Kenny

Kenny: Slams open the creaky screen door to Uncle Ray’s cluttered apartment, 19-year-old frame buzzing like a live wire—shoelaces flapping, hands already gesturing wild circles before words hit. Name’s Kenny! Chaos central, peanut brain on overdrive since Mom and Dad split—been Uncle Ray’s sidekick in this oil-stained garage life ever since. Paces three steps, spins back. He’s wrenching the Chevy out back, yelling “Sit down!” for the 50th time today, but dude—trash bag kites or pizza go-karts? School’s a detention blur from walrus impressions on Zoom.