The Hayworth Theatre, located on Wilshire Boulevard, was an obscure little theater less than two kilometers from Anson's residence. James Franco and Seth Rogen's latest play was set to premiere here.
During rehearsals, James often jogged back and forth as extra exercise.
But today, Anson and Chris weren't planning to walk—
Parking the car by the roadside, Chris pulled two cardboard boxes from the back seat, filled to the brim with promotional posters and T-shirts.
This was James's idea—every audience member today would get a free set.
Just as Anson was about to step forward to help, Chris suddenly looked up. "Ah, I forgot to buy water. Not for the audience—for the actors. A bottle of mineral water each."
Anson glanced at Chris. "I'll go. If you can't handle it alone, go inside and call James or Seth. They should've brought their own when they left this morning."
Chris laughed heartily. "Who needs help? It's not like it's heavy."
As he spoke, Chris stacked the two boxes and effortlessly lifted them, turning toward the theater entrance with a stride so confident it seemed weightless.
Anson closed the car door and scanned the block, worried he'd be wandering aimlessly—after all, he'd only been in this unfamiliar city for a few hours. Then he spotted a Ralphs supermarket, its familiarity guiding his steps.
So, that was the grocery store.
Tall trees lined the street, encircling a parking lot in front of the supermarket entrance for customers to organize their shopping lists. Neatly arranged carts sat beside the shrubs—maybe he could use one to transport the water.
His gaze drifted to one of the trees. It wasn't the palm trees synonymous with California streets but something more like a sycamore, its umbrella-like canopy lush and sprawling, casting a patch of shade.
Wait—was it even a sycamore? Maybe a mango tree?
But could mangoes even grow in L.A.'s climate?
Thud!
Just as Anson passed by, something fell from the branches—a dark clump emitting a strange odor in the golden sunlight.
Instinctively, Anson stepped back, squinting as question marks flooded his mind.
It was a shoe. A platform shoe.
So… had Kiki the Witch just flown overhead?
Anson took half a step back, tilting his head to peer up through the branches and leaves. There, curled up like an injured kitten, was a figure with a slender leg dangling down, shoulders hunched in a futile attempt to hide.
Clearly, it wasn't working.
The figure seemed to notice Anson's gaze, cautiously revealing half a face framed by golden pixie-cut hair. Their eyes met.
Realizing concealment had failed, the girl flashed a playful grin, sticking out her tongue in a cheeky gesture.
A girl.
Anson studied the figure hidden in the foliage, equal parts amused and intrigued. "So, what unique scenery are you admiring from up there?"
The girl giggled at his unexpected response. "I think the sycamore bathed in golden sunlight is especially beautiful."
Anson raised an eyebrow, glancing around before looking back up skeptically. "Are you sure?"
The girl followed his gaze—
Buildings. Buildings. Nothing but buildings.
This was the heart of Los Angeles. Even from the treetops, the view was limited—no sweeping cityscapes like those from the hills of Beverly. The tree's height offered no such panorama.
The girl immediately grasped his meaning, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Anson continued, "Of course, I get it. From up there, you can see the horizon stretching endlessly, and catch the subtle scents on the breeze—sunlight, trees, wild grass, the ocean. The crisp air fills your lungs."
His words were like a magic wand, coaxing a radiant smile from the girl.
She called down, "That makes you sound ancient."
Anson: "..."
Fair point. The soul inside this body was forty, after all. Even after time-traveling back to eighteen, he hadn't fully adjusted to a youthful mindset. Was this an age giveaway?
Anson looked up. "Then you should be careful not to get tricked by creepy uncles."
"Giggle." The girl laughed brightly. "Fine, I'll be honest. I'm not here for the tree. It's for this little one."
With that, she shifted slightly, revealing a tiny kitten cradled in her arms—so small it was a mystery how it had climbed up in the first place.
"I saw her dangling from a branch, crying for help. So I tried to rescue her. But now it seems I'm stuck too. Hahaha."
Anson assessed the tree, pondering how she'd get down, when a voice rang out from the parking lot—
"Scarlett!"
Like a thunderclap.
Anson turned to see a young man, eighteen or nineteen, storming across the lot with a mix of fury and panic. His aura was so aggressively intense that with a weapon, he'd fit right into The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Confused, Anson glanced back at the girl, about to ask if she needed help, only to find her pressing a finger to her lips in a frantic shh!
So… the guy was looking for her?
Anson blinked, subtly tilting his head toward the parking lot—
"Scarlett! Jesus Christ!"
The girl nodded vigorously, finger still glued to her lips, eyes wide with tension. Then she shook her head just as emphatically, clutching the kitten tightly as she curled into a ball.
By then, the young man was striding toward Anson—
The parking lot offered no cover. Anson stood out like a lone tree in a field, impossible to miss.
Nowhere to hide.
"Hey, man."
The guy called out.
"You seen a girl around here? About yea high"—he gestured to his chest—"blonde, wearing a green T-shirt? Looked like she was in a hurry."
Anson: "..."
His peripheral vision caught the girl pressing herself against the trunk like a chameleon, trying to blend in with her green top—but her cherry-red pants gave her away instantly.
Seriously, who paired green with cherry-red? Was she going for strawberry or cherry vibes?
Still, Anson kept his expression neutral, feigning recollection. "Uh, red pants? Blonde with a bunch of tiny braids?"
The guy's face lit up. "Yeah, yeah! That's her."
Anson's gaze flicked to the lone platform shoe lying pitifully on the ground, as if begging for attention.
Oh no.