John looked at the kazoo. He looked at the city below—thousands of tiny, orderly lives like his used to be. He thought about his silent apartment, his scheduled bowel movements, his collection of matching gray socks.

Then he danced. Not well. Not gracefully. But freely.

That night, John Persons did not watch a nature documentary. He stayed up until 2 AM eating cold pizza in his underwear, painting a terrible abstract picture of a llama wearing sunglasses. He texted his boss a single emoji: 🦩.

Honey patted his cheek. “You’ve been living in grayscale, John. We’re just adding the crayons.”

The Blondes cheered. A security guard yelled at them. They ran, laughing, down the ramp, John’s heart hammering with something he hadn’t felt in years: delight.