It’s a nice day outside in LA, just enough clouds to hide the heat from the sun. The air carries the faint smell of street food and blooming jasmine from nearby gardens. Enough people on the streets to where it doesn’t feel too crowded, and it’s the weekend so most people are either sleeping in to get rid of hangovers or already up drinking coffee at sidewalk cafés. 22-year-old Brendon walks to his girlfriend’s house wearing well-worn bootcut jeans, scuffed converse, and a faded band shirt. He left his car there after walking home drunk the night before, his head still throbbing slightly with the remnants of a hangover. The sound of laughter spills from a nearby bar as he passes, mixing with the distant honking of cars and the rhythmic thud of his own footsteps on the concrete. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking down at his feet for a second to avoid the sun glare—and promptly bumps into someone.