The rec room had no windows, but they still called it “outside.” Caine sat with Ramon and EJ near the wall, the floor cool through his pants, the air thick and loud with movement. Somebody was jawing over by the TV. Uno cards slapped the table nearby. But their little corner stayed quiet.
Ramon leaned back, eyes half-closed. EJ scraped lint out of his sock with a pencil.
The door buzzed.
Tyree walked in grinning, jumpsuit halfway unzipped and CO trailing like an afterthought. He hit Ramon’s back with a loud smack and dropped onto the bench like he was still riding whatever adrenaline the courtroom gave him.
“Bitch, I told y’all,” he said, grin wide. “I’m out Friday.”
EJ leaned up, eyebrows raised. “You for real?”
Tyree nodded like he couldn’t stop. “PO and all. They signed off. Said my shit low enough and I got family saying they got space. Judge ain’t even blink.”
“You cried?” Ramon asked, side-eye sharp.
“My mama cried. I just sat there looking like a dumbass that learned his lesson.”
They all chuckled—light, brief. But something in the way Tyree kept moving his leg said it wasn’t sitting right yet.
“Where you headed?” Caine asked.
“Laplace. My auntie house.”
Ramon snorted. “She still got that man with the iguana?”
“Yeah,” Tyree said. “But I ain’t staying long. Bout to start moving smarter.”
“Like hell,” EJ said, grinning.
Caine wiped his palms on his pants. “Y’all both turning nineteen in here, huh?”
EJ nodded. “Ain’t no rush. Could be worse.”
Ramon gave a short nod.
Tyree leaned in, quieter now. “We know some folks. If you tired of waiting.”
Caine didn’t look at him, but didn’t pretend not to hear either.
Tyree kept going. “Witnesses disappear. Papers get misplaced. Folks forget how to get to court.”
Ramon scratched his jaw but didn’t say anything. EJ stayed still.
Caine finally spoke. “Ain’t that simple.”
Tyree shrugged. “Ain’t that hard neither.”
Caine looked down at his hands.
He didn’t agree. Didn’t push back.
Didn’t smile either.
Just stood up. “Gon’ stretch.”
Nobody followed. But he felt them watching.
He didn’t mind.
That’s how it worked. Everybody watched. Everybody waited to see who’d fold.
~~~
The library was cold and quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they hated being on. Mireya sat tucked into the far corner, hoodie halfway over her face, backpack propped against her knees like a barrier. She’d told her third period she had cramps. Fourth, that she needed to meet with her counselor.
Really, she just needed to shut her eyes. For ten minutes. Maybe twenty.
Her head leaned back against the brick wall, heavy with exhaustion. Her body didn’t rest so much as it gave out. Sleep came in fractured pieces, like her brain cutting the lights to stop the house from falling in.
Then laughter cut through.
Sharp. High-pitched. Intentional.
She stirred. Her vision cleared in pieces. Three girls at the table by the printer. She didn’t know the others, but the one in the middle—Kiana Bennett—she knew. Long braids, overlined lips, and a voice that always carried like it was meant to land on somebody else’s nerves.
Kiana had flirted with Caine back in freshman year. Said so to Mireya’s face. Said it like a joke, but not really.
Kiana leaned over the table like she was giving a TED Talk.
“She walk around here like she still matter,” she said, loud enough for the shelves to hear. “Girl, you not even Caine’s babymama—you just what’s left. He got locked, and you stuck here playing dress-up in your mama’s hand-me-downs and busted-ass slides.”
Her friends cracked up.
Mireya sat up.
Kiana kept going. “Every time I see her, she look more tired than them damn daycare posters. Talkin’ bout college? Baby, you ain't goin’ nowhere but aisle five with a WIC card.”
Another laugh. One of the girls slapped the table.
Mireya stood.
Kiana stepped forward, unfazed. “Ain’t nobody scared of you. You just mad ‘cause he picked you to get stuck with and left the rest of us free.”
The first punch came clean. Jaw, side angle, just like Caine had taught her years ago—back when fighting meant something different. Kiana’s head snapped sideways. A chair toppled. Screaming.
Mireya lunged for her again, fists cocked.
But Kiana was faster this time.
The heel of her palm caught Mireya square on the cheekbone—hard. A white flash bloomed behind her eyes. She stumbled back into the table, teeth clenched, face burning.
Then the adults were shouting.
The SRO grabbed her from behind and yanked her into a chair with no care for her balance. She hit the plastic hard, shoulder first.
“You done?” he asked.
Mireya didn’t answer. Her chest heaved. Her vision tunneled.
Kiana stood a few feet away now, lips split, breathing heavy—but it was Mireya’s cheek that pulsed with heat, like her skin was trying to crawl away from her bones.
She didn’t feel tough.
She didn’t feel right.
She just sat there with her fists balled and her stomach hollowed out and the taste of metal in her mouth like she’d been the one bleeding.
~~~
Markus adjusted his tie in the reflection of the courtroom’s darkened window—not because he cared, but because the habit calmed his hands. Jill Babin was already seated at the prosecution table, red pen tucked behind her ear, a highlighter clenched between her fingers like a blade.
She glanced over her shoulder as Markus took his seat and gave him a thin smile. Not friendly. Not hostile. Just the kind that said, We’re not colleagues today.
The judge entered. Everyone rose. Routine, automatic.
When they sat again, Markus leaned forward and cleared his throat.
“Your Honor, we’re moving to suppress the out-of-court statements made by Percy Anderson, who the state has admitted was seventeen at the time of questioning. The interview in question was conducted without a guardian or legal representative present, and therefore—”
“Your Honor,” Babin interrupted, already standing, “Percy Anderson’s charges—while not being pursued—would have qualified him for adult prosecution under the existing statute. Furthermore, his statements were made voluntarily and without coercion.”
Markus didn’t flinch. “Let’s not pretend this is about Percy’s crimes. This is about protecting the DA’s star witness, who gave a narrative that became the entire spine of their case against my client.”
Babin folded her hands. “Your Honor, the state entered into a limited agreement with Mr. Anderson for supervised probation. But that doesn’t negate the voluntary nature of the statement. There was no coercion, no threats, and the testimony aligns with independent evidence.”
“With a lawyer present?” Markus asked.
“No. But he waived—”
“He was seventeen,” Markus snapped, “and the police knew he wasn’t asking for counsel because he thought cooperating would save him.”
Babin turned, polite but firm. “And it did. Because your client is the one on trial, not Mr. Anderson. And the details Mr. Anderson gave—time, place, communication records—correspond with evidence already in discovery.”
Markus stepped forward. “Your Honor, the state is justifying the admissibility of an improperly obtained statement by referencing the charges that Percy didn’t face. But the moment you remove Percy’s confession from their toolbox? Their entire case falls apart. Which is exactly why they’re fighting to keep it.”
The judge held up a hand, silencing them both.
He glanced between them, then down at his notes.
“Mr. Shaw, I’m sympathetic to the issue of Percy’s age, but given the nature of the charges, the voluntary nature of the statement, and the corroborating evidence already introduced into the record, I’m ruling to allow the confession to remain admissible at trial.”
Markus sat down, jaw tight.
Babin didn’t look at him. She didn’t need to.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling for just a second longer than necessary.
Opening salvos had been fired.
And the judge had already shown whose side he leaned toward.
~~~
The envelope was already open, but Sara kept reading it like the words might change. The letterhead said Housing Authority of New Orleans. The bottom said: Approved.
A two-bedroom unit. Second floor. Window unit. East of the canal. No pets. No roommates.
She sat at the edge of her mother’s kitchen table, elbows on knees, the house humming around her with too many lives. Kids’ shoes in the hallway. Pots soaking in the sink. Katia, Deysi or Yanet crying two rooms over.
She folded the letter neatly and set it beside her phone.
For a moment, she just breathed.
She had waited six months. The list had been long. Her paychecks were short. This wasn’t what she’d hoped for. It was what was left. But it was hers. If she signed.
She opened the photo attached to the email again. A dingy little kitchen with cracked tile and a dent in the fridge. But the light through the window was clean. Quiet.
No one yelling. No doors slamming. No Hector muttering racist shit under his breath when he got home from the yard.
She could picture herself there. Alone. Or maybe not.
She swiped to the second photo. The bedroom. Just enough space for a mattress, maybe a fold-out crib.
Camila.
Sara felt the name hit her chest before the thought fully formed.
Camila didn’t spend much time with her. That had never been up for debate. Maria made sure of it. But Sara still loved that baby like something holy—even if she only got to hold her for a few minutes at a time.
And if Caine came home… where would he go?
Not here. Not back to this house where there were too many opinions, too many eyes, and no room to grow.
This apartment could be the difference.
Or it could be a reminder. That she might be living alone for a long time.
Nicole’s voice floated back from that late-night meeting in the office: Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.
Sara stared at the lease form on her screen.
The cursor blinked, waiting.
She didn’t type.
She just sat still, imagining the silence of her own front door closing behind her. Not freedom. Not peace.
But something like starting over.
~~~
Caine sat with his hands clasped, arms tense on the table. His eyes stayed fixed on the door, jaw tight enough to hurt.
He’d said it enough times. Don’t bring her here. He’d said it with words. With silence. With the way he didn’t ask for photos. Didn’t want her to remember this place.
And still.
The door clicked open, and there they were.
Mireya looked thinner than the last time. Pale. Exhausted. She had Camila on her hip, the baby’s curls frizzed from heat and sleep. A purple bruise sat high on Mireya’s cheekbone, half-concealed with makeup, not enough to hide the swelling.
Caine didn’t move.
Camila blinked at him, unsure, then lit up. “Dada!”
His heart seized.
Mireya sat across from him without meeting his eyes. Camila squirmed, reaching across the table.
“I told you not to bring her,” Caine said in Spanish, voice flat.
“Yo sé.”
Silence settled between them like dust.
He looked at the bruise. “Who did that?”
She gave a half-shrug. “Some girl at school ran her mouth.”
“You fighting now?”
“I ain’t start it.”
Caine leaned forward. “Reya…”
“I’m drowning,” she said, still not looking at him. “I don’t sleep. I don’t eat unless I’m feeding her. School’s a joke. Work’s worse. My mom’s tired of watching her, and I can’t say no to work—even when it don’t feel right. I’m trying to hold it all together and it’s just—”
She stopped, eyes glassy but dry.
“I can’t see the end of this. I don’t even know if there is one.”
Caine looked at Camila, who was babbling now, drumming her hands against the plastic tabletop. He reached out, let her grab his fingers. She squeezed tight, laughing.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Mireya looked up.
“I ain’t mean for all this to fall on you.”
Her face twisted like she wanted to yell, but didn’t have the energy. Instead, she just shook her head.
“Sorry doesn’t pay for daycare. Sorry doesn’t fix the fact that she’s outgrowing her shoes and I’m still wearing shoes I bought sophomore year.”
Caine nodded, quiet.
“Tell your mama to file for stamps,” he said. “Maybe they’ll cover some groceries. Take some weight off.”
“She already working full-time and barely holding it together,” Mireya said. “I don’t need food. I need a break.”
Caine didn’t have a response for that. He just kept his hand out for Camila, who grabbed at his thumb and tried to gnaw on it.
“I’ll figure something out,” he said finally.
“You always say that but look where we are.”
She stood, adjusting Camila on her hip.
“I didn’t bring her for you,” she said. “I brought her so she could see you. So she don’t forget your face.”
Caine stood too. The CO stepped forward, ready to cut it off.
But Caine held up a hand, gentle.
“Just one sec.”
He leaned over and kissed Camila’s forehead. Kissed Mireya’s too, light and quick.
The CO started to protest.
“This my daughter, man,” Caine said, not looking back.
The CO didn’t say anything else.
As Mireya walked away, Camila looked over her shoulder and waved her tiny hand.
Caine didn’t sit down.
He just stood there until the door closed again.
