Wednesday, January 27, 7:03 AM.
"Kyle!" shrieks my mother, somewhere downstairs. I roll from bed, silence my alarm, and grab yesterday's jeans from the floor.

Wednesday, January 27, 7:19 AM.
Zipping my orange coat and securing a plush scarf of ivory fleece around my neck, I sling my backpack across one shoulder and announce my departure. The door sighs behind me to my parents' and brother's farewells.

Wednesday, January 27, 7:24 AM.
I pause at the crosswalk, glance left, right, left again, and continue. Snow gathers on my outstretched mitten as I wave to Butters, bidding him good morning. From behind, a horn blares belligerently. I turn.

Wednesday January 27, 7:36 AM.
Amorphous swaths of crimson and cerulean dot my vision. Gentle, steady pressure drapes over my exposed chest; wintry January air, however, effortlessly penetrates through. Through the haze, a familiar voice. Stan. From his inflection, something's upsetting him. His tone rollercoasters between anger and desperation, begging and threatening, before finally breaking down. His sobs sadden me, but I cannot muster the strength to comfort him.

?
"Kyle," Kenny's voice awakens me. Ubiquitous, caustic brightness besets my eyes. It burns, even behind my eyelids.

"K-Kenny?" return I, tentatively. "K-Ken, where are you? I can't see."

Liberal, magnanimous shade envelops me, warding off the blinding whiteness. One breath, two, three and I dare relax, allowing my eyes open. Opaque spots lurch and titter manically across my vision a heartbeat, when Kenny appears. Kenny, base and conniving, ever facetious and mischievous, lecherous, vagrant, apathetic Kenny, towers before me, two stately wings of unadulterated alabaster protruding from his upper back, shielding me. Each wing, only partially extended, stretches miles past my field of view. Each feather, preened and completely visible amidst uncountable analogues, gleams like polished marble. He seems an unfortunate figurine trapped between their celestial magnificence, yet he bares their weight effortlessly, standing erect with an understanding and compassionate and pure aura profoundly besmirched by my presence. Glossy golden locks, curled shaggily about his ears, shine against the blankness like mid-May sunshine, warm but not sweltering and welcoming. He kneels, scoops me in his arms, and lifts our combined weight.

And the enchantment shatters.

"Oh, God," pant I, throat constricting. Thoughts align, forming conclusions, and my stomach churns savagely. "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"No." I wince at his sternness, pulse still audible, but relax minutely. He sighs. "It's not that simple." Curling tighter into Kenny's protective embrace, I finger the worn synthetic fur lining the hood of his parka.

"How do you know?" murmur I. Kenny marches forward, one shoddy Converse after another, through everlasting whiteness. With no discernible geographical features, just blankness, Kenny continues. Footstep after footstep, delicate yet steady, almost rhythmic in cadence. I fear I unknowingly offended him. I'm dead, aren't I? No, it's not that simple. Rewind, replay, analyze. How do you know? Thrice I disassemble and examine our sparse exchange, but return no obvious source of insult. And then,

"I protect you, and Stan, and yes, even Cartman," Kenny begins, sudden though nonetheless even and fluid. "I protect the whole of South Park. I die and return to life, so that you never will experience death." Thoughts and responses die in my throat, forgotten, drowned by fragments of independent and discontinuous memories drifting through my mind. Hit by Officer Barbrady's cruiser. Shot through the heart. Poached alive. Muscular atrophy.

"Oh God, Ken!" I draw him near as possible, nuzzling his neck, as each gruesome slaughter overtakes my thoughts. Crushed by an elevator. Ravaged by a bear. Syphilis. Suicide. Oh my God, they killed Kenny. You bastards. "Kenny, oh God… How could I-? How could we-? You suffered hundreds, hell, maybe thousands of deaths since we were kids and we never once remembered." Wetness clouds my vision as Kenny hushes me.

"I chose to erase my deaths from your human memory," He states, but I cannot bring myself to ask why. "Though your soul remembers forever." He smiles radiantly. "Your grief proves your friendship and loyalty, Kyle, something I can never, in all of my lives, repay." In place of words, which seem trite and unnecessary, I peck Kenny's check.

"So why, if you protect South Park from death, am I here now?" Kenny readjusts me in his arms, treading on, one holey Converse in front of the other.

"The accident left you critically injured. My sacrifice alone cannot spare your life, and for that, I am truly sorry." And I grasp the situation finally: Kenny, wizened, at only seventeen years of age. Forced to endure poverty and abuse on Earth; cursed to an eternal cycle of life and death without a proper funeral, without a single tear shed. Not even his mother, so unyieldingly protective and loving, mourned her most adored son. I lament, heart strained and aching under the weight of Kenny's circumstances. "Tell me, Kyle," He senses my thoughts, a reflex organic after numerous years of friendship and adventures. By some irony, he attempts to ease my pain, pushing away my ruminations with a, "What would you give return to South Park? To be with Stan? To hug Ike?" His lips curl gently in a catty smirk. "To punch Eric in the jaw again."

"Anything!" My response requires no thought.

"Are you positive? I caution you, the South Park from which you left and the South Park to which you return will have a handful of critical differences." Our eyes meet in a fleeting glance. He nods. "Okay, as you wish."

With every fiber of my being, with every muscle hardened from wrestling Ike and midnight basketball with Stan, I cling to my childhood friend. I squeeze my eyes shut, but somehow still see as his wings expand, cocooning us...