The house was still dark, just enough gray pushing in through the curtains to let you know morning had finally made it past the night.
Sara stood in the doorway of the living room, one hand on the wall for balance. She hadn’t meant to wake up this early. Her body just did it now—like her bones were on a shift schedule they didn’t trust her to remember.
Caine was on the couch, limbs spilling over like he’d outgrown rest. One leg bent up against the back cushion, the other half off the edge, socked foot dangling toward the floor. His mouth was slack, but his brow still looked tense, like even in sleep he was bracing for something. A folded hoodie was balled under his head. No pillow.
She stepped forward, the floor creaking faintly beneath her, and pulled the blanket over him. He stirred but didn’t wake. She hesitated for a second before smoothing the edge near his shoulder, a quiet mother-motion that felt instinctive even though she knew he wouldn’t remember it.
He always looked younger when he was asleep. Not like a child, not anymore—but like something just short of grown, caught between trying and surviving.
She didn’t go back to bed.
Instead, she sat on the coffee table across from him and pulled her phone from her robe pocket. The screen lit her face in pale blue. The crack running across it had splintered deeper since last week—like everything else.
She opened the apartment apps first. Same listings. Same prices. Same insult.
Then Indeed. ZipRecruiter. Craigslist. Scrolling. Scrolling.
Too far. Too much. Too few hours. Not hiring right now. GED required. Warehouse overnight. Cashier weekend. Housekeeping with no benefits.
She bookmarked two. Closed the tabs. Reopened them again like they might’ve changed.
The clock on the microwave blinked from the kitchen—5:41. She hadn’t slept more than four hours. Again.
Behind her, the radiator kicked in with a soft clank. Caine shifted on the couch and mumbled something she couldn’t make out. She didn’t move.
Her savings account flashed in her head without needing to be opened: $172.14.
She sat in the quiet a while longer, phone heavy in her hand. The edges of her robe brushing against her legs. From the kitchen, her mother moved slowly, setting up the coffee pot like she did every morning, her slippers whispering against the tile. No words between them—just the familiar rhythm of women rising early, out of habit more than hope.
Sara stood and slipped her phone back into her pocket. She glanced at Caine one last time.
“You’re trying,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Then she turned and walked toward the bathroom, another day already starting before the sun had fully arrived.
~~~
The hallway light flickered when Mireya turned it on, buzzing faintly overhead like it was too tired to commit. She squinted against it and shuffled toward the kitchen, hoodie half-zipped, socks mismatched, hair still tied up from the night before. She hadn’t even brushed her teeth yet. Just needed water and maybe ten seconds to herself before the day really started.
Camila was still asleep in the room they shared, curled under the blanket with one arm tossed above her head like she was claiming space in a world that barely gave her any.
Maria was already up, folding laundry on the couch. A basket of clothes sat at her feet. T-shirts, onesies, dish towels—half of it wasn’t even Mireya’s, but she recognized the rhythm of her mother’s hands. Efficient. Unbothered. Not angry, exactly. Just full of the kind of tired that made you stop saying things twice.
Mireya lingered in the kitchen doorway.
“Mami?”
Maria didn’t look up. “¿Qué?”
“I… I wanted to talk to you about something.”
That made her pause. She placed a shirt down neatly and turned.
Mireya stepped forward, arms crossed. “There’s this deadline for dual enrollment coming up. And the ACT… I mean, the dates are all online, but there’s fees. For both. I printed everything out at school. I’ve been saving, but I’m not gonna have enough in time.”
Maria raised an eyebrow, silent.
“I was wondering if maybe you could help with some of it,” Mireya added. “Just a little. Even just the ACT.”
Maria exhaled slowly through her nose. “I already cover the groceries. The lights. Camila’s clothes.”
“I know,” Mireya said quickly. “I know you do.”
“You want me to cover this too?”
“I just—” she stopped, voice catching. “I thought maybe we could figure something out.”
Maria turned back to the laundry and folded another shirt. “I’m not saying no. But I’m saying it’s hard. Everything is hard.”
Mireya stood in place.
“What am I supposed to do?” she asked, quiet.
Maria didn’t look up. “Grow up faster.”
The words landed soft but sharp. Not shouted. Not cruel. Just the truth, served plain.
Mireya nodded once. Not in agreement, but acknowledgment. Then she stepped back into the hallway, moving slow.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t yell.
She just stood there in the half-dark, back against the wall, the hallway light still buzzing behind her, and told herself she’d figure it out.
Somehow.
~~~
The wind coming off the blacktop had bite to it. Caine stood outside the gym doors, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his front pocket, trying to keep warm. The game hadn’t started yet, but parents were already filing in, and the nacho machine was wheezing loud enough to echo down the breezeway.
He’d be clocking in soon. Another shift. Another couple hours toward his restitution plan, like that was ever gonna close the gap.
Headlights bounced down the street. Slow. Low. A familiar car pulled into the lot and rolled to a stop near the curb. Caine didn’t flinch. He knew the silhouette before the window even rolled down.
“Damn,” Ramon called out, grin crooked. “They really got you out here slanging hot dogs, huh?”
EJ was in the passenger seat, hood low, chewing a toothpick. His eyes tracked Caine without blinking.
Caine stayed leaned against the wall. “Whatever keeps my PO off my back.”
“Ain’t knocking it,” Ramon said, still grinning. “Just thought they’d make you at least go to Burger King or something.”
EJ nodded once. “Or something.”
They let the words hang, unthreatening. Caine stepped a little closer to the curb but kept a foot on the sidewalk.
Ramon dropped his tone. “You know they talking about you, right?”
Caine didn’t say anything.
“They know what you did,” Ramon continued. “Or what you didn’t do. Sat on a hunred years and never folded. That don’t go unnoticed.”
EJ added, “You ain’t tell on nobody. Didn’t run your mouth. Didn’t play scared. You stood on yours. That’s why some of the big bruddas wanna meet you.”
Caine’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t respond. His eyes stayed on the street beyond them.
Ramon leaned back against the door. “Ain’t no setup. Ain’t no test. They just wanna see if you who you showed us you was.”
EJ looked at him again. “But you know how it is. You out here on your own. Some people you might got beef with could see that as an opportunity to put you down.”
Caine kept still.
Ramon said, “We know you tryna keep shit clean. Ain’t nobody telling you to throw it all away. But come on, bruh… popcorn and Gatorade? That ain’t feeding no baby.”
EJ didn’t smile. “Your kid still need diapers, right?”
That landed harder than anything else.
The gym door buzzed behind him—one of the coaches unlocking it for tip-off.
Ramon nodded toward the door. “We’ll see what you on this weekend.”
They didn’t wait for a yes.
Caine watched them roll off into the streetlight haze, then turned and walked inside.
The warmth of the gym hit him all at once—bright lights, chatter, the slap of basketballs and whistles already flying.
He clocked in, put on his gloves, and told himself it was just another shift.
~~~
The walls were stripped down to insulation in some places, sagging paneling in others. One corner of the ceiling had caved in from rain, leaving a dark scab of mildew that spread wider each week. Percy didn’t mind. Nobody came here.
The little house sat tucked behind a junked-out barbershop in New Orleans East, just off Chef, surrounded by tall grass and old secrets. He stayed low. Didn’t answer numbers he didn’t know. Kept the car parked three blocks away and only came in through the side alley. The only light came from a camping lantern in the corner and the glow off his phone.
A revolver lay across his lap, barrel still greasy from the last time he cleaned it.
Percy sat near the boarded window, peeking through the warped slats at the street beyond. A car passed—rattling and low, dented door flapping in the wind. He tensed, fingers curling near the grip.
It kept going.
He waited a beat, then two, before letting his body settle back against the wall. His breath left him in a slow push, like it had to be convinced.
The mattress beneath him was stripped bare, just a gray foam slab with cigarette burns near the edges. He’d dragged it from one of the back bedrooms where the roof had fully collapsed. The heat in the house was whatever the air decided to give. Sometimes it felt like an oven. Tonight, it was just cold enough to sting his fingertips.
On the floor beside him, a cheap solar generator blinked. One bar left.
He plugged in the charger and leaned over, lighting the screen of his phone. He scrolled past an alert from his PO. A text: Confirm location. FaceTime check by 9:00pm.
He tapped out a response.
Got it.
Then he opened a video—something stupid from YouTube. A guy falling through a porch step while trying to barbecue. Percy had seen it a dozen times already, but it still made him exhale sharp through his nose, the closest thing to a laugh he’d made in days.
The video ended and looped. The man cursed, dropped his plate, and disappeared again through the busted wood. Percy watched it twice more before letting the phone go dim in his hand.
He didn’t smile. Just stared.
Outside, a dog barked in the distance. Tires screeched. Somewhere, a siren started but didn’t last long.
Percy clicked off the phone and let it fall beside him.
He reached for the revolver again, checked the chamber like he didn’t already know what was there, then laid it back across his lap.
He didn’t sleep much anymore.
Didn’t plan on it tonight, either.
~~~
Camila sat in the middle of the rug stacking blocks, her legs spread out, little socks barely clinging to her feet. Every so often, she’d hum something tuneless to herself, lost in her own world. Two of the blocks didn’t fit together, but she kept trying anyway, pushing them at angles, then laughing like it was part of the game.
Caine lay on his back on Mireya’s bed, one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee. His shoes were kicked off, but he hadn’t gotten comfortable. His hoodie was bunched behind his neck like a makeshift pillow. The room was dim except for the glow of Camila’s nightlight, casting a slow circle on the wall like a heartbeat.
Mireya lay beside him, close but not touching, her chin resting on her folded arms. She’d been quiet for a while.
Then came the question. Soft. Direct.
“You ever feel bad?”
Caine blinked. “About what?”
“Back then. The stuff you did.”
He stared at the ceiling like it might hold the answer. A piece of paint near the corner was peeling. “You asking me this now for a reason?”
“I’ve just always wondered.”
His voice came low. “I ain’t really think about it when I was doing it. You don’t stop to feel when you gotta eat. You just move. You don’t even look at the faces.”
She nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.
“But afterward?” he added. “I guess… sometimes. Sometimes I felt it. But it wasn’t like guilt, not really. It was just noise in the background. Something I learned to tune out.”
Mireya still didn’t speak.
Caine shifted. “Tourists, old white people, they got insurance. They lose a phone or a purse, they just replace it. Even a car. I ain’t never rob nobody that looked like me.”
That sat between them.
Camila knocked over her tower with both hands and let out a gasp, then clapped for herself like it was the best magic trick in the world.
Mireya’s voice came softer now. “Would you look at me different?”
He turned his head slightly. “For what?”
“If I did stuff. Crossed lines.”
Her eyes stayed on Camila, but her body was still. Like the question cost something to ask.
Caine didn’t answer right away. He watched Camila crawl toward her next project—lining up the blocks like train cars.
“I ain’t got no right to judge nobody,” he said. “Especially not you.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He looked at her then. Really looked.
“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t look at you different. But I would worry. 'Cause I know what that life takes from you. Bit by bit. Stuff you don’t even know you had ‘til it’s gone.”
Mireya finally met his gaze.
“You’re a better person than me,” he added. “I couldn’t picture you doing dirt.”
She shifted closer and laid her head on his chest. He didn’t move, but something in his shoulders relaxed.
Camila made a sound like a question mark, then started building again.
Neither of them spoke.
The night outside pressed in like a blanket, thick and close, but inside the room, things stayed quiet. Heavy, but not broken.
Mireya closed her eyes, listening to the rhythm of Caine’s breath.
He kept staring at the ceiling, wide awake.
And Camila kept stacking what little she had.
