confusionCaesar wrote: ↑31 Aug 2025, 23:00Mireya’s mouth opened, then closed. She shifted her weight, tried again. “I wanted to ask you something.” Her voice came out quiet, careful.
Sara waited. She was good at that—holding space without pushing.
“Do y’all… get welfare? Benefits?”
Sara’s eyebrows lifted slightly, then settled. “Yeah. A little. Not much now that the boys are older. Doesn’t stretch the way it used to.”
Mireya nodded, teeth pressing into her bottom lip. The next question sat heavy in her throat. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, then pulled them back into her pockets, steadying herself.
“Could I—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Could I claim Camila on my taxes? So she can get something?”
Sara didn’t pause. “Yes.”
American Sun
American Sun
American Sun
It’s an error. It’s supposed to say could you… on your…djp73 wrote: ↑10 Sep 2025, 09:11confusionCaesar wrote: ↑31 Aug 2025, 23:00Mireya’s mouth opened, then closed. She shifted her weight, tried again. “I wanted to ask you something.” Her voice came out quiet, careful.
Sara waited. She was good at that—holding space without pushing.
“Do y’all… get welfare? Benefits?”
Sara’s eyebrows lifted slightly, then settled. “Yeah. A little. Not much now that the boys are older. Doesn’t stretch the way it used to.”
Mireya nodded, teeth pressing into her bottom lip. The next question sat heavy in her throat. She rubbed her palms against her thighs, then pulled them back into her pockets, steadying herself.
“Could I—” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “Could I claim Camila on my taxes? So she can get something?”
Sara didn’t pause. “Yes.”
American Sun
figured that out eventually, just confusing at first. probably wouldnt have noticed if i wasnt binging
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
Yeah, Saul going to get smoked out huh 
American Sun
2 updates left...
American Sun
Caught up 
American Sun
Kè Mare
The porch wood was soft in spots, paint flaking where the rain had eaten through. Heat pressed down heavy even though the sun was dipping low, humidity hanging like it hadn’t gotten the message that the day was supposed to be done. The apartment sat quiet behind them—one of those rare afternoons when Maria wasn’t barking orders or muttering in the kitchen. The smell of fried grease and bleach still lingered faint from earlier, clashing in the thick air.
Caine sat on the top step, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed forward. Mireya was two planks down, legs folded to the side, her chin propped on her palm. Between them, the silence worked like a wall. Only Camila’s small voice slipped through it, babbling and squealing as she tugged at a plastic doll in the patch of grass near the curb. A car crawled past on the street, bass rattling loose glass, then disappeared.
Her little shoes scuffed on the concrete. A laugh bubbled out of her throat, sticky and pure. For a long stretch, that sound was the only thing that existed.
Caine finally broke it, his voice low, blunt. “I was about to shoot him.”
He didn’t say Hector’s name. He didn’t need to. The weight of it sat between them already. His jaw tightened when he spoke.
Mireya didn’t turn her head. Her eyes followed Camila chasing her doll across the cracked sidewalk, hair curling damp against her temples. She said it flat, like she was commenting on the weather. “Would’ve taught him not to run up on people with guns in their hand.”
Caine let out a sharp snort of air, half laugh, half disbelief.
Mireya shifted slightly, pulling her knees tighter against her chest. Her bare arm stuck faintly to the railing where the paint had bubbled from heat. “I… applied to UNO. And Xavier. Just—”
A buzz cut her words in half. Caine’s phone rattled in his pocket. He pulled it out slow, glanced at the screen. Tennessee number.
He pressed the side button. Sent it to voicemail. “I’ll get it later,” he muttered.
He looked over at her, waiting. “Go on. Finish what you was saying.”
Before she could open her mouth, the phone buzzed again, louder this time in the thin porch air. Kentucky area code.
Caine’s thumb hit the button without hesitation. The screen went black.
Silence stretched. Longer this time. Even Camila seemed to sense it, her babbling dropping into a soft hum as she squatted to pat her doll’s hair.
Mireya’s jaw tightened. She didn’t need to ask. She knew what those numbers meant. She could picture the coaches’ voices, the polite words that really meant: we want him, just because he could throw a football. “Don’t worry about it,” she said finally, her tone clipped. Something curled under each word, but she didn’t let it rise.
Caine’s head turned toward her, eyes steady. He didn’t speak. Just watched her, expression unreadable.
Mireya kept her eyes forward, locked on Camila tugging her doll through the dirt. Her chest felt tight. She thought about tuition numbers she had scribbled on scrap paper. About how no one was going to call her phone from Tennessee or Kentucky.
The baby hummed to herself, stringing sounds together like she was inventing her own language. She toppled back on her butt, then laughed, reaching for a dandelion poking up through a crack in the concrete. Her laughter filled the porch, high and unbothered.
The porch stayed quiet after that, both of them staring out as if the girl in the grass was the only thing worth watching, like she was the thread holding the whole world from tearing.
The air thickened around them. Somewhere down the block a siren rose, then bled away. A neighbor shouted in Spanish at a boy pedaling too close to a parked car. The doll toppled out of Camila’s hands. She squealed, picked it up, and clapped her small palms against its plastic face.
Caine exhaled through his nose, low and slow. His hand went to his pocket again, thumb pressing against the phone like it might ring a third time. It didn’t. He wondered how long it would be before the calls slowed down, how many more schools would scratch his name off their lists.
He leaned forward, elbows digging harder into his knees. Mireya’s shoulders sank against the porch rail. In her chest, bitterness built sharp as bile, but she swallowed it. For Camila’s sake.
Nothing else was said. The silence settled back heavy, and the sound of their daughter filled it again. The scrape of her shoes, her soft laughter—those were the only things that didn’t feel borrowed. The only things that felt like they were theirs, at least for now.
The blinds in Markus’ office were half-closed, letting strips of pale afternoon light cut across the clutter on his desk—files stacked in even towers, a legal pad scribbled with dates, a cold cup of coffee sweating a ring into the wood. He held a phone against his shoulder, pen scratching a note on the pad, the muscles in his jaw tight like they’d been that way all day.
Quentin Landry stepped through the door without knocking, like he’d done a dozen times before. Same office, same smell of old paper and stress, but always the same quiet rhythm between them. He dropped into the chair across from Markus, leaning back with the ease of a man who didn’t need to ask permission.
Markus held up a finger, finishing the call. “Yeah, I understand… I know it’s your compliance office, but I’m telling you he’s eligible on paper… Mm-hm. I’ll send it again.” He pulled the phone away and hit the red button with a sharp jab, shaking his head as he set it on the desk. “Lord have mercy,” he muttered.
Quentin tilted his head. “What’s that—your fifth call today?”
“Feels like fiftieth,” Markus said, rubbing his temple. “Been on the damn phone with college compliance offices all week. Never thought I’d be doing this in my life.”
Quentin’s brows lifted. “For Caine?”
Markus gave a tired nod. “Who else?” He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Half the schools have gotten panicky. The other half? Acting like they’d rather not deal with it at all. Think they got better options.”
Quentin cursed under his breath, shook his head slowly. “That boy has worked too damn hard to claw his way back after that year. For them to just give up on him like that?”
Markus sighed, flipping open a folder and dragging a pen line through one more school name. “I counted three. Maybe. That’s all that’s left willing to even try and make it work.”
Silence hung for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of the AC and the muffled footsteps in the hallway outside. Quentin rubbed at the back of his neck, jaw flexing.
Markus leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His voice dropped. “I’ve got a hearing next week. Gonna try again to get his probation amended. But I wanted to know your opinion. You’re closer to him. He trusts you in a way he doesn’t trust many folks.”
Quentin exhaled through his nose, leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t lie to you. And I wouldn’t lie to him. He’s not naïve. He understands how the process works. Knows schools cool on interest all the time—for grades, for injuries, for whatever. He’s tough enough to take that.”
Markus studied him, eyes narrowing, like he wanted to press but didn’t. He turned back to the paper in front of him, dragging the pen across another line. His handwriting had gotten sharper the more names he struck. “None of the Louisiana schools want him,” he said finally. “Too close to the drama. They don’t want that cloud hanging over their program.”
Quentin shrugged, lips quirking half up. “Then maybe that’s for the best. Get him out the state. Let him see the rest of the country. He’s been carrying New Orleans on his back. Maybe it’s time he breathe somewhere else.”
Markus gave a low chuckle, humorless. “Easy for you to say. You ain’t the one in court begging.”
Quentin leaned forward, forearms on his knees, voice steady. “No, but I am the one who sees him every day in those hallways. Who sees him holding his tongue when the other boys run their mouths. Who sees him still trying, even when everything around him says give up. That’s got to count for something, Markus. Even if the schools don’t see it right away.”
Markus sat back, rubbed at his beard, eyes drifting to the light slanting through the blinds. For a moment, the office was quiet again. Just the two of them, two old frat brothers sitting in a space that held more weight than either of them could shake.
The list on the desk stayed between them, more names crossed off than left. But for now, neither man looked at it.
The front door gave a groan when Sara pushed it open, the handle sticky from the day’s heat. She stepped inside, her shoulders sore and her knees aching from hours of crouching and scrubbing. The smell of bleach clung to her skin even after the shower she’d taken at the hotel. Her uniform shirt was damp under the arms, the cotton collar wrinkled. All she wanted was to sit down in the quiet, to eat whatever her mother had put on the stove and rest her back.
But the living room was torn apart. Caine’s things—clothes, notebooks, the old sneakers he wore to practice—were scattered across the tile. A duffel bag lay tipped over, one sleeve hanging out like a tongue. Hector stood over the mess, arms wide and voice raised, chest puffed like he owned the place. Ximena hovered near the sofa, her hands out as if she could press calm into the air.
Sara’s purse slid from her shoulder to the floor. Her voice was sharp. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Hector whipped toward her, finger stabbing the air. “What I’m doing? Making you make a decision. Either you put that boy out, or I’ma call his PO and tell him exactly what he did—pulled a gun on me. Have his ass sent right back where he belong.”
Ximena cut in, her voice hard. “¡No! You will do no such thing. Ese es familia. You don’t call police on blood.”
Sara’s eyes went to the pile on the floor, jaw locking. “Why his stuff all over the place?”
“Because I went through it,” Hector barked. “Making sure he don’t got nothing else in here that could put my son in danger. Or any of these kids under this roof.”
Sara stepped forward until she was close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “That’s my son. If somebody needed to check his things, it should’ve been me.”
Hector sneered, lip curling. “And you done a terrible job raising him. Look at him now. Jailbird. Trouble. “
The words hit sharp. Sara’s hand twitched at her side. “You real close to saying something you gon’ regret.”
He leaned forward, the veins in his neck rising. “Fuck you. Fuck tu hijo negrito. And fuck your regret.”
Sara didn’t think. Her fist shot up, cracking against his ear with a sound that echoed off the thin walls. Hector stumbled back, one hand flying to his head, eyes wide.
Ximena screamed, voice trembling. “¡Basta ya! Stop this!”
Hector steadied himself on the table, teeth clenched, rage spilling out. “That right there,” he spat, voice raw, “that’s why he the way he is. Violent. Wild. Just like you.”
Sara’s breath was ragged, chest rising and falling. “Don’t fuck with me right now,” she snapped, each word a blade.
He started forward again, but Ximena cut him down with a shout. “¡Ya! It’s over.” Her hand shook as she pointed toward the kitchen.
The room froze. Hector’s glare lingered, burning, before he spun on his heel. The freezer door yanked open, and ice clattered into a cup, sharp against the silence.
Sara stayed where she was, fists still balled, the bones in her hand aching from the punch. Her mother’s eyes were on her—tired, heavy with disappointment and worry both—but Ximena said nothing.
For a long moment, no one moved. The hum of the old fridge filled the silence, joined by the muffled sound of children laughing in the back room. The world outside went on—car horns, a dog barking down the block—while inside, the house felt split in two.
Sara finally crouched, lowering herself onto sore knees. She picked up one of Caine’s shirts, smoothed the wrinkles, and folded it carefully before setting it back in the duffel. Then another. Then his notebooks, the edges bent, pages marked with doodles and scribbled notes. Piece by piece, she put his world back together, each item lifted like it was proof he still belonged here.
Hector reappeared in the doorway, pressing the ice hard against his ear. He muttered something in Spanish under his breath, low and mean, but didn’t step further into the room.
Sara didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at her mother either. Her focus stayed on the clothes, the shoes, the scattered pieces of her son’s life. She folded, stacked, and packed, her jaw set.
The chow hall hummed with noise—trays clattering, plastic scraping against metal tables, the scrape of benches dragging across concrete. The air was thick with the smell of overcooked beans and grease that had burned one time too many. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and flat, making every face look washed-out, tired.
Dre sat near the edge of the room, back against the wall where he could see the whole place without moving much. He picked slow at the cornbread, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Watch, eat, watch.
Across the room, two tables of white boys jawed at some younger Black dudes who hadn’t cliqued up yet, voices raised just enough to hang tension in the air. Nobody swung yet, but it had the feel of storm clouds—waiting for one spark. Guards kept their distance, eyes lazy. They’d let the pot boil before pulling the lid.
A shadow cut across Dre’s tray. Ricardo slid onto the bench opposite, easy like he had all the time in the world. His elbows landed on the table, dark eyes steady on Dre.
Dre glanced up once, then let his gaze drift again, scanning the room. Old reflex. Ricardo caught it and waved his hand, brushing the air. “Ain’t nobody gon’ do you nothing. We letting the Blacks and the whites thin each other out.”
Dre’s jaw flexed. He set his spork down slowly, nudged the tray a little further away. Didn’t answer.
Ricardo chuckled low, shaking his head. “Why you looking around like that? You scared, cabron?” He paused, tone shifting. “Mireya came to see me.”
Dre’s hand froze. He finally looked at Ricardo, eyes narrowing.
Ricardo smirked faintly. “Told me about Caine. Said he doing alright. Trying, at least.”
Dre leaned back just a little, then forward again, spearing his beans with the spork. “She came to see me too.” He chewed, swallowed. “Told her not to hold him back.”
Ricardo’s face twisted, like the words soured in his mouth. “The fuck would you tell her that for?”
“Because that’s what she needed to be told,” Dre said flat. His tone carried no apology. He bent over the tray again, chewing like the conversation didn’t matter.
Ricardo’s eyes sharpened. “You think about what that do to her head? To his head? When he hear his child’s mother been told that—by you?”
Dre gave a small shrug, slow, careless. He swallowed, chased the bite with a sip of water. “Baby mamas always fucking shit up. Can’t get out they own way. I ain’t sit down for him just to see some chick begging for child support fuck up his shot.”
Ricardo leaned in closer, voice cutting low through the noise. “That chick is Mireya. And Caine—my lil’ brother, too—ain’t gonna do shit in his life that don’t include her and Camila. You know that. Everybody do.”
Dre didn’t flinch. He stabbed at the beans again, nodding once like it was simple arithmetic. “Exactly. That’s why I said what I said.”
For a beat, neither spoke. The hall around them swelled—somebody slammed a tray, laughter broke out, a guard barked for quiet. One of the white boys shoved another’s plate to the floor. Beans splattered, a sour smell rising sharper than before.
Ricardo didn’t move, didn’t look away. His jaw tightened, shoulders rolling like he was holding something down. “You ain’t help her. You ain’t help him. All you did was put confusion in her head.”
Dre leaned back, let the spork scrape slow across the tray. Another shrug, looser this time. “Confusion better than her thinking she can hold him like a leash. He don’t need that.”
Ricardo shook his head, slow and tired. He pushed back from the bench, tray half-full. “You don’t get it. That shit was fucking stupid, bruh.”
He stood, the bench groaning against the floor. For a second he hovered there, looking at Dre like he wanted to say more, then turned and walked off, slipping back into the noise of the hall.
Dre stayed where he was, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking up once more. Scanned the room—the guards, the edges, the boys still barking at each other. His jaw tightened, but his face stayed blank. He pulled the tray closer and kept eating.
The shop smelled of motor oil and sweat baked into concrete. Old grease stained the floor in black circles, and the busted fan in the corner rattled uselessly, pushing nothing but noise. Heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, turning the place into a box where tempers could catch quickly.
Tito pushed through the side door, wiping his hands on a rag already stiff with grime. He paused in the doorway, eyes sweeping the bay the way he always did—counting faces, reading postures. You learned to read a room early in life, and that skill had kept him alive long enough to become the man in charge.
Near the middle bay, Tee Tito sat half-slouched on a tool chest like it was a throne. His crew crowded close, draped around him in lazy positions that still carried an edge—leaning against the stripped sedan, perched on milk crates, their laughter bouncing off the walls like they had nothing to lose. They hushed a little when Tito walked in, but not enough. Young men didn’t hide bravado. They sharpened it when they felt watched.
Tito’s eyes narrowed. His voice came even, but heavy. “Junior. You still got it in your head to do something stupid ‘bout that robbery?”
Tee Tito straightened, chin rising. His gaze flicked to his boys, then back at his father. “Ain’t nothing stupid about it. I ain’t letting that slide. You should know better than anybody. You was really in the streets—not just somebody sitting in the office pointing and telling other niggas what to do. You was a general for real.”
The crew snickered, nodding along like they were co-signing scripture.
Tito stepped closer, rag twisting in his hand. He studied each of their faces, the cocky smiles and darting eyes. “General, huh?” He shook his head slow. “None of y’all ever killed nobody. Not one. And now you think your first stripes gon’ be murdering four, five teenagers? That’s what makes you men?”
The words cracked through the room like a wrench dropped on concrete. One boy shifted his weight, eyes sliding toward the ground. Another cleared his throat, but no one spoke.
Tee Tito didn’t blink. He opened his hands wide, like the answer was obvious. “They robbed us. You let somebody do that, you weak. That’s how the city see you. That’s how money dry up.”
Tito barked a laugh, dry and humorless. “You don’t know shit ‘bout money. There’s a difference between making it and dying young trying to prove you hard. Being a hitter don’t pay nobody’s rent. Don’t put food on nobody’s table. All it do is put dirt over you faster.”
Junior waved him off, flicking his wrist careless, leaning back on the chest like a king dismissing counsel. His boys chuckled again, but it sounded thinner this time. “You just don’t get it.”
“No,” Tito snapped, stepping forward until the rag in his hand nearly brushed his son’s knee. His voice dropped lower, cutting sharper. “You don’t get it. The reason I became the nigga in the office is ‘cause I watched too many hardheaded lil’ boys think killing and making money was the same thing. They all gone now. Prison or dirt. You hear me? All of ‘em.”
The hum of the overhead light filled the silence. Sweat trickled down the back of Tito’s neck. He held his son’s eyes, waiting, daring him to answer.
Tee Tito smirked instead, a sharp tilt of the mouth meant for his crew. He leaned back farther, shoulders loose, like the lecture hadn’t touched him. His boys laughed again, but it carried that nervous edge—the kind that said they weren’t sure who was right. “We good, Pops. You do your office thing. We gon’ handle the street thing.”
Tito exhaled slow, rag falling limp in his hand. He shook his head once, muttering under his breath as he turned away.
At the far bay, a half-gutted engine waited—block rusted, wires spilling like veins. Tito bent over it, the sound of tools clinking steady in his hands. Behind him, the boys’ voices rose again, low at first, then louder, bravado filling the shop like exhaust.
He didn’t turn back. But he heard every word.
The porch wood was soft in spots, paint flaking where the rain had eaten through. Heat pressed down heavy even though the sun was dipping low, humidity hanging like it hadn’t gotten the message that the day was supposed to be done. The apartment sat quiet behind them—one of those rare afternoons when Maria wasn’t barking orders or muttering in the kitchen. The smell of fried grease and bleach still lingered faint from earlier, clashing in the thick air.
Caine sat on the top step, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed forward. Mireya was two planks down, legs folded to the side, her chin propped on her palm. Between them, the silence worked like a wall. Only Camila’s small voice slipped through it, babbling and squealing as she tugged at a plastic doll in the patch of grass near the curb. A car crawled past on the street, bass rattling loose glass, then disappeared.
Her little shoes scuffed on the concrete. A laugh bubbled out of her throat, sticky and pure. For a long stretch, that sound was the only thing that existed.
Caine finally broke it, his voice low, blunt. “I was about to shoot him.”
He didn’t say Hector’s name. He didn’t need to. The weight of it sat between them already. His jaw tightened when he spoke.
Mireya didn’t turn her head. Her eyes followed Camila chasing her doll across the cracked sidewalk, hair curling damp against her temples. She said it flat, like she was commenting on the weather. “Would’ve taught him not to run up on people with guns in their hand.”
Caine let out a sharp snort of air, half laugh, half disbelief.
Mireya shifted slightly, pulling her knees tighter against her chest. Her bare arm stuck faintly to the railing where the paint had bubbled from heat. “I… applied to UNO. And Xavier. Just—”
A buzz cut her words in half. Caine’s phone rattled in his pocket. He pulled it out slow, glanced at the screen. Tennessee number.
He pressed the side button. Sent it to voicemail. “I’ll get it later,” he muttered.
He looked over at her, waiting. “Go on. Finish what you was saying.”
Before she could open her mouth, the phone buzzed again, louder this time in the thin porch air. Kentucky area code.
Caine’s thumb hit the button without hesitation. The screen went black.
Silence stretched. Longer this time. Even Camila seemed to sense it, her babbling dropping into a soft hum as she squatted to pat her doll’s hair.
Mireya’s jaw tightened. She didn’t need to ask. She knew what those numbers meant. She could picture the coaches’ voices, the polite words that really meant: we want him, just because he could throw a football. “Don’t worry about it,” she said finally, her tone clipped. Something curled under each word, but she didn’t let it rise.
Caine’s head turned toward her, eyes steady. He didn’t speak. Just watched her, expression unreadable.
Mireya kept her eyes forward, locked on Camila tugging her doll through the dirt. Her chest felt tight. She thought about tuition numbers she had scribbled on scrap paper. About how no one was going to call her phone from Tennessee or Kentucky.
The baby hummed to herself, stringing sounds together like she was inventing her own language. She toppled back on her butt, then laughed, reaching for a dandelion poking up through a crack in the concrete. Her laughter filled the porch, high and unbothered.
The porch stayed quiet after that, both of them staring out as if the girl in the grass was the only thing worth watching, like she was the thread holding the whole world from tearing.
The air thickened around them. Somewhere down the block a siren rose, then bled away. A neighbor shouted in Spanish at a boy pedaling too close to a parked car. The doll toppled out of Camila’s hands. She squealed, picked it up, and clapped her small palms against its plastic face.
Caine exhaled through his nose, low and slow. His hand went to his pocket again, thumb pressing against the phone like it might ring a third time. It didn’t. He wondered how long it would be before the calls slowed down, how many more schools would scratch his name off their lists.
He leaned forward, elbows digging harder into his knees. Mireya’s shoulders sank against the porch rail. In her chest, bitterness built sharp as bile, but she swallowed it. For Camila’s sake.
Nothing else was said. The silence settled back heavy, and the sound of their daughter filled it again. The scrape of her shoes, her soft laughter—those were the only things that didn’t feel borrowed. The only things that felt like they were theirs, at least for now.
~~~
The blinds in Markus’ office were half-closed, letting strips of pale afternoon light cut across the clutter on his desk—files stacked in even towers, a legal pad scribbled with dates, a cold cup of coffee sweating a ring into the wood. He held a phone against his shoulder, pen scratching a note on the pad, the muscles in his jaw tight like they’d been that way all day.
Quentin Landry stepped through the door without knocking, like he’d done a dozen times before. Same office, same smell of old paper and stress, but always the same quiet rhythm between them. He dropped into the chair across from Markus, leaning back with the ease of a man who didn’t need to ask permission.
Markus held up a finger, finishing the call. “Yeah, I understand… I know it’s your compliance office, but I’m telling you he’s eligible on paper… Mm-hm. I’ll send it again.” He pulled the phone away and hit the red button with a sharp jab, shaking his head as he set it on the desk. “Lord have mercy,” he muttered.
Quentin tilted his head. “What’s that—your fifth call today?”
“Feels like fiftieth,” Markus said, rubbing his temple. “Been on the damn phone with college compliance offices all week. Never thought I’d be doing this in my life.”
Quentin’s brows lifted. “For Caine?”
Markus gave a tired nod. “Who else?” He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. “Half the schools have gotten panicky. The other half? Acting like they’d rather not deal with it at all. Think they got better options.”
Quentin cursed under his breath, shook his head slowly. “That boy has worked too damn hard to claw his way back after that year. For them to just give up on him like that?”
Markus sighed, flipping open a folder and dragging a pen line through one more school name. “I counted three. Maybe. That’s all that’s left willing to even try and make it work.”
Silence hung for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of the AC and the muffled footsteps in the hallway outside. Quentin rubbed at the back of his neck, jaw flexing.
Markus leaned forward, elbows on the desk. His voice dropped. “I’ve got a hearing next week. Gonna try again to get his probation amended. But I wanted to know your opinion. You’re closer to him. He trusts you in a way he doesn’t trust many folks.”
Quentin exhaled through his nose, leaned back in the chair. “I wouldn’t lie to you. And I wouldn’t lie to him. He’s not naïve. He understands how the process works. Knows schools cool on interest all the time—for grades, for injuries, for whatever. He’s tough enough to take that.”
Markus studied him, eyes narrowing, like he wanted to press but didn’t. He turned back to the paper in front of him, dragging the pen across another line. His handwriting had gotten sharper the more names he struck. “None of the Louisiana schools want him,” he said finally. “Too close to the drama. They don’t want that cloud hanging over their program.”
Quentin shrugged, lips quirking half up. “Then maybe that’s for the best. Get him out the state. Let him see the rest of the country. He’s been carrying New Orleans on his back. Maybe it’s time he breathe somewhere else.”
Markus gave a low chuckle, humorless. “Easy for you to say. You ain’t the one in court begging.”
Quentin leaned forward, forearms on his knees, voice steady. “No, but I am the one who sees him every day in those hallways. Who sees him holding his tongue when the other boys run their mouths. Who sees him still trying, even when everything around him says give up. That’s got to count for something, Markus. Even if the schools don’t see it right away.”
Markus sat back, rubbed at his beard, eyes drifting to the light slanting through the blinds. For a moment, the office was quiet again. Just the two of them, two old frat brothers sitting in a space that held more weight than either of them could shake.
The list on the desk stayed between them, more names crossed off than left. But for now, neither man looked at it.
~~~
The front door gave a groan when Sara pushed it open, the handle sticky from the day’s heat. She stepped inside, her shoulders sore and her knees aching from hours of crouching and scrubbing. The smell of bleach clung to her skin even after the shower she’d taken at the hotel. Her uniform shirt was damp under the arms, the cotton collar wrinkled. All she wanted was to sit down in the quiet, to eat whatever her mother had put on the stove and rest her back.
But the living room was torn apart. Caine’s things—clothes, notebooks, the old sneakers he wore to practice—were scattered across the tile. A duffel bag lay tipped over, one sleeve hanging out like a tongue. Hector stood over the mess, arms wide and voice raised, chest puffed like he owned the place. Ximena hovered near the sofa, her hands out as if she could press calm into the air.
Sara’s purse slid from her shoulder to the floor. Her voice was sharp. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Hector whipped toward her, finger stabbing the air. “What I’m doing? Making you make a decision. Either you put that boy out, or I’ma call his PO and tell him exactly what he did—pulled a gun on me. Have his ass sent right back where he belong.”
Ximena cut in, her voice hard. “¡No! You will do no such thing. Ese es familia. You don’t call police on blood.”
Sara’s eyes went to the pile on the floor, jaw locking. “Why his stuff all over the place?”
“Because I went through it,” Hector barked. “Making sure he don’t got nothing else in here that could put my son in danger. Or any of these kids under this roof.”
Sara stepped forward until she was close enough to see the sweat beading on his forehead. “That’s my son. If somebody needed to check his things, it should’ve been me.”
Hector sneered, lip curling. “And you done a terrible job raising him. Look at him now. Jailbird. Trouble. “
The words hit sharp. Sara’s hand twitched at her side. “You real close to saying something you gon’ regret.”
He leaned forward, the veins in his neck rising. “Fuck you. Fuck tu hijo negrito. And fuck your regret.”
Sara didn’t think. Her fist shot up, cracking against his ear with a sound that echoed off the thin walls. Hector stumbled back, one hand flying to his head, eyes wide.
Ximena screamed, voice trembling. “¡Basta ya! Stop this!”
Hector steadied himself on the table, teeth clenched, rage spilling out. “That right there,” he spat, voice raw, “that’s why he the way he is. Violent. Wild. Just like you.”
Sara’s breath was ragged, chest rising and falling. “Don’t fuck with me right now,” she snapped, each word a blade.
He started forward again, but Ximena cut him down with a shout. “¡Ya! It’s over.” Her hand shook as she pointed toward the kitchen.
The room froze. Hector’s glare lingered, burning, before he spun on his heel. The freezer door yanked open, and ice clattered into a cup, sharp against the silence.
Sara stayed where she was, fists still balled, the bones in her hand aching from the punch. Her mother’s eyes were on her—tired, heavy with disappointment and worry both—but Ximena said nothing.
For a long moment, no one moved. The hum of the old fridge filled the silence, joined by the muffled sound of children laughing in the back room. The world outside went on—car horns, a dog barking down the block—while inside, the house felt split in two.
Sara finally crouched, lowering herself onto sore knees. She picked up one of Caine’s shirts, smoothed the wrinkles, and folded it carefully before setting it back in the duffel. Then another. Then his notebooks, the edges bent, pages marked with doodles and scribbled notes. Piece by piece, she put his world back together, each item lifted like it was proof he still belonged here.
Hector reappeared in the doorway, pressing the ice hard against his ear. He muttered something in Spanish under his breath, low and mean, but didn’t step further into the room.
Sara didn’t look at him. She didn’t look at her mother either. Her focus stayed on the clothes, the shoes, the scattered pieces of her son’s life. She folded, stacked, and packed, her jaw set.
~~~
The chow hall hummed with noise—trays clattering, plastic scraping against metal tables, the scrape of benches dragging across concrete. The air was thick with the smell of overcooked beans and grease that had burned one time too many. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, pale and flat, making every face look washed-out, tired.
Dre sat near the edge of the room, back against the wall where he could see the whole place without moving much. He picked slow at the cornbread, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Watch, eat, watch.
Across the room, two tables of white boys jawed at some younger Black dudes who hadn’t cliqued up yet, voices raised just enough to hang tension in the air. Nobody swung yet, but it had the feel of storm clouds—waiting for one spark. Guards kept their distance, eyes lazy. They’d let the pot boil before pulling the lid.
A shadow cut across Dre’s tray. Ricardo slid onto the bench opposite, easy like he had all the time in the world. His elbows landed on the table, dark eyes steady on Dre.
Dre glanced up once, then let his gaze drift again, scanning the room. Old reflex. Ricardo caught it and waved his hand, brushing the air. “Ain’t nobody gon’ do you nothing. We letting the Blacks and the whites thin each other out.”
Dre’s jaw flexed. He set his spork down slowly, nudged the tray a little further away. Didn’t answer.
Ricardo chuckled low, shaking his head. “Why you looking around like that? You scared, cabron?” He paused, tone shifting. “Mireya came to see me.”
Dre’s hand froze. He finally looked at Ricardo, eyes narrowing.
Ricardo smirked faintly. “Told me about Caine. Said he doing alright. Trying, at least.”
Dre leaned back just a little, then forward again, spearing his beans with the spork. “She came to see me too.” He chewed, swallowed. “Told her not to hold him back.”
Ricardo’s face twisted, like the words soured in his mouth. “The fuck would you tell her that for?”
“Because that’s what she needed to be told,” Dre said flat. His tone carried no apology. He bent over the tray again, chewing like the conversation didn’t matter.
Ricardo’s eyes sharpened. “You think about what that do to her head? To his head? When he hear his child’s mother been told that—by you?”
Dre gave a small shrug, slow, careless. He swallowed, chased the bite with a sip of water. “Baby mamas always fucking shit up. Can’t get out they own way. I ain’t sit down for him just to see some chick begging for child support fuck up his shot.”
Ricardo leaned in closer, voice cutting low through the noise. “That chick is Mireya. And Caine—my lil’ brother, too—ain’t gonna do shit in his life that don’t include her and Camila. You know that. Everybody do.”
Dre didn’t flinch. He stabbed at the beans again, nodding once like it was simple arithmetic. “Exactly. That’s why I said what I said.”
For a beat, neither spoke. The hall around them swelled—somebody slammed a tray, laughter broke out, a guard barked for quiet. One of the white boys shoved another’s plate to the floor. Beans splattered, a sour smell rising sharper than before.
Ricardo didn’t move, didn’t look away. His jaw tightened, shoulders rolling like he was holding something down. “You ain’t help her. You ain’t help him. All you did was put confusion in her head.”
Dre leaned back, let the spork scrape slow across the tray. Another shrug, looser this time. “Confusion better than her thinking she can hold him like a leash. He don’t need that.”
Ricardo shook his head, slow and tired. He pushed back from the bench, tray half-full. “You don’t get it. That shit was fucking stupid, bruh.”
He stood, the bench groaning against the floor. For a second he hovered there, looking at Dre like he wanted to say more, then turned and walked off, slipping back into the noise of the hall.
Dre stayed where he was, shoulders hunched, eyes flicking up once more. Scanned the room—the guards, the edges, the boys still barking at each other. His jaw tightened, but his face stayed blank. He pulled the tray closer and kept eating.
~~~
The shop smelled of motor oil and sweat baked into concrete. Old grease stained the floor in black circles, and the busted fan in the corner rattled uselessly, pushing nothing but noise. Heat clung to the air, thick and heavy, turning the place into a box where tempers could catch quickly.
Tito pushed through the side door, wiping his hands on a rag already stiff with grime. He paused in the doorway, eyes sweeping the bay the way he always did—counting faces, reading postures. You learned to read a room early in life, and that skill had kept him alive long enough to become the man in charge.
Near the middle bay, Tee Tito sat half-slouched on a tool chest like it was a throne. His crew crowded close, draped around him in lazy positions that still carried an edge—leaning against the stripped sedan, perched on milk crates, their laughter bouncing off the walls like they had nothing to lose. They hushed a little when Tito walked in, but not enough. Young men didn’t hide bravado. They sharpened it when they felt watched.
Tito’s eyes narrowed. His voice came even, but heavy. “Junior. You still got it in your head to do something stupid ‘bout that robbery?”
Tee Tito straightened, chin rising. His gaze flicked to his boys, then back at his father. “Ain’t nothing stupid about it. I ain’t letting that slide. You should know better than anybody. You was really in the streets—not just somebody sitting in the office pointing and telling other niggas what to do. You was a general for real.”
The crew snickered, nodding along like they were co-signing scripture.
Tito stepped closer, rag twisting in his hand. He studied each of their faces, the cocky smiles and darting eyes. “General, huh?” He shook his head slow. “None of y’all ever killed nobody. Not one. And now you think your first stripes gon’ be murdering four, five teenagers? That’s what makes you men?”
The words cracked through the room like a wrench dropped on concrete. One boy shifted his weight, eyes sliding toward the ground. Another cleared his throat, but no one spoke.
Tee Tito didn’t blink. He opened his hands wide, like the answer was obvious. “They robbed us. You let somebody do that, you weak. That’s how the city see you. That’s how money dry up.”
Tito barked a laugh, dry and humorless. “You don’t know shit ‘bout money. There’s a difference between making it and dying young trying to prove you hard. Being a hitter don’t pay nobody’s rent. Don’t put food on nobody’s table. All it do is put dirt over you faster.”
Junior waved him off, flicking his wrist careless, leaning back on the chest like a king dismissing counsel. His boys chuckled again, but it sounded thinner this time. “You just don’t get it.”
“No,” Tito snapped, stepping forward until the rag in his hand nearly brushed his son’s knee. His voice dropped lower, cutting sharper. “You don’t get it. The reason I became the nigga in the office is ‘cause I watched too many hardheaded lil’ boys think killing and making money was the same thing. They all gone now. Prison or dirt. You hear me? All of ‘em.”
The hum of the overhead light filled the silence. Sweat trickled down the back of Tito’s neck. He held his son’s eyes, waiting, daring him to answer.
Tee Tito smirked instead, a sharp tilt of the mouth meant for his crew. He leaned back farther, shoulders loose, like the lecture hadn’t touched him. His boys laughed again, but it carried that nervous edge—the kind that said they weren’t sure who was right. “We good, Pops. You do your office thing. We gon’ handle the street thing.”
Tito exhaled slow, rag falling limp in his hand. He shook his head once, muttering under his breath as he turned away.
At the far bay, a half-gutted engine waited—block rusted, wires spilling like veins. Tito bent over it, the sound of tools clinking steady in his hands. Behind him, the boys’ voices rose again, low at first, then louder, bravado filling the shop like exhaust.
He didn’t turn back. But he heard every word.
American Sun
we just gonna breeze past this?Caesar wrote: ↑10 Sep 2025, 19:27Caine finally broke it, his voice low, blunt. “I was about to shoot him.”
He didn’t say Hector’s name. He didn’t need to. The weight of it sat between them already. His jaw tightened when he spoke.
Mireya didn’t turn her head. Her eyes followed Camila chasing her doll across the cracked sidewalk, hair curling damp against her temples. She said it flat, like she was commenting on the weather. “Would’ve taught him not to run up on people with guns in their hand.”
Caine let out a sharp snort of air, half laugh, half disbelief.
Mireya shifted slightly, pulling her knees tighter against her chest. Her bare arm stuck faintly to the railing where the paint had bubbled from heat. “I… applied to UNO. And Xavier. Just—”
American Sun
Was expecting Hector to call Rousseau