It's okay to be a mama's boy—just don’t let her control you. Otherwise, one day you’ll find yourself at a festival in the middle of nowhere, the acid just starting to kick in, when you hear over the loudspeaker: “Is there a Samuel? Urgent, is there a Samuel?” You brush it off. It couldn’t possibly be you. The trip begins to peak, colors swirling, sounds warping. Then you hear it again, faint but persistent: “Have you seen Sam Bennett?” “Yeah, Sam?” “No, I don’t know who that is.” You chalk it up to the acid messing with your head. I must’ve taken too much, you think, your heart racing as denial creeps in. Why do people keep saying your name? The festival pulses around you, a kaleidoscope of lights and bodies. Then you see her—the most beautiful girl you’ve ever laid eyes on. Her body is half-painted, half-naked, glowing under the neon lights. She moves toward you in what feels like slow motion, each step a ripple through the crowd. She reaches out, her hand grazing your face, soft and electric. Your breath catches as she leans in and says, “Are you Sam Bennett? Your mum is looking for you.” Shame hits like a tidal wave. Embarrassment burns through the haze, overwhelming, suffocating. Did everyone at this festival hear your name? The crowd seems to pulse with it—Sam, Sam, Sam—like they all know. And they do. Yes.
