My brother in Christ. Mi hermano en Christo even, you know how in TV shows sometimes throwaway characters have names and sometimes those names are the same or similar to other characters' names?
Force of habit if you will.
#swagAmerican Sun
American Sun
#swagAmerican Sun
Lalin Wouj Sou Lanmè
The probation office always smelled wrong. Stale coffee, floor cleaner, something sour baked into the carpet that never left. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, a steady whine that filled the silence while Caine waited outside the door. The early hour pressed heavy on his skin—too early even for the sun to burn off the wet in the air. His backpack strap cut into his palm, his shoulders tight, but he sat still.
Inside, Roussel made noise on purpose. Papers shifting, pen scratching, a cough that carried more performance than need. Caine clocked it the way he clocked safeties on film: all motion, no meaning, just trying to bait him.
Finally, the door cracked open. “Come on in,” Roussel said, like he was doing him a favor.
Caine stepped through. The office was overcooled, AC blasting until the blinds rattled against the frame. On the wall hung a diploma in a cheap frame, LSU purple dulled by dust, next to a print of a swamp that looked bought at Walmart. Everything else sat neat—files stacked, pens lined—like order was proof of power.
“Sit.”
Caine dropped into the chair across from the desk, backpack still hooked on his shoulder. He leaned back, broad shoulders set, gaze steady. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink more than he had to. He knew the rules here: stillness was a shield.
Roussel glanced up from the folder, then back down. “You been staying out of trouble?”
“Yeah.” Flat.
The man clicked his tongue. “Where you been? Who you been running with?”
“My mom. My girl. My kid.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Roussel let the pause stretch, searching for nerves. He found none. Caine stared back, dark and unreadable, letting the silence sit until the man cleared his throat.
“Funny,” Roussel said. “I been hearing different.”
Caine didn’t take the bait. His voice stayed even, cold. “You heard wrong.”
Roussel smirked, then leaned back, folding his hands over his gut. “Mm. Uh-huh.” His tone softened, like he was coaxing a child, but his eyes were sharp behind the glasses.
Caine shifted once, slow, deliberate—not nerves but dismissal. He let the silence hang until he cut in himself. “What’s the process if I need to leave the parish for college visits?”
That pulled Roussel’s head up. The laugh came quick, sharp. “College? You? Boy, you think you goin’ to college?”
Caine didn’t flinch. “What’s the process?”
The laugh died. Roussel’s grin widened instead, showing his teeth. “Process is: you ain’t leavin’. You wanna play schoolboy, you do it right here. Xavier. Dillard. SUNO. That’s what’s open to you. And you lucky I don’t take even that away.”
The names landed the way they were meant to: a cage drawn in chalk. Still, Caine’s expression didn’t move. “You playing with my life, man. My future.”
Roussel’s voice sharpened, pleased at the crack he thought he heard. “No. You played with your life. Out there jacking cars instead of clocking in like a man. That was you. I didn’t tell you to pick up a gun. That was your choice. You writing your own future. Same one you all do.”
Caine’s jaw worked once. Inside, heat pressed against his ribs, pushing to be let out. The words lined themselves up—you don’t know nothing about raising a baby with no money, nothing about choosing between hunger and survival—but he left them where they were. His silence said more than any defense would.
Roussel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, glasses sliding down his nose. He watched Caine, studying, needling. “Go on. Say it. You feel a certain way, you welcome to do something about it.” He opened his palms, like the offer was genuine.
The office closed in with the hum of the air vent. For a long beat, Caine just stared. His eyes didn’t move, didn’t blink. He let Roussel see the weight of it—the quiet promise that if he did step, he wouldn’t half-step. That if he ever came across the line, it wouldn’t end in words.
Roussel shifted, just slightly, before covering it with another smirk.
Caine finally broke the silence, voice even. “I’m good to go?”
Roussel leaned back slow, the grin pasted back on. “Yeah. Get on outta here. And you make damn sure you’re on time for class. One more tardy slip, you and me gon’ have a real problem.”
Caine rose, movements calm, backpack sliding back into place. He didn’t thank him. He didn’t look back. The cold air clung to his shirt as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the hum of fluorescents waiting for him.
He walked steady, each step controlled, every muscle still hot under the skin. Roussel had his name on a file, his freedom in a pen stroke, but that didn’t make him bigger. It only made him a man hiding behind paper.
The buzz of the lights carried him down the hall. Outside, the morning heat waited to close around him again, thick and real. He breathed it in, shoulders squared, and kept walking.
The library always felt a little cut off from the rest of school. Quieter, darker, the air heavier somehow. Old paper and dust hung above the shelves, mixing with the faintest whiff of bleach from the morning mop. Fans overhead ticked slow, blades groaning like they might stop at any second. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the gaps between voices.
At lunch the room was crowded—every table packed, computers all taken. Kids spread out with trays they weren’t supposed to bring in, smuggling bags of chips or candy under notebooks. Laughter rose and fell in pockets. The librarian, a woman with thin glasses perched low on her nose, kept shushing, but no one really listened.
Mireya sat at a table pressed against the window. Her laptop glowed back at her, light pale against her tired face. Across the top of the browser, tabs stacked like debt notices: admissions pages, deadlines, essay prompts. Each one carried a fee. $25 here, $40 there, $60 for out-of-state. She did the math in her head without trying, the numbers colliding with rent, utilities, Camila’s diapers.
Her stomach cramped. She’d skipped breakfast, saving what little was left in her wallet for application fees. Food could wait. Paperwork couldn’t.
Angela dropped into the chair beside her with the easy sprawl of someone who didn’t care who noticed. She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. Gum popped between her teeth. She glanced at the screen, smirk curling.
“If I was you,” she said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise, “I’d tell Caine straight up—any school want him, they better want you too. Package deal. Scholarship for both. Apartment, too, since y’all got Mila.”
Mireya clicked the mouse harder than she needed to. A field opened, blinking. She didn’t look at Angela. “And if that school doesn’t got nursing? Or the program’s trash?”
Angela shrugged, like it was obvious. “Then switch it up. Pick something else. Don’t gotta lock yourself in one lane.”
That pulled Mireya’s eyes from the screen. “I’m not doing that.” Her tone was flat, quiet, the kind of answer that didn’t leave space for debate.
Angela leaned back, blowing her gum into a bubble that snapped when it popped. “Alright, but think on it. He goes somewhere and you don’t? You out here alone. School, work, baby—by yourself. Long-distance mama. Basically, a single mom. Ain’t shit already hard enough?”
Mireya’s shoulders tightened. She scrolled through the essay prompt, lines blurring together, her chest pulling tight. Silence stretched.
“Caine isn’t leaving me,” she said finally, voice edged but not raised. “Ain’t leaving Camila. And it’s not like he got schools lined up. One coach talked to him. That’s it.”
Angela tilted her head, gum rolling between her teeth. “Still. Me? I’d follow. Wherever. Make life easier.”
Mireya didn’t answer. The cursor blinked in the empty box, waiting for her GPA. At the next table, a girl unwrapped a sandwich, the smell of mayonnaise sour in the air. Across the room, a boy laughed too loud until the librarian snapped for quiet.
She typed her name in again, letters quick, precise. Another tab opened. Another fee.
Angela shifted in her chair, lowering her voice. “You know I’m not trying to be ugly with it. I just… I see how it is for you. You already carrying everything. I don’t wanna see you drown.”
Mireya’s exhale came sharp through her nose. “I know.”
That was all she gave. No explanation, no softening. Nursing was the only dream she still had that felt like hers. Changing it wasn’t survival—it was erasure. And letting go of the belief that Caine would stay? That was worse than hunger.
Angela studied her, lips pressing together before she leaned back. “Stubborn as hell.”
Mireya didn’t rise to it. She clicked through another page, filled another box, watching the fees stack like bricks on her chest.
Her stomach growled loud enough for Angela to hear. Angela glanced at her but didn’t say anything. Mireya was grateful for that.
Around them, the library swelled with its own noise: sneakers squeaking across tile, pages flipping, gum cracking, phones buzzing against tables. The world moved, loud and careless, while Mireya sat still, eyes burning from the screen, refusing to bend.
She kept typing anyway.
The room smelled like bleach and old air conditioner. Stale cold blowing out of the vent, fighting the heat pressing against the glass outside. The carpet was damp in spots, no matter how many passes they made with the vacuum. Sara’s back ached from bending, scrubbing, lifting. The uniform shirt clung damp to her skin.
On the other side of the bed, Juana shook out a sheet, snapping it sharp before tucking the corners. She muttered under her breath, Spanish running quick, then switched to English loud enough for Sara to hear.
“Disgusting, these men. I open the door, no sign, no lock, and he’s laying there—” she pointed at the chair by the window—“on top of the seats, naked as the day he born. Didn’t even flinch when I walked in. Just smiled.”
Sara smirked without looking up from the trash she was bagging. “They all got some weird room cleaner fetish now with el Naranja back in office. Think they can do whatever they want, no shame.”
Juana laughed, bitter and sharp. “Next time, I go Lorena Bobbitt on him. Chop it right off.” She made a scissor motion with her fingers.
Sara snorted, tied the bag, tossed it near the cart. “You’d have the whole city cheering.”
The TV in the corner buzzed, sound drifting from where a guest had left it on. Some daytime talk show had been playing. Sara grabbed the remote, flicked channels until the local news came back on.
The screen filled with a stadium lit under Friday night lights. Edna Karr jerseys, gold and purple, bodies colliding fast on the field. The sportscaster’s voice rose with excitement: “And here it is again, Edna Karr over Archbishop Shaw, and their new quarterback—this kid came out of nowhere. Watch the way he moves. Look at that throw.”
Sara froze, rag still in her hand.
Another announcer laughed, voice booming. “Man, they should call him HurriCaine Guerra! Boy went from a little wave way out in the ocean to a category five in one night.”
The clip replayed: Caine rolling out, jersey soaked, ball spiraling clean through the air into the receiver’s hands. Crowd noise roared behind the highlight.
Juana leaned on the mop handle, eyebrows up. “That’s your son?”
Sara’s face softened despite the sweat, the ache in her shoulders. “Sí,” she said, eyes not leaving the screen. Pride warmed through the tiredness, a rare lift. “Es mi hijo.”
The anchors kept talking, replaying another pass, another touchdown. Sara stood still, letting it wash over her. For once, the name Guerra on a screen wasn’t followed by a charge, a violation, a shadow of prison. For once, it was cheers, a headline for the right reasons.
Juana smiled, shaking her head. “Mira no más. He’s good. Real good.”
Sara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “He always been good.” Her voice came low, steady.
The highlight ended, commercials cutting in loud and jarring. Sara blinked, shut off the screen, and set the rag back against the dresser.
Work waited. Beds to be tucked, floors to scrub, trash to haul. Pride didn’t take the weight off her back, didn’t pay a bill. But for that small moment, she carried it anyway, and it lit something inside that the bleach and sweat couldn’t strip.
She bent, picked up the mop bucket, and went back to cleaning.
The sun sat high, heat bouncing off the asphalt until it shimmered. Percy leaned against the handle of a cart, thumb dragging lazy over his phone screen. Sweat trickled down his back, sticking the Market Basket polo to his skin. The cart line stretched scattered across the lot, but he wasn’t in a rush to pull them in. Lunch break was coming; he was just burning minutes.
The phone buzzed. A text slid across the cracked screen: where you at? He smirked, tapped quick—work—and went back to scrolling. No names saved. He didn’t need the reminder. He didn’t like being in her house, but he went anyway.
A truck engine growled, tires crunching across the lot. Percy looked up out of habit. Lifted, paint dulled from mud and sun. Nothing out of the ordinary—everybody out here drove trucks like that. It circled once, slow, then swung sharp across the yellow lines and braked hard in front of him.
Doors flung open. Four white men jumped out, boots hitting asphalt loud.
The driver pointed, jaw set tight. “You P?”
Percy raised an eyebrow, lips tugging up like he wasn’t about to give them anything. “Who asking?”
The man’s voice came louder, echoing in the hot air. “You been fucking my wife!”
A short laugh broke out of Percy before he could stop it. “Wife? That chick’s like seventeen.”
The words slipped. He saw the mistake hit as soon as it left his mouth—the way their faces hardened, eyes narrowing.
His stomach dropped.
He didn’t wait. He pushed off the cart and bolted, sneakers slapping hot pavement. Shouts erupted behind him, boots pounding after.
He cut through the grassy strip between the lot and the strip of small businesses, weeds catching his ankles. The men were heavy on his tail, curses flying.
Percy kept low, shoulders forward, the way he’d run when it was cops or rivals on the block back home. Breath pulled sharp in his chest, but his stride never broke.
An Army recruitment yard sign stuck up crooked in the grass—he hurdled it clean, never breaking pace. Ahead, a wooden fence cut the line. He didn’t slow. Two steps, push, and he vaulted over, landing easy on the other side.
Behind him, the men skidded to a stop, breath ragged, too slow to follow.
“Pussy boy!” one shouted.
“Come back here, you dead!” another barked. Their voices cracked across the lot, ugly, carrying.
Percy didn’t turn around. He kept moving, chest burning, heart slamming, the fence line stretching long in front of him. He knew better than to look back. The street had taught him that: eyes forward, keep your feet under you, don’t give them the chance.
Their threats echoed behind him until the sound faded.
He slowed only when he was clear, pulling his phone out again, hands slick with sweat. The screen lit back up, message thread still open. where you at? stared back. He didn’t answer this time.
The probation office always smelled wrong. Stale coffee, floor cleaner, something sour baked into the carpet that never left. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, a steady whine that filled the silence while Caine waited outside the door. The early hour pressed heavy on his skin—too early even for the sun to burn off the wet in the air. His backpack strap cut into his palm, his shoulders tight, but he sat still.
Inside, Roussel made noise on purpose. Papers shifting, pen scratching, a cough that carried more performance than need. Caine clocked it the way he clocked safeties on film: all motion, no meaning, just trying to bait him.
Finally, the door cracked open. “Come on in,” Roussel said, like he was doing him a favor.
Caine stepped through. The office was overcooled, AC blasting until the blinds rattled against the frame. On the wall hung a diploma in a cheap frame, LSU purple dulled by dust, next to a print of a swamp that looked bought at Walmart. Everything else sat neat—files stacked, pens lined—like order was proof of power.
“Sit.”
Caine dropped into the chair across from the desk, backpack still hooked on his shoulder. He leaned back, broad shoulders set, gaze steady. He didn’t fidget, didn’t blink more than he had to. He knew the rules here: stillness was a shield.
Roussel glanced up from the folder, then back down. “You been staying out of trouble?”
“Yeah.” Flat.
The man clicked his tongue. “Where you been? Who you been running with?”
“My mom. My girl. My kid.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Roussel let the pause stretch, searching for nerves. He found none. Caine stared back, dark and unreadable, letting the silence sit until the man cleared his throat.
“Funny,” Roussel said. “I been hearing different.”
Caine didn’t take the bait. His voice stayed even, cold. “You heard wrong.”
Roussel smirked, then leaned back, folding his hands over his gut. “Mm. Uh-huh.” His tone softened, like he was coaxing a child, but his eyes were sharp behind the glasses.
Caine shifted once, slow, deliberate—not nerves but dismissal. He let the silence hang until he cut in himself. “What’s the process if I need to leave the parish for college visits?”
That pulled Roussel’s head up. The laugh came quick, sharp. “College? You? Boy, you think you goin’ to college?”
Caine didn’t flinch. “What’s the process?”
The laugh died. Roussel’s grin widened instead, showing his teeth. “Process is: you ain’t leavin’. You wanna play schoolboy, you do it right here. Xavier. Dillard. SUNO. That’s what’s open to you. And you lucky I don’t take even that away.”
The names landed the way they were meant to: a cage drawn in chalk. Still, Caine’s expression didn’t move. “You playing with my life, man. My future.”
Roussel’s voice sharpened, pleased at the crack he thought he heard. “No. You played with your life. Out there jacking cars instead of clocking in like a man. That was you. I didn’t tell you to pick up a gun. That was your choice. You writing your own future. Same one you all do.”
Caine’s jaw worked once. Inside, heat pressed against his ribs, pushing to be let out. The words lined themselves up—you don’t know nothing about raising a baby with no money, nothing about choosing between hunger and survival—but he left them where they were. His silence said more than any defense would.
Roussel leaned forward, elbows on the desk, glasses sliding down his nose. He watched Caine, studying, needling. “Go on. Say it. You feel a certain way, you welcome to do something about it.” He opened his palms, like the offer was genuine.
The office closed in with the hum of the air vent. For a long beat, Caine just stared. His eyes didn’t move, didn’t blink. He let Roussel see the weight of it—the quiet promise that if he did step, he wouldn’t half-step. That if he ever came across the line, it wouldn’t end in words.
Roussel shifted, just slightly, before covering it with another smirk.
Caine finally broke the silence, voice even. “I’m good to go?”
Roussel leaned back slow, the grin pasted back on. “Yeah. Get on outta here. And you make damn sure you’re on time for class. One more tardy slip, you and me gon’ have a real problem.”
Caine rose, movements calm, backpack sliding back into place. He didn’t thank him. He didn’t look back. The cold air clung to his shirt as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway, the hum of fluorescents waiting for him.
He walked steady, each step controlled, every muscle still hot under the skin. Roussel had his name on a file, his freedom in a pen stroke, but that didn’t make him bigger. It only made him a man hiding behind paper.
The buzz of the lights carried him down the hall. Outside, the morning heat waited to close around him again, thick and real. He breathed it in, shoulders squared, and kept walking.
~~~
The library always felt a little cut off from the rest of school. Quieter, darker, the air heavier somehow. Old paper and dust hung above the shelves, mixing with the faintest whiff of bleach from the morning mop. Fans overhead ticked slow, blades groaning like they might stop at any second. The hum of fluorescent lights filled the gaps between voices.
At lunch the room was crowded—every table packed, computers all taken. Kids spread out with trays they weren’t supposed to bring in, smuggling bags of chips or candy under notebooks. Laughter rose and fell in pockets. The librarian, a woman with thin glasses perched low on her nose, kept shushing, but no one really listened.
Mireya sat at a table pressed against the window. Her laptop glowed back at her, light pale against her tired face. Across the top of the browser, tabs stacked like debt notices: admissions pages, deadlines, essay prompts. Each one carried a fee. $25 here, $40 there, $60 for out-of-state. She did the math in her head without trying, the numbers colliding with rent, utilities, Camila’s diapers.
Her stomach cramped. She’d skipped breakfast, saving what little was left in her wallet for application fees. Food could wait. Paperwork couldn’t.
Angela dropped into the chair beside her with the easy sprawl of someone who didn’t care who noticed. She leaned her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. Gum popped between her teeth. She glanced at the screen, smirk curling.
“If I was you,” she said, voice low but sharp enough to cut through the noise, “I’d tell Caine straight up—any school want him, they better want you too. Package deal. Scholarship for both. Apartment, too, since y’all got Mila.”
Mireya clicked the mouse harder than she needed to. A field opened, blinking. She didn’t look at Angela. “And if that school doesn’t got nursing? Or the program’s trash?”
Angela shrugged, like it was obvious. “Then switch it up. Pick something else. Don’t gotta lock yourself in one lane.”
That pulled Mireya’s eyes from the screen. “I’m not doing that.” Her tone was flat, quiet, the kind of answer that didn’t leave space for debate.
Angela leaned back, blowing her gum into a bubble that snapped when it popped. “Alright, but think on it. He goes somewhere and you don’t? You out here alone. School, work, baby—by yourself. Long-distance mama. Basically, a single mom. Ain’t shit already hard enough?”
Mireya’s shoulders tightened. She scrolled through the essay prompt, lines blurring together, her chest pulling tight. Silence stretched.
“Caine isn’t leaving me,” she said finally, voice edged but not raised. “Ain’t leaving Camila. And it’s not like he got schools lined up. One coach talked to him. That’s it.”
Angela tilted her head, gum rolling between her teeth. “Still. Me? I’d follow. Wherever. Make life easier.”
Mireya didn’t answer. The cursor blinked in the empty box, waiting for her GPA. At the next table, a girl unwrapped a sandwich, the smell of mayonnaise sour in the air. Across the room, a boy laughed too loud until the librarian snapped for quiet.
She typed her name in again, letters quick, precise. Another tab opened. Another fee.
Angela shifted in her chair, lowering her voice. “You know I’m not trying to be ugly with it. I just… I see how it is for you. You already carrying everything. I don’t wanna see you drown.”
Mireya’s exhale came sharp through her nose. “I know.”
That was all she gave. No explanation, no softening. Nursing was the only dream she still had that felt like hers. Changing it wasn’t survival—it was erasure. And letting go of the belief that Caine would stay? That was worse than hunger.
Angela studied her, lips pressing together before she leaned back. “Stubborn as hell.”
Mireya didn’t rise to it. She clicked through another page, filled another box, watching the fees stack like bricks on her chest.
Her stomach growled loud enough for Angela to hear. Angela glanced at her but didn’t say anything. Mireya was grateful for that.
Around them, the library swelled with its own noise: sneakers squeaking across tile, pages flipping, gum cracking, phones buzzing against tables. The world moved, loud and careless, while Mireya sat still, eyes burning from the screen, refusing to bend.
She kept typing anyway.
~~~
The room smelled like bleach and old air conditioner. Stale cold blowing out of the vent, fighting the heat pressing against the glass outside. The carpet was damp in spots, no matter how many passes they made with the vacuum. Sara’s back ached from bending, scrubbing, lifting. The uniform shirt clung damp to her skin.
On the other side of the bed, Juana shook out a sheet, snapping it sharp before tucking the corners. She muttered under her breath, Spanish running quick, then switched to English loud enough for Sara to hear.
“Disgusting, these men. I open the door, no sign, no lock, and he’s laying there—” she pointed at the chair by the window—“on top of the seats, naked as the day he born. Didn’t even flinch when I walked in. Just smiled.”
Sara smirked without looking up from the trash she was bagging. “They all got some weird room cleaner fetish now with el Naranja back in office. Think they can do whatever they want, no shame.”
Juana laughed, bitter and sharp. “Next time, I go Lorena Bobbitt on him. Chop it right off.” She made a scissor motion with her fingers.
Sara snorted, tied the bag, tossed it near the cart. “You’d have the whole city cheering.”
The TV in the corner buzzed, sound drifting from where a guest had left it on. Some daytime talk show had been playing. Sara grabbed the remote, flicked channels until the local news came back on.
The screen filled with a stadium lit under Friday night lights. Edna Karr jerseys, gold and purple, bodies colliding fast on the field. The sportscaster’s voice rose with excitement: “And here it is again, Edna Karr over Archbishop Shaw, and their new quarterback—this kid came out of nowhere. Watch the way he moves. Look at that throw.”
Sara froze, rag still in her hand.
Another announcer laughed, voice booming. “Man, they should call him HurriCaine Guerra! Boy went from a little wave way out in the ocean to a category five in one night.”
The clip replayed: Caine rolling out, jersey soaked, ball spiraling clean through the air into the receiver’s hands. Crowd noise roared behind the highlight.
Juana leaned on the mop handle, eyebrows up. “That’s your son?”
Sara’s face softened despite the sweat, the ache in her shoulders. “Sí,” she said, eyes not leaving the screen. Pride warmed through the tiredness, a rare lift. “Es mi hijo.”
The anchors kept talking, replaying another pass, another touchdown. Sara stood still, letting it wash over her. For once, the name Guerra on a screen wasn’t followed by a charge, a violation, a shadow of prison. For once, it was cheers, a headline for the right reasons.
Juana smiled, shaking her head. “Mira no más. He’s good. Real good.”
Sara let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “He always been good.” Her voice came low, steady.
The highlight ended, commercials cutting in loud and jarring. Sara blinked, shut off the screen, and set the rag back against the dresser.
Work waited. Beds to be tucked, floors to scrub, trash to haul. Pride didn’t take the weight off her back, didn’t pay a bill. But for that small moment, she carried it anyway, and it lit something inside that the bleach and sweat couldn’t strip.
She bent, picked up the mop bucket, and went back to cleaning.
~~~
The sun sat high, heat bouncing off the asphalt until it shimmered. Percy leaned against the handle of a cart, thumb dragging lazy over his phone screen. Sweat trickled down his back, sticking the Market Basket polo to his skin. The cart line stretched scattered across the lot, but he wasn’t in a rush to pull them in. Lunch break was coming; he was just burning minutes.
The phone buzzed. A text slid across the cracked screen: where you at? He smirked, tapped quick—work—and went back to scrolling. No names saved. He didn’t need the reminder. He didn’t like being in her house, but he went anyway.
A truck engine growled, tires crunching across the lot. Percy looked up out of habit. Lifted, paint dulled from mud and sun. Nothing out of the ordinary—everybody out here drove trucks like that. It circled once, slow, then swung sharp across the yellow lines and braked hard in front of him.
Doors flung open. Four white men jumped out, boots hitting asphalt loud.
The driver pointed, jaw set tight. “You P?”
Percy raised an eyebrow, lips tugging up like he wasn’t about to give them anything. “Who asking?”
The man’s voice came louder, echoing in the hot air. “You been fucking my wife!”
A short laugh broke out of Percy before he could stop it. “Wife? That chick’s like seventeen.”
The words slipped. He saw the mistake hit as soon as it left his mouth—the way their faces hardened, eyes narrowing.
His stomach dropped.
He didn’t wait. He pushed off the cart and bolted, sneakers slapping hot pavement. Shouts erupted behind him, boots pounding after.
He cut through the grassy strip between the lot and the strip of small businesses, weeds catching his ankles. The men were heavy on his tail, curses flying.
Percy kept low, shoulders forward, the way he’d run when it was cops or rivals on the block back home. Breath pulled sharp in his chest, but his stride never broke.
An Army recruitment yard sign stuck up crooked in the grass—he hurdled it clean, never breaking pace. Ahead, a wooden fence cut the line. He didn’t slow. Two steps, push, and he vaulted over, landing easy on the other side.
Behind him, the men skidded to a stop, breath ragged, too slow to follow.
“Pussy boy!” one shouted.
“Come back here, you dead!” another barked. Their voices cracked across the lot, ugly, carrying.
Percy didn’t turn around. He kept moving, chest burning, heart slamming, the fence line stretching long in front of him. He knew better than to look back. The street had taught him that: eyes forward, keep your feet under you, don’t give them the chance.
Their threats echoed behind him until the sound faded.
He slowed only when he was clear, pulling his phone out again, hands slick with sweat. The screen lit back up, message thread still open. where you at? stared back. He didn’t answer this time.
American Sun
so big ron is fighting bird and he takes a wild ass swing and hits this lil dre character?
American Sun
American Sun
Just trying to follow. I know you be dropping these little hints everywhere. 
American Sun
djp with the random throw away character
just waiting for this ish to blow up. Nice that Sara got a good moment with Caine being on the tele
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
Percy almost got got over some racist pussy? God is good.
-
Chillcavern
- Posts: 952
- Joined: 07 Dec 2018, 23:38
- Contact:
American Sun
That level of denial from Mireya 
I don’t know why (on a logical level, anyway) she’s reluctant to follow Angela’s advice (at least on the school thing - being determined to nurse is understandable IMO).
I know people who have managed the “one of us gets a degree at a time” life - she could go to whatever nursing school she wants if she goes after Caine finishes up with his scholarship (and both going at the same time doesn’t work location-wise)
That would require her to actually talk to Caine about it, though.
Loved that update for Sara, and Percy literally fucked around and found out![[img]https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif[/img]](./images/smilies/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif "Jonesy")
I don’t know why (on a logical level, anyway) she’s reluctant to follow Angela’s advice (at least on the school thing - being determined to nurse is understandable IMO).
I know people who have managed the “one of us gets a degree at a time” life - she could go to whatever nursing school she wants if she goes after Caine finishes up with his scholarship (and both going at the same time doesn’t work location-wise)
That would require her to actually talk to Caine about it, though.
Loved that update for Sara, and Percy literally fucked around and found out
American Sun
Why it gotta blow up?
It's all racist pussy in West Louisiana. He took what he could get
Plotting on his downfall
Why should she postpone her dreams? Maybe he should postpone his. Brandon Weeden type beat.Chillcavern wrote: ↑22 Aug 2025, 18:21That level of denial from Mireya
I don’t know why (on a logical level, anyway) she’s reluctant to follow Angela’s advice (at least on the school thing - being determined to nurse is understandable IMO).
I know people who have managed the “one of us gets a degree at a time” life - she could go to whatever nursing school she wants if she goes after Caine finishes up with his scholarship (and both going at the same time doesn’t work location-wise)
That would require her to actually talk to Caine about it, though.
Loved that update for Sara, and Percy literally fucked around and found out
