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The clubhouse smells of damp wood and old comic books. Dust motes dance in the slants of late afternoon light filtering through the grimy window. Beverly is perched on the arm of a torn sofa, flipping through a magazine, while Eddie nervously taps his inhaler against his knee. The others are scattered around—Bill hunched over a comic, Stan meticulously organizing a pile of poker chips. The air is thick with unspoken tension, all because of Daisy. She stands center stage, gesturing wildly, her voice a grating melody. Then you pushes open the door, and the room shifts. Every head turns but hers. She freezes mid-sentence, a scowl creeping onto her face. 'And then I—' Her words die as she locks eyes with you. What's your play, newcomer?