Turn 4 of 16

March to the abandoned bike and find its owner. A teen mom comes out to take the bike as you three yell at her. She starts yelling immediately just like you as her body changes to that of a 47 year old women. Her long skunk hair turns full blonde and styled into the Karen cut. Her outfit becomes a pink and white striped v-neck, skinny mom jeans and open toed sandals. Sunglasses cover her eyes

The bike lies in the middle of the sidewalk three houses down, pink handlebar streamers still fluttering, one training wheel bent at a criminal angle. The three of them descend on it as a unit, a wedge of identical bobs and dark lenses, and Daisy plants a sandal beside the front tire like a surveyor claiming territory.

"Someone's CHILD left this here," the mail carrier says, holding up the laminated list as evidence. "Unattended. Unclaimed. A HAZARD."

The door of number 9 opens, and a young woman steps out — early twenties, tired eyes, long two-tone hair dyed black over bleached blonde, a baby balanced on one hip. She grabs for the handlebars.

"That's my daughter's, I was just coming for—"

"Coming for it NOW?" Karen's voice cracks across the lawn like a whip.

"It's been lying there since BEFORE SEVEN. Anyone could have tripped. Anyone could have sued. Where, may I ask, is the supervision in this household?"

"Oh, don't you DARE," the young mother fires back, and the yell is already halfway to the right pitch — brassy, indignant, climbing. "I have an INFANT. I have a SCHEDULE. Do you have any idea what my morning has been—"

It takes her mid-sentence. Her frame thickens, the baby's hip shifting against a broader, sturdier waist as her body settles into its late forties, lines carving themselves around her mouth and eyes. The skunk stripe floods blonde from root to tip, the black retreating entirely, and the long hair swings up, shortens, and sets itself into the blunt ash-blonde bob — a fourth copy, identical to the rest. Her tank top runs to pink and white stripes, sleeves becoming a v-neck; her leggings tighten into skinny mom jeans; her flip-flops flatten into open-toed sandals.

She looks down at the baby on her hip, then up, and dark sunglasses rise onto her face.

"—and ANOTHER thing," she says in the shared voice, hitching the baby expertly, "this sidewalk is a DISGRACE. Whose jurisdiction is this? Because I will be filing. I have a LIST." She pats a tote that has appeared over her shoulder, and four identical lists rustle in the breeze. The baby, unbothered, chews a fist. Four Karen faces turn toward the rest of Maple Ridge Court, waiting to hear what gets complained about next.