The sun crept slow over the rooftops of Desire, slanting bruised gold through ragweed and busted glass on the curb. The morning smelled of stale beer and wet cardboard. Ramon shifted on the chipped steps of the old house, porch sagging beneath him. Every move cracked something under his shoe—a roach or a flattened baggie, nobody looked close enough to care.
E.J. sprawled beside him, hood low, face in his hands. Tyree paced the sidewalk, sneakers scuffing lines in the dew, too restless for how early it was. Out on the street, a bus groaned to life, somewhere a car alarm whimpered itself back to sleep.
E.J. sucked his teeth. “Swear to God, bro, I don’t even care she threw me out. She can keep the damn AirPods. She ain’t keeping the PlayStation, though.”
Tyree barked a laugh. “If you wasn’t creeping with Kelli out Michoud, you’d still have somewhere to sleep.”
Ramon didn’t look up, hand still tucked under his shirt, palm sweat-slick against the pistol at his waist. You never put it down, not in this part of town, not even at sunrise.
E.J. flicked a pebble at Tyree, missed by a foot. “Man, don’t act like you wouldn’t hit that.”
“Nigga, I got standards. And a bed.” Tyree’s grin flashed, all chipped teeth and attitude.
Down the block, a man shuffled closer—thin frame, patchy beard, moving like his bones hurt. But Ramon’s eyes narrowed. The shoes: white Nikes, barely creased, laces clean as hospital bedsheets. No way. Ramon scanned the rest: jeans too neat, cuffs untouched by gutter water, a stance too stiff for a strung-out fiend.
The man stopped, right in front of Tyree, eyes flicking too quick, voice pitched just a little too loud. “Y’all got that rock? I got five on me.”
Ramon didn’t break his stare, didn’t move. “Nah. You got the wrong ones, boss.”
Tyree caught the shift—looked the man up and down, bristling now. “Yeah, move on. Ain’t shit for you here.”
But the man pressed, something off about the energy. “Come on, just a little. I got cash—”
Wrong. It was all wrong. Ramon’s gut soured, years of street sense humming through his bones. This wasn’t a user. Wasn’t even a real ask. He flicked his chin up—a silent cue for Tyree to shut it down.
Tyree stepped back, arms crossed. “Ain’t nobody out here selling, man. Get yo crackhead ass on somewhere.”
The man hesitated, eyes darting one last time to E.J., who looked away, then mumbled about “missing out” and shuffled off—too neat, too careful, his soles crunching the glass that’d been there for weeks.
Ramon kept watching until the man turned the corner, pulse ticking in his throat.
For a moment, nothing but a woodpecker hammering a rotten pole, three boys and the empty city.
Then, as if on cue, Ramon stood, joints popping, and walked beside the house, squatting in the weeds to pretend to piss—heart beating quick. He shoved the pistol under the loose slats, hidden deep enough the cops would never find it.
He was just zipping up when blue lights flashed, sirens screaming. Four, five NOPD cruisers careened in, tires squealing, doors slamming. “Get on the ground! Hands up!”
E.J. dropped, face-first on the steps, palms flat and shaking. Tyree’s arms shot up, eyes wide, knees locked.
Ramon raised his hands slow, sweat prickling cold under his shirt as he walked back around. The gravel bit into his knees when a cop shoved him down, patting him rough, gloved hands yanking at his pockets.
“What you got?” barked the cop, breath sour with coffee.
“Not a fucking thing but hopes and dreams,” Tyree said, a half-smile tugging his lips. “Y’all want them too?”
The cop grunted, checking E.J., flipping his pockets. “Ain’t shit but lint.”
They tossed all three, impatient, rough. The walkie crackled: “Find anything?”
“Nah, just three dumbasses out here catching dew. Send them home.”
The cuffs snapped off—cold, brief. “Y’all go fucking home. Don’t let us see you again.”
Ramon dusted off his knees, the backs of his jeans wet. The cruisers rolled away, blue lights fading down the block.
The three walked slow, Tyree whistling low. E.J. broke the silence: “Yo, Ty, where’s the rock at?”
Tyree grinned, hand down his jeans, eyes wicked. “Under my fucking dick, bruh. Told you I ain’t getting caught up.”
Ramon shook his head, mouth twitching despite it all, adrenaline still sour in his mouth. Morning had barely started and already the city was pressing in, cold as the dew on their shoes.
~~~
The locker room at Edna Karr High was alive—sweat and Axe, a hundred conversations clattering off the cinderblock walls. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their white glare making the polished helmets line the shelves like candy in a case. Caine stood half in shadow by the trainers’ table, clutching the heavy mesh bag the manager had tossed at him.
He pulled out his jersey—#19, the numbers stitched tight and fresh, red bright enough to almost hurt the eye. The fabric was stiff, still smelling of the factory and not yet of grass, blood, or loss. Around him, the air popped with energy. Laughter, a curse, the thunk of someone slapping pads together, a metallic jangle of cleats tossed into an open locker.
The other boys clustered in tight circles. Jay—Jamarious to his mama, “Jay” to everyone else—held court in the corner, grinning with easy confidence. A group crowded around him, laughing at some story. Caine took a locker near the edge, far enough to avoid the main fray but close enough to feel the tension in the room. He moved quiet, muscle memory guiding him through the ritual of taping his wrists, lacing up the cleats, tucking in his mouthguard.
The field outside steamed with late-morning heat, sun slicing through the chain-link like blades. They lined up in rows, quarterbacks first, balls already flying crisp through the air. Caine’s shoulders thrummed, not with nerves but with that familiar sense of edge—the hush before a storm, the knowledge that every rep mattered.
Coach Joseph stalked the sideline, clipboard in hand, barking orders. “Footwork! Eyes downfield! Hit that seam!” The grass was still slick with dew; the scent rose up sharp as they cut and drove through the drills.
Jay took the first snap, his arm quick and sure but a little too relaxed, maybe. He dropped back, threw a sideline out—receiver bobbled it but reeled it in. The group clapped, a few shouts echoing out, Jay’s name at the center.
Then it was Caine’s turn. He rolled his shoulders, catching the spiral as it came his way. The laces felt right, old comfort. “Let’s go,” he murmured to himself, voice almost lost in the wind.
Snap. Drop back. The field opened up—helmet glare, white lines underfoot, heat on the back of his neck. The pocket collapsed in his mind’s eye; he drifted left, flicked a pass across his body, off-platform but tight as a bullet. The ball cut the air, hit the receiver on the numbers in stride. For a half-second, the noise faded, just the hush of flight and the smack of leather in hands.
Jay’s voice came, half a beat too late: “Nice throw, bruh.” There was an edge in it—sarcasm thinly veiled as camaraderie. Caine smirked, nodded, and set up for the next rep, jaw flexing.
Drill after drill, sweat slicked his skin, the sun stinging his eyes. Cleats tore the turf, the ball arced and spun, shouts bounced back from the metal bleachers. With every snap, he felt it—the scrutiny. Coaches with sunglasses hiding their eyes. Teammates sizing him up, some quietly rooting for him to slip, others just glad to have another arm taking reps.
Jay’s next pass sailed a little high, receiver leaping and landing awkward, ball thudding into the grass. Jay cursed under his breath, resetting his helmet. Coach Joseph’s whistle was sharp: “Stay locked in, Jay. Don’t force it.”
On the sideline, Caine caught a glimpse of his own reflection in a dull window—taller, broader than most, but still unsure where to fit. Not a Karr kid, not a nobody either. Just a borrowed number, a new name on the roll.
As the period ended, the quarterbacks gathered near the water cooler, catching their breath. Jay tossed his helmet onto the bench, sweat running down his temples. “You throwing darts today, huh?”
Caine shrugged, not taking the bait. “Something like that.”
Jay flashed that sideways grin, but his eyes were narrowed. “Easy when ain’t nobody coming at you.”
Caine looked past him, eyes searching for Coach Joseph’s gaze. The coach wasn’t looking at him, but Caine knew—every throw, every decision, every second in this heat was a new test. Football might be the only way out, but nothing here was promised. The grass felt real under his feet, and so did the weight of eyes watching, always waiting to see if he’d really made it back.
~~~
The bar was dark even in the middle of the day, the windows streaked with fingerprints and summer dust. Sara sat at the end, perched on a cracked vinyl stool. The place smelled like bleach, old beer, and a whisper of fryer oil that clung to the wood-paneled walls. Country music played low, just enough to fill the silence between the clinks of glass and the rumble of a bartender’s laugh.
Sara nursed a vodka tonic, the ice long since melted. She circled the rim of the glass with her finger, eyes drifting over the bottles lined up like soldiers, each with their own story to tell. Outside, she could see the haze of a New Orleans afternoon, fat with heat and humidity, turning the streetlights to smudged halos.
A bartender with a tired ponytail placed another drink in front of her, the clear liquid beading sweat down the glass. “From the gentleman at the end,” she murmured, nodding down the bar.
Sara followed the gesture. The man—white, balding, with a thick gold wedding ring and a hopeful smile—raised his own glass in salute, eyebrows arching as if expecting her to join him. She shook her head, nudged the fresh drink back toward the bartender. “Tell him I’m good, thanks.”
She went back to her slow circling, gaze gone distant. The bar’s old AC rattled in the corner, cutting through the muffled television in the background—news anchors reading tragedy after tragedy in flat voices.
The door swung open with a squeak and a gust of muggy air. Nicole stepped in, blazer off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, a glint of sweat along her brow. She paused, taking in the scene with a lawyer’s quick eyes before spotting Sara.
She walked over, dropping onto the neighboring stool without waiting for invitation. “Ms. Guerra,” Nicole said, voice half-amused, half-formal.
Sara exhaled a laugh, a wry edge curling her lip. “You can call me Sara now. My son’s not your client anymore, right?” She lifted her glass in a kind of weary salute.
Nicole’s mouth quirked. “Depends who you ask.” She signaled to the bartender. “Whiskey neat. And leave the bottle.”
Sara arched an eyebrow. “Rough day?”
Nicole just grinned, the kind of smile you only get after too many late nights and too many cases gone sideways. “No reason to rush home these days. Might as well be here.”
The bartender set down Nicole’s drink, and Nicole downed it in a practiced swallow. She nodded for another, then glanced over her shoulder at the man still watching from the end of the bar. “You think he thinks we’re lesbians?”
Sara snorted, head tipped back, laughter echoing sharp off the ceiling. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing someone has assumed of me.”
Nicole grinned, warming now, rolling the glass between her palms. “He’d probably call Landry’s gestapo. Or maybe ask to buy us both a drink.”
“I’d make him pay my rent first,” Sara replied, a little more bitter than she meant. She glanced at the half-empty glass, the city’s ache pressing in from every side—work, family, worry, the ever-present weight of holding it all together.
Nicole went quiet for a moment, eyes on the liquor shelf, her expression softening. “How’s Caine doing?”
Sara shrugged, the motion small and tight. “Same as always. Trying to keep his head down, but you know how it is. This place doesn’t let you rest.”
Nicole nodded. “No, it doesn’t.”
For a beat, neither woman spoke. They sat in the hush of the bar, two tired survivors in a city that demanded more than it gave. The music faded, and outside, thunder grumbled in the distance, as if the whole world was waiting for the next thing to go wrong.
Sara finished her drink, ice clicking in the glass. “Well,” she said, half to herself, “here’s to making it through another damn day.”
Nicole raised her glass, and for a moment, the clink between them sounded like hope—thin, but real.
~~~
The concrete yard vibrated with the sound of forklifts beeping and trucks idling in the late afternoon heat. Mireya wiped her palm across her brow, smearing dust and sweat above her eyebrows as she stepped out of the loading bay office, the manifest clutched in her left hand. The air tasted of diesel and scorched gravel, sharp enough to sting the back of her throat.
A burly truck driver—Raúl, face sunburned and creased—waited by the steps, one boot propped against a worn tire. He greeted her in Spanish, his words thick with a northern Mexico accent, asking where the load was headed.
She handed him the manifest, careful not to lose her grip on the clipboard. “That’s why they print the address on the form, señor,” she answered, deadpan but polite.
Raúl laughed, showing a gold molar. “Remind me of my daughter—smart mouth, smart brain.”
Mireya managed a genuine smile before he clambered into the cab and fired up the engine, the sound rattling deep in her chest.
Just then, the whole yard seemed to pause. A glossy white BMW glided through the battered iron gates, its paint too bright for this neighborhood, windows so dark she couldn’t see inside. The foreman, Jaime, stopped mid-sentence at the loading dock, eyebrows raised.
The car rolled to a smooth stop in front of the office. Doors popped open—first the passenger side, where the accountant from last week emerged, crisp in tailored slacks and an expensive watch, stepping carefully over a puddle. Mireya watched him, her mind racing through questions—what was a man like that doing here again?
Then, from the driver’s side, a young woman stepped out, legs long, skin smooth, hair gathered in a perfect knot at the nape of her neck. Her pencil skirt clung to her hips, heels clicking against the concrete. She lifted a briefcase from the backseat, glanced once at her own reflection in the BMW’s window, then strode after the accountant.
Mireya found herself unconsciously sitting up straighter as the pair swept past. As the woman moved by, Mireya caught the faint trace of her perfume—fresh and sharp, nothing like the cheap sprays Mireya picked up at Walgreens when she could spare it. She felt a stab of jealousy, almost reflexive, at the simple fact of someone being able to smell that good, that expensive. Probably a bottle that cost more than Mireya made in a whole shift.
Inside, the office air was cool and thick with the hum of the battered AC. Denise, elbows deep in paperwork, shot Mireya a look as the visitors swept into Jaime’s office without knocking. The door shut, sealing in the quiet clack of high heels and hushed, businesslike voices.
Mireya sat at her desk, flipping through delivery slips, pretending not to eavesdrop. Bits of conversation drifted out: accounts, margins, new runs, and then—“Felix,” the accountant’s name, spoken clear and low.
She caught the name, stored it away. Felix. She wondered what kind of doors a name like that opened, and for who.
A few minutes later, the office door swung open. The woman exited first, leaving the briefcase behind. She moved past Mireya’s desk with effortless confidence, perfume trailing after her0
The woman glanced at her—eyes quick but appraising—and said, almost as an afterthought, “You’re pretty.” Her tone was smooth, neutral, not quite a compliment or a flirt, just an observation.
Before Mireya could respond, the woman was already moving on, heels clicking toward the door, Felix close behind her.
Mireya stared down at her own hands, still dusted with concrete and ink, and made herself get back to work. Perfume like that belonged to people who could leave as easily as they came, she thought—not to girls counting pennies for gas.
~~~
The evening pressed down on the house, thick and slow as syrup. Caine sat slouched on the living room couch, notebook balanced on his thigh, trying to focus on the words he wanted to put down for Camila. Around him, the room felt close—air barely moving, Saints blanket tossed on the armrest, a chewed-up board book and pink sippy cup under the coffee table. The whir of the box fan did little but stir up the smell of fried food and the faint tang of sweat.
Everybody want out, mija, but the way back ain’t promised. Caine scrawled it out, heavy block letters on the page, then set the pen aside and rubbed his face.
The screen door banged and Saul came stomping in, cradling his face, shirt stretched and collar damp with sweat. He looked like hell, one eye already puffing up, breath hitching in that way that says you’re trying real hard not to look like you’d been crying.
Caine glanced up, not moving. “Got your ass whupped, huh?”
Saul hovered by the door, hand over his face. He spoke in clipped Spanglish. “This dude from down the block, he was talking shit. Then he swung on me.”
Caine sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “Should’ve smacked him in his mouth as soon as he started talking shit. Letting him play you pussy is crazy, primo.”
Saul bristled, voice small. “I ain’t just let him. I hit him back.”
“Don’t look like you hit him all that hard then.” Caine motioned for him to move his hand so he could see the swelling. “Next time, keep your hands up. Matter of fact, just bulldog ‘em and slam them because you got noodle arms.”
Saul dropped his hand, staring at the floor. “You still got that gun? Let me get it right quick. I’m gonna go back out there and scare him.”
Caine fixed him with a cold look. “Man, fuck outta my face with that dumb shit. Ain’t nobody out here believe you about to up pole on someone and actually shoot them. Besides, I’m a felon. I ain’t got no gun. And if I did, I for damn sure ain’t giving it to your scary ass.”
Saul shifted, not meeting Caine’s eyes, voice sullen. “I ain’t scared, Caine.”
Caine snorted a laugh. “Then carry your ass back out there and don’t come back in here sniffling and shit or I’m gonna beat your ass. If you not, stop talking about it and go sit your ass down somewhere.”
Saul walked off into the kitchen, grabbed a half-empty bag of frozen taquitos, and pressed it to his face with a wince. He dropped into a chair, the plastic bag crinkling, and let the silence swallow him.
Caine shook his head, watching his younger cousin. He shoved his notebook under the couch cushion, let his head fall back, and stared at the cracked ceiling. Some lessons you only learned by bleeding a little. Some nights, all you could do was hope they were learning the right ones.
Outside, the city hummed and the streetlights buzzed, the same as always.
