The Hayworth Theatre, located on Wilshire Boulevard, is a little-known small theater just under two kilometers from Anson's residence. The latest play by James Franco and Seth Rogen will be performed here.
During rehearsals, James often jogged back and forth as an extra form of exercise.
But today, Anson and Chris decided not to walk—
After parking the car by the roadside, Chris pulled out two cardboard boxes from the back seat, filled to the brim with promotional posters and T-shirts.
This was James's idea—everyone attending today would get one for free.
Just as Anson was about to help, Chris suddenly looked up, "Ah, I forgot to buy water. Not for the audience, but for the actors. One bottle of mineral water each."
Anson glanced at Chris, "I'll go. If you can't manage alone, go inside and call James and Seth. They should have brought their own this morning."
Chris laughed heartily, "There's no need for help; it's not like these are heavy."
As he spoke, Chris stacked the two boxes and easily carried them, turning and walking toward the theater door with a confident stride, as if he wasn't carrying any weight at all.
Anson closed the car door and scanned the neighborhood, worried he might wander around like a headless chicken. After all, he had only arrived in this unfamiliar city a few hours ago. Then he saw a Ralphs, and a sense of familiarity guided his steps.
It seemed to be a supermarket.
Tall trees lined the street, circling a parking lot in front of the supermarket entrance, making it convenient for customers to organize their shopping lists. Shopping carts were neatly parked beside the bushes—perhaps he could use one to transport the water.
He couldn't help but glance at a tree—not the palm trees one might associate with California, but more like a sycamore, with its umbrella-shaped canopy spreading lushly, casting a patch of shade.
Wait, maybe it wasn't a sycamore; could it be a mango tree?
But, could mangoes grow in Los Angeles's climate?
Just as Anson passed by, something fell from the treetop—a black, fuzzy object, exuding a strange smell in the scorching golden light.
Anson instinctively stepped back, then looked closely, as question marks popped up one after another in his mind. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ n͟o͟v͟e͟l͟f͟i͟r͟e͟.net
It was a shoe. A platform shoe.
So, was it Kiki the witch who just flew by above?
Anson took half a step back and looked up through the canopy, easily spotting a figure curled up like a wounded kitten, a leg as white as lotus roots dangling down, with the person trying to shrink into themselves to stay hidden.
But clearly, it wasn't working.
The figure seemed to realize Anson had spotted them and cautiously revealed half of a face, with short blonde hair falling loosely, their gaze briefly meeting his.
Realizing they were caught, the person then flashed a mischievous smile and stuck out their tongue playfully.
Anson looked at the figure hiding in the shade, surprised and amused, "So, what unique view did you find up there?"
The girl giggled at Anson's unexpected response, "I think the sycamore tree bathed in golden sunlight is particularly beautiful."
Anson was a bit surprised, turning to glance around, then looked back up, puzzled, "Are you sure?"
The girl also glanced around—
Buildings. Buildings. And more buildings.
This was the heart of Los Angeles, the city center. Even if she climbed to the treetop, there wasn't much else to see. That's why LA's elites prefer Beverly Hills—climb high and take in the cityscape. But a tree's height wouldn't achieve that effect.
The girl immediately understood what Anson meant, a smile playing in her eyes.
Anson continued, "Of course, I understand. When you're up there, not only can you see the distant horizon, as if the world extends infinitely, but you can also smell the subtle scents carried by the breeze—sunshine, trees, wild grasses, the ocean—fresh air fills your body."
His words were like a magic wand, making the girl's smile bloom bit by bit.
The girl raised her voice, "That makes you sound really old."
Actually, that's not wrong, because the soul inside this body is already forty years old. Even after traveling back in time from forty to eighteen, it's still hard to fully adopt a young person's mindset. So, did that just give away my age?
Anson looked up and said, "You should be careful, so you don't get tricked by a creepy old man."
The girl burst into laughter. "Alright, I'll be honest. I'm not really interested in climbing trees. I just did it for this little guy."
As she spoke, the girl adjusted her position slightly, revealing a tiny kitten in her arms. The little thing was so small; it was hard to imagine how it managed to climb up there.
"I saw her hanging from a branch, crying for help, so I tried to lend a hand. But now it seems I'm stuck too, hahaha."
Anson glanced at the treetop, thinking about how the girl might get down, when suddenly a shout came from the direction of the parking lot—
The voice was as loud as thunder.
Anson looked toward the sound and saw a young man, around eighteen or nineteen, pacing angrily and anxiously through the parking lot. His presence was intense and aggressive, like he could be the star of a horror movie if you handed him a weapon—"Texas Chainsaw Massacre" style.
Anson withdrew his gaze, intending to ask the girl if she needed help, only to see her urgently pressing her finger to her lips.
So, was she the one the young man was looking for?
Anson blinked and subtly indicated the direction of the parking lot with his eyes—
"Scarlett! Jesus Christ!"
The girl nodded repeatedly, keeping her finger firmly pressed to her lips, her expression and eyes filled with tension. She tightly hugged the little kitten and curled up even more.
Then, the young man started walking directly toward Anson—
After all, there was nothing in the parking lot to hide behind. As far as the eye could see, Anson was the only pedestrian, standing out like a lone soldier, easily spotted.
The young man called out loudly.
"Did you see a girl around here? About chest height on me; blonde, wearing a green T-shirt, and seemed in a bit of a hurry."
Out of the corner of his eye, Anson could see the girl clinging to the tree trunk like a chameleon, trying to blend in with the color of her clothes. But that cherry-red pair of pants she was wearing gave her away—
Seriously, who pairs a green top with cherry-red pants? Is she supposed to be a strawberry or a cherry?
Despite this, Anson kept a straight face, pretending to recall, "Uh, red pants? Blonde hair with a bunch of braids?"
The young man's face lit up, "Yes, yes, that's her."
Anson noticed the lone platform shoe lying pathetically on the ground, as if it were trying desperately to catch attention.
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