The days following the funeral of Beck Oliver had been some of the busiest in Miley Stewart's life this side of her pop star career. The paparazzi, which had practically disappeared from the front of their house ever since she had made the decision to retire Hannah Montana, had slowly but surely returned to their house ever since someone got wind that the Captain Stewart who had piloted Cash Airlines Flight 4892 was the same Miley Stewart that had been Hannah Montana's alter ego. Said paparazzi had been one of the many reasons why Miley had decided to retire Hannah, and now it was making her post-crash life just as difficult. And as if that wasn't enough, the mainstream media had also joined the paparazzi in camping out on their front yard, waiting for a chance to get Miley's side of the story as far as the crash was concerned.

Jackson Stewart, Miley's brother, was in the kitchen searching the refrigerator for some food when he heard someone knocking on the door. Experience had taught him to look out of the window before opening the door, as Miley-as-Hannah had almost been ambushed by the paparazzi that way. Looking outside the window, Jackson saw a black man sporting a long beard and dressed in shabby clothes. He was carrying a large brown paper bag filled with groceries, and two cartons of milk were at his feet. "Delivery for Miley Stewart," the man said.

"Come on in, Cory," Jackson said. "Let me take those from you." He took the bag of groceries from the black man, who seemed very relieved of having been relieved of his load. He picked up the gallons of milk at his feet and followed Jackson into the kitchen.

"Hey, Miles, a homeless black man's here with some stuff for you," Jackson called out as he laid down the bag on the Formica counter. Beside him, the "homeless" man had taken off his knit cap and shabby longcoat, revealing a neatly-pressed three-piece suit underneath that could have been made by any European fashion line. "Oh, man, does it feel good to be out of that old coat," Cory Baxter said as he laid down the coat on the counter.

Miley finally came down to the kitchen from the house's attic. She was wearing a black shirt and white shorts and she was barefoot. She also carried a shotgun of some kind with a chromed barrel, which she laid down on the countertop as soon as she got into the kitchen.

"Whoa," Cory said, staring at the shotgun. "Planning on going postal now?"

"Nah, man," Miley replied. "Just cleaning up some guns I found in our attic. What reason do I have to go postal anyway?"

"She said before going on an inexplicably unexplainable shooting rampage," Jackson added, and he and Cory did a high-five.

"You two won't be laughing when I really do it," Miley said. "Oh, is that milk? I really need my milk fix right now." Miley grabbed one of the milk jugs and downed half of its contents in just a few seconds.

"Mind if I check this out?" Cory asked, reaching for the shotgun. Miley's head moved up and down from behind the milk jug in a gesture that could have been a nod, and Cory took it as her consent to him touching the gun. "Looks like an 870," he said. "Is it an 870?"

"Yeah, it's a Remington 870 Field Gun," Miley said once she was finished draining the milk jug. "Cory, how is it that you're very curious about this gun?"

"Nothing, I just like guns," Cory replied. He pumped the action four times, and four shells came out. He pumped the action a fifth time, but no more shells came out. Cory picked up the four shells and laid them on a neat line on the counter beside the shotgun.

"Hey, what's this I hear about a homeless man and a shotgun?" another much older voice asked. Robbie Ray Stewart came out from the living room and into the kitchen. "Miles, what's that thing sticking out the back of your shorts?" he asked his daughter.

"What, this?" Miley pulled out a strange-looking pistol from behind her back. "It's just some pistol that I found up in the attic," she said. "I was bored; I don't have anything to do, so I began rooting around the house for things to keep me occupied. I went up to the attic, began cleaning up some of the old guns that I found there, and then I found this."

"Well, well, well," Robbie Ray muttered. "I think this might be the Colt Woodsman that my granddaddy gave me for my tenth birthday. I thought I'd lost it when we moved here to California, but now I think this might be it." He picked up the gun and examined it. "Well, will you look at that? It is the gun that my granddaddy gave me. I remembered the serial number by heart, and there it is on the slide, clear as day. Now let me tell you something interesting about this gun of mine. A few days after my birthday, I accidentally shot one of our free-range chickens on the family farm with it. Of course, I didn't admit it at first, but Grandpa—your great-grandfather, kids—had a way with getting the truth out of people. Probably had something to do with him being a justice of the peace, but I digress. I confessed to Grandpa, and I told him that I just wasn't responsible enough for the Colt. And do you know what he said? He told me that by admitting that I wasn't responsible enough to own a gun, I had just proved that I was responsible enough. Yeah, I know it's some kind of paradox or something, but once you get to be my age, it will all make sense. Anyway, enough about my life story. What brings you here, Cory? And since when did you grow yourself a beard?"

Cory looked down at the flowing salt-and-pepper beard that was covering the lower part of his face. He then pulled it up and above his head, revealing it to be a fake. "D'you like it, Mr. Stewart?" he asked. "It's from a Santa costume that I wore for the kids two, three years ago. Anyway, I'd come down here to give Miley her milk fix, as she likes to call it, and to tell her that the NTSB wants to take an official statement from you three days from now."

"All right by me," Miley said. "Even though I've already talked to their main investigator, that Evans girl, it's still no biggie. Three days from now? Pfftt."

"Yeah, actually, Miles, it's not as easy as that," Cory added. "I also came down here on personal orders from Theo Brabant himself. I was to confine you in a specially prepared hotel room in one of Mr. Dobson's hotels so that me and the other legal advisers of the airline can keep a close eye on you. Since your blood tests were released to the company, they aren't really trusting of you running around on your own. Now, I know that the drinks in Sao Paulo just before the flight were just that—drinks, nothing to suggest alcoholism about it. But you know how the advisers are. They're like a hive mind. You either go with the majority or you're out of their little group. They want to lodge you in a hotel room with no alcoholic drinks in the minibar so you won't come to the official NTSB investigation late and wasted."

"Wow," Miley muttered once Cory's words had sunk in. "That sounds harsh, man. I haven't even touched a single bottle since the crash."

"I'm sorry, Miles, but orders are orders."

Miley let out a huge sigh. "Oh, all right," she said. "But how do you expect me to get past that mob of paparazzi and media out there on our front yard waiting for me to come out of the house?"

"Just do what I did, and put on a disguise," Cory replied matter-of-factly. "That should be easy for you. You used to do that kind of thing for years."

"Oh, fuck off, Baxter," Miley said, but deep in her mind the wheels of plot began to turn. Before she had used the Hannah Montana persona to keep herself away from the rest of the world. Could she somehow use her past to give her a hope of having a better future?

While Miley was still deep in thought, Cory had put his "homeless" clothes back on. "I'll be waiting for you down the road at five in the afternoon later today," he said. "Just tell me what you'll be wearing so I won't be so surprised when I see you again." With that, he returned his false beard back on his face, and Cory Baxter the homeless man walked out of the kitchen of Miley Stewart' house.