managed to annoy him and hurt other sisters like Lori and, as Lincoln later learned, Lana. Who in the right mind pushes their 6-year-old sister onto the ground to make toast?

Still, Lynn couldn't be blamed. It was Lincoln's fault, and he knew this.

His first thought was to grab the hat again from under his bed, put it on, and use his second wish to revert his first wish. This idea quickly diminished, however, as Lincoln remembered how wrong things had gone the first time he had made a wish.

He'd try to fix things without the hat. If he failed, he could always use it as plan B.

The mysterious man, in great strides, made his way down the street. Streetlights dimly illuminated his path. He didn't wank on the sidewalk—oh, no. He walked right in the middle of the street, passing traffic be damned. They could go around him.

He had very few memories. The man with long hair didn't even recall how he had arrived in such a small, cozy town such as Royal Woods. Still, he knew he was in the right place when he met that boy. The man in denim saw something special in him. It wasn't just his white hair, either. There was a fire in that kid, and the mysterious man knew with the right amount of push, he could grow that fire, bigger, stronger.

It had already begun. He could tell.