American Sun
American Sun
It be your own people
American Sun
Wout San Nimewo
Mireya squeezed her battered car into a sun-bleached spot beneath a crooked palm outside City Hall, the heat radiating through the windshield, making the dashboard sticky to the touch. She shut the engine off but didn’t move right away, thumb pressing into the fabric-worn steering wheel. Camila was humming behind her, kicking her little legs against the seat, bare toes tapping a rhythm on the vinyl. The car smelled faintly of melted crayons, spilled juice, and sweat.
She closed her eyes for a second, counting the bills in her mind again. One fifty, two twenties, a ten, the rest ones folded so many times the edges were soft. It had taken weeks of skipping meals, cutting corners, dodging reminders about the daycare balance. Every dollar had been rationed, every decision measured in shoes not bought, gas tanks run too close to empty. For days she’d been dreading this errand—the ticket itself, but mostly the way it made her feel: like she’d always be scrambling, chasing after mistakes that grew interest and doubled back.
A horn blared somewhere behind her and Mireya jerked back to herself, glancing in the rearview at Camila’s round, sleepy face. She mustered a small smile.
“Let’s go, mami. We gotta pay for Mommy’s big mistake.”
Camila grinned, holding out her stuffed dog, already sticky from breakfast. “Doggie coming too?”
Mireya nodded. “He can help carry the money, okay?”
The walk across the parking lot was slow. Camila insisted on holding her hand, her other arm swinging the toy in lazy circles, narrating everything she saw. “That lady got big shoes, big zapatos. Why that man got no hair? Mommy, look, pigeons! Mommy, why you walk so fast?”
Inside, City Hall’s lobby was cool and cavernous, the air smelling of lemon cleaner and old paper. The light slanted through dusty glass, cutting bright rectangles on the floor. They fell into a short line at the ticket window, just three people ahead, but the minutes crawled—the clock above the bulletin board ticking loud enough to cut through the hush.
Mireya kept Camila close at her hip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She clutched the envelope of cash, thumb pressed into the seam. Her mind whirled. The next ACT was coming, and test prep cost more than the first try. She tried not to think about the daycare, or groceries, or the ache behind her left eye that had pulsed since she’d skipped breakfast. She forced herself not to look at her phone—Arelle hadn’t answered about extra hours, and Leo was bound to text her at the worst moment as if he had a sixth sense for that type of thing.
The woman ahead of her wore her hair in thick, neat braids. A city pamphlet stuck out of her back pocket, green and white: “Know Your Rights: Civil Fines and Payment Options.” Mireya stared at it, letting the words blur, feeling every judgmental line—Options. Like she had any left.
Camila tugged at her shirt. “Mommy.”
Mireya blinked, pulling herself back. “What, baby?”
“Why that man got a gun?”
She followed Camila’s finger—security guard, bored, leaning against the wall, badge crooked. “That’s just for his job, mi amor. Don’t worry.”
Camila seemed satisfied, pushing her face into the crook of Mireya’s arm, body hot and wiggly. She bounced on her toes, then started singing the alphabet, in English and Spanish, in a whisper.
Finally, the line moved. The woman with the pamphlet stepped away, and the clerk at the window—middle-aged, short dreadlocks, glasses perched low—barely looked up.
Mireya slid the red light ticket across the glass. “I need to pay this.”
The clerk scanned the barcode, fingers flying over the keyboard. “That’s three hundred.”
Mireya’s heart stuttered. “What? No—no, the ticket was $225. I got the paper right here.”
The clerk still didn’t look at her, voice flat as copy paper. “Late fee. Payment’s late.”
Mireya squeezed the envelope so tight her knuckles blanched. “It’s only a couple weeks late—”
“Anything past the due date is three hundred, ma’am.”
Mireya clenched her jaw. She wanted to argue, to explain, but the line behind her grew restless, someone cleared their throat. She could feel the weight of Camila’s stare, could hear her own mother’s voice—You got to be on time with those things. You can’t let it slide.
She laid out the bills, hands trembling, counting them again even as she did. “I have the cash and—I can put the rest on my card.”
The clerk looked at the debit card Mireya offered and sighed. “It’ll be a three and a half percent technology charge.”
Mireya’s hand flew up to her hair, fingers raking through the mess. “Of course. Go ahead.”
She entered her PIN, not looking at the number on the keypad, praying nothing bounced. The machine beeped; the clerk handed her a stamped receipt. Mireya tucked it away, not trusting herself to speak.
“Thank you,” she muttered, the words sour on her tongue.
She ushered Camila out, half-carrying, half-dragging, her legs heavy as wet towels. The air outside had gotten hotter, the sky a dull white, sweat prickling her scalp as she buckled Camila back into the seat. She slid behind the wheel, shut the door, and let her forehead rest on the cool plastic. The steering wheel smelled faintly of hand sanitizer and old fries.
Camila wriggled in the back, voice soft and serious. “Mommy, are you sick?”
Mireya wiped at her eyes, sniffled, forced her voice steady. “No, baby. I’m fine. Just tired, okay?”
“Okay,” Camila whispered. She hugged the dog tighter, feet swinging.
Mireya stayed like that a moment longer—breathing, holding still—before she sat back, pressed the ignition, and watched the gas light blink on. It felt like a warning she couldn’t afford to listen to.
The morning sun turned the construction site hard and bright, the lot muddy in places but caked dry in others. The low drone of a generator cut through the air, a steady background to the scrape of shovels, the grunt of men lifting drywall, and the constant, shouted rhythm of Spanish and English and something rougher in between. Caine wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and straightened, his hands already nicked and raw from carrying loads that never seemed to get lighter.
He was new here—new to the faces, the routine, the order of who spoke and who kept their heads down. Most of the crew ignored him. Some nodded, maybe called him “flaco” or “lil’ brudda,” depending on which language they favored. A few older men eyed him, quiet suspicion tucked under every glance. He carried, fetched, swept, stacked—whatever was needed. He was just another body, paid to do what others wouldn’t.
The sweat under his shirt was sticky, and his hands itched for the feel of something softer, the cool metal of a football, even the smooth paper of his journal. Instead, he hauled more board. His back burned. The job was just muscle and obedience, and Caine had already learned not to talk unless asked.
Near noon, a whistle blew. The men peeled away from their work, unwrapping foil bundles of food, clattering down to rest on coolers or overturned buckets. Caine sat in the sliver of shade next to the stack of siding he’d carried all morning, water bottle pressed to his lips.
A younger guy with a fresh fade and tattooed hands slid down beside him, pulling open a bag of chips and a wrapped sandwich.
“Ayo,” he said, mouth full already. “You new, right? What’s your name?”
Caine wiped his palms on his jeans. “Caine.”
The guy nodded, offering the bag. “I’m Mateo. You work before?”
“Yeah. A little, here and there.” Caine took a chip, nodding thanks.
Mateo chewed a moment, watching the others. “You got kids?”
Caine felt the answer tighten in his chest—pride, shame, some mix of both. “Yeah. I got a daughter. She’s almost two.”
Mateo grinned, shaking his head. “Shit, me too, man. Two of them. Both girls. They wild as hell. You see them and you just… think, how am I supposed to make this work?”
Caine laughed, but it wasn’t really a laugh, more a huff of recognition. “For real. They keep you running.”
Mateo stretched out his legs, boots streaked with mud. “I’m tryna get out, though. Out of the city. Go somewhere with grass. For them. I want them to be able to run around, you know? Not worry about nothing. Not hear shooting every other night.”
He said it so matter-of-fact that Caine felt a stab of old longing. He remembered Ricardo talking about the same thing, planning for an escape to Houston before everything went pear-shaped. He wondered where Ricardo was now—if he still dreamed that dream, or if prison had pressed it out of him.
Caine twisted the cap on his water bottle, staring at the condensation running down his knuckles. “You ever think it’ll happen?”
Mateo shrugged, eyes tired, smile gone. “I dunno. Maybe. Sometimes I look around, and it feel like everybody stuck. Nobody got the money. My girl wanna move, but her mama say it’s better here than the country. I think it’s just all fucked up, wherever you go. At least here you know what to expect.”
Caine nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”
They sat in silence, the noise of the other men filling the gaps. The heat pressed down. A cicada buzzed in the tall grass beyond the chain link. A delivery truck rattled past, the smell of exhaust drifting over.
Mateo stood, brushing off his pants. “Ain’t no shame in the work, man. Just remember to keep your head up. These old dudes? They’ll run you ragged if you let ‘em.”
Caine gave a small, grateful smile. “Appreciate it.”
Lunch ended fast. Men stamped out cigarettes, balled up foil, and got back to it. Caine rose, shoulders stiff. He reached for a pack of shingles, hefted it up, feeling the strain in his biceps. Sweat ran down his temple, stinging his eyes.
A car rumbled over the loose gravel—a dusty F-150 with peeling paint and a dented fender. Mr. Lucas stepped out, cap low over his brow, steps measured and unhurried. He surveyed the lot, then fixed his gaze on Caine. There was something appraising, almost amused, in the set of his jaw.
“You ain’t quit yet?” Lucas called, voice carrying over the rattle of the generator.
Caine shook his head, setting the shingles on his shoulder, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “Not today.”
Lucas grunted, lips twitching. “Good. Means I don’t gotta find someone else. Get that shit to the roof, then come help with the siding.”
“Yes, sir.” Caine moved, muscles aching but steadier for the brief word of approval.
The concrete yard sat heavy under a sky the color of tin, dust swirling around the piles of broken stone and cinder. Mireya moved through the heat in a daze, her clipboard tucked under her arm, numbers and deadlines blurring in her head. Every minute she worked felt like it paid for nothing—one step ahead of the bill collector, one day behind the things Camila needed. Her thoughts flickered from the red light ticket to the ACT retake to the light in the fridge at home, always humming, always too close to empty.
She found Kike by the back loader, boot propped on the running board, phone pressed to his ear as he argued about a delivery. He saw her coming and slid the phone into his pocket, smirking.
“Mireyita, you finally bringing me something good?” he teased, his accent stretching the vowels. “Or just more work?”
She didn’t smile, didn’t bother with the usual banter. “I need you to sign the slip.”
He pulled a pen from behind his ear, taking his time, grinning. “You don’t look happy to see me, nena.”
She waited, weight shifting from foot to foot, silent. She could feel her patience thinning like old denim. She didn’t answer until he finally handed the slip back, his name looped in big, swaggering letters.
“Thanks,” she muttered, turning on her heel before he could say anything else.
She headed for the office, mind gone soft around the edges, as if the heat and worry together had hollowed her out. It was only halfway up the steps that she saw the woman leaning against the railing, smoke curling from the edge of a thin joint pinched in manicured fingers. She stood out against the grit of the yard—way out.
White, skin almost luminous, hair platinum and long, pulled into a lazy ponytail. She wore sunglasses, even in the shade, and a crisp blouse that looked expensive, sleeves rolled up just so. Her blue eyes flicked over Mireya, sharp and clinical, as if measuring the cost of her shoes, her sweat, her silence.
She held the joint out, expression mild. “You look like you could use this,” she said, voice cool, unbothered by the stink of diesel or the whistle of the wind.
Mireya shook her head, still not slowing. “I’m good.”
The woman’s lips curled into a little smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Suit yourself. Rough morning?”
Mireya studied her, resisting the urge to stare at the high-heeled shoes that looked like they belonged in a French Quarter boutique, not a construction lot. “Who are you?” she asked finally, keeping her voice low.
The woman took a long, slow drag, blue smoke swirling up. “Anastasia,” she said. “But everyone calls me Stasia. I’m an accountant. I work for Felix.”
Mireya’s brows pulled together, suspicion creeping in. “Why the hell does a place like this need two accountants?”
Stasia’s smile widened a notch. She tapped a finger to her lips, glancing back toward the yard as if someone else might be listening. “Let’s just say Felix is thorough,” she said, her tone almost playful, but with something else lurking underneath.
She stubbed the joint out on the metal railing, the red heel of her shoe grinding it to nothing in the gravel. “Sometimes it takes more than one person to keep the numbers straight,” she said, lifting her chin.
Her phone chimed—a short, insistent buzz. She flicked a glance at the screen, nodded at Mireya, then moved down the steps toward the car parked by the fence. Same sleek BMW Felix always brought around. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t look back.
Mireya watched her go, the scent of weed lingering in the heat. She wondered how much money Stasia made to stand around and smoke, wondered what her real job was—if she even counted concrete, or just cash. She pushed the thought away, mind already sinking under the weight of her own day.
She went inside, eyes on the floor, footsteps echoing in the empty office. Outside, the BMW door slammed, and Stasia disappeared behind tinted glass. Mireya let herself lean against the cool wall, letting silence fill her up for a moment, just long enough to remember who she was—and what she still needed to do.
Evening hung thick, painting everything in sticky gold and lavender shadows. Caine sat hunched on his grandmother’s stoop, thumb digging restless circles into his knee. The stoop was still warm from the sun, the concrete rough under his sweats. Inside the house, you could hear the TV leaking static and laughter through the open window, a spoon clinking on a pot, a baby’s distant wail. Out here, life moved slow—just the rumble of traffic at the corner and the hum of bugs rising up with the heat.
He ran his thumb over the old scar on his wrist, jaw locked tight, thinking of bills he couldn’t cover, the price of Camila’s new shoes, the way every week felt like a losing game. The block outside felt empty, but it never really was. Somebody was always watching, always counting.
A car pulled up with a low cough, music pulsing through the open windows. Caine didn’t need to look—he knew the sound, the engine’s uneven idle, the muffled bassline. Doors slammed. Ramon and Tyree climbed out, their voices trailing as they made their way across the patchy grass. He could feel them before he saw them, could feel the gravity shift. They didn’t rush—just ambled up the walk, like they belonged there, like nothing in the world could press them.
“Big brudda,” Tyree said, his voice cutting the haze. He held out his hand to Caine.
Caine dapped him up. “What’s up, man?”
Tyree dropped down beside him, sprawled out loose, elbows on knees. Ramon followed, sitting on Caine’s other side, quiet for a moment, taking in the block like he was still deciding if it belonged to him or not.
Caine didn’t meet their eyes, just nodded to the street. “Where E.J. at?”
Tyree grinned, all teeth. “Said he finally got a girl in Belle Chasse to let him hit. That nigga disappeared.”
Ramon laughed. “He trying to wife that lil’ shit up. I saw her. Bitch ain’t had no ass but he decided to go play in that snow.”
Caine snorted, a sound he barely meant to make. “Hope he don’t end up getting run out the Parish.”
The laughter faded, replaced by a hush that settled around their shoulders. The night had grown deeper, the shadows stretching out, the sounds from inside the house drifting away. It was just the three of them now, the city pressed in close, waiting to see what would happen next.
Ramon reached into his pocket, coming out with three crisp hundreds. He held the money out, not hiding it, not making a show—just a quiet offer between people who understood what was really being passed around. “For looking out for us,” he said, voice steady.
Caine stared at the bills, fingers curling into his palm. The money felt heavy, heavier than it should, and he knew what it meant. Knew that every time he said yes, it got a little harder to say no. But he needed it. He needed it bad. He took the money, folded it small, slid it deep in his pocket. Said nothing.
Ramon nodded. “That’s real. You solid, C. Ain’t too many young dudes like us that don’t start singing to the jakes as soon as shit get tough.”
Tyree stretched out, legs in the grass, a stone rolling back and forth under his shoe. “You heard anything about that shit with Tee Tito? Anybody come looking?”
Caine shook his head, keeping his voice flat. “Nah. Ain’t heard nothing. That why y’all asked me to put y’all in touch?”
Ramon sucked his teeth. “Nah, we got a few birds off him. Tee Tito always posting up, flashing stacks like he bulletproof. Made it easy for himself.”
Tyree chimed in, voice lazy but sharp. “Half the city seen him on IG flexing that day. Some of the old heads just re-upped from Tito, though. We ain’t trying to fuck up they money.”
Caine listened, eyes half-closed, feeling every word settle in his stomach like gravel. He knew the game—they all did. Everybody had a version of the truth, and nobody was dumb enough to say the real thing out loud. He kept his face blank, didn’t give them anything to read.
Ramon bumped him with his elbow, pushing for something more. “They got more work where that lick came from, though.”
Tyree nodded. “That three hundred ain’t lasting, not with a little one eating up all your paychecks.”
Caine let his head fall back against the metal railing, eyes on the streetlamp blinking to life at the corner. He thought of Camila—her giggle, the grip of her hand in his, the way her shoes wore thin faster than he could keep up. He felt something old and bitter in his chest, the urge to run clashing with the urge to stay.
He shook his head, voice low. “I ain’t scared of work. Long as I don’t gotta hurt nobody, I’ll get mine.”
Ramon grinned, reached out for another dap, this one tight and real. “My nigga. That’s what I like to hear.”
Tyree spit into the grass, the block silent for a second, the city holding its breath. Nobody said what they really meant, but everything important had already been put on the table. The money in Caine’s pocket felt like a promise and a threat, something alive and dangerous.
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, too far to matter, but close enough to remind them all that the line between safe and gone was never as wide as you wanted it to be.
Caine watched the sky for a long time after they left, counting stars, counting the minutes until he had to move again, wishing—just once—that it all could be enough.
Sara sat alone in a worn vinyl booth, her back pressed to the cracked cushion, the bar’s lights casting dull gold halos on every sticky surface. The air was thick with fried food, old beer, and the sharp, green tang of limes. There was a jukebox near the door playing an old Zapp & Roger cut, soft enough not to drown out the steady hush of conversation, the click of pool balls, and the occasional high laugh from the far end.
She held her Bloody Mary between both hands, feeling the sweat bead on the outside of the glass, red as a warning, heavy with cheap vodka and a fat green olive. Her fingers moved absently over the THC gummy in her palm—she rolled it back and forth, thumb smearing the sugar, letting the anticipation of relief sink in before she finally let herself have it.
She wasn’t high yet, but she could already feel the beginnings of it: the dulling of the sharpest edges inside her. That was the whole point—make the night soft, make her own thoughts manageable, at least for a little while. Get out of the house, away from the weight of Caine’s moods and Hector’s voice and the smell of old bleach and fighting and everything she’d been dragging around for years.
She stared at the TV over the bar—some college baseball game, nobody she recognized, sound turned down to a murmur. For a split second, she thought about what she’d do if she’d gotten that apartment like she planned—just her, no kids, no grandkids, no one to manage or keep from burning the world down. She pressed the thought away, knowing better. She’d trained herself to kill those daydreams before they ever had a chance to take root. The world wasn’t made for women like her to go starting over.
A shadow fell across the edge of her booth. She looked up to see a man, tall, maybe forty, skin the color of old penny, shirt ironed crisp, shoes too nice for this place. He had a smooth confidence—someone who thought he still had it, maybe even did.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice pitched low, easy. “You mind if I sit?”
Sara looked him up and down, her face flat, unreadable. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she popped the gummy in her mouth and scooted a few inches closer to the wall, wordless invitation to take the other side, but keeping her own margin safe.
He slid in, careful not to crowd her, elbows on the table, a practiced smile. “Didn’t want to bother you. Just figured you looked like you had a story or two. Mind if I ask your name?”
Sara let the gummy dissolve on her tongue, letting the sugar and weed bloom slow, not quite ready to let him have her story. “You can ask,” she said, voice husky from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. “Don’t mean I’ll answer.”
He laughed, not offended. “Fair enough. Name’s Gerald.” He raised his glass—a whiskey, neat—waiting for her to follow. She tapped her Bloody Mary in salute, not bothering to give a name in return.
He tried again. “Long day?”
“Long life,” Sara answered, and sipped.
He whistled, low. “I hear that. My ex used to say every day after forty is just the same mess, different weather.” He waited to see if she’d bite, but Sara just shrugged.
He took a small gamble, leaning in. “So, what’s a beautiful woman doing sitting alone in a place like this?”
Sara almost rolled her eyes, but instead she glanced past him to the window, watching the reflection of cars sliding by in the rain-streaked glass. “I come here when I want quiet. Nobody talks to you if you don’t want it.”
Gerald chuckled. “Guess I’m the exception then. But you let me know if I’m talking too much.”
She watched him for a moment, weighing him the way she weighed fruit at the market—looking for bruises, soft spots, the truth of him. “You married?”
He smiled, not missing a beat. “Divorced. Kids are grown. Just me and the city now.”
Sara nodded. She didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t here for him, not really. She was here to forget the walls closing in back home, to taste something besides worry.
He kept talking. About his job with the city, about the Saints, about how he didn’t like the new mayor. He flirted, softly, but not like a man who expected anything back. Maybe just happy to be talking to a woman who wouldn’t yell at him, who didn’t know his secrets.
Sara let him talk, let the words fill up the space where her own thoughts would have grown jagged. She nodded when he made a joke, even let herself smile once or twice. She was always in “mom mode”—ready to cut off any conversation that got too close, too sharp—but tonight, she let the chatter wash over her, a kind of lullaby she hadn’t had in years.
She thought, for a moment, about letting herself feel wanted, about saying yes if he asked for her number, about all the things she could’ve been if life hadn’t gone sideways so many times. But she didn’t. She just finished her drink, letting the tomato juice burn on her tongue, the weed starting to float behind her eyes. When he finally paused and looked at her, waiting for something more, she just shook her head.
“Gerald,” she said, and for the first time her voice was soft, “thank you for talking. I needed a little peace, that’s all.”
He smiled, easy and unbothered, and raised his glass again.
They sat a while longer, neither one asking for more than the comfort of a stranger’s company, while the night outside grew thick and forgiving, and Sara, for just a moment, let herself remember what it was like to belong to herself.
Mireya squeezed her battered car into a sun-bleached spot beneath a crooked palm outside City Hall, the heat radiating through the windshield, making the dashboard sticky to the touch. She shut the engine off but didn’t move right away, thumb pressing into the fabric-worn steering wheel. Camila was humming behind her, kicking her little legs against the seat, bare toes tapping a rhythm on the vinyl. The car smelled faintly of melted crayons, spilled juice, and sweat.
She closed her eyes for a second, counting the bills in her mind again. One fifty, two twenties, a ten, the rest ones folded so many times the edges were soft. It had taken weeks of skipping meals, cutting corners, dodging reminders about the daycare balance. Every dollar had been rationed, every decision measured in shoes not bought, gas tanks run too close to empty. For days she’d been dreading this errand—the ticket itself, but mostly the way it made her feel: like she’d always be scrambling, chasing after mistakes that grew interest and doubled back.
A horn blared somewhere behind her and Mireya jerked back to herself, glancing in the rearview at Camila’s round, sleepy face. She mustered a small smile.
“Let’s go, mami. We gotta pay for Mommy’s big mistake.”
Camila grinned, holding out her stuffed dog, already sticky from breakfast. “Doggie coming too?”
Mireya nodded. “He can help carry the money, okay?”
The walk across the parking lot was slow. Camila insisted on holding her hand, her other arm swinging the toy in lazy circles, narrating everything she saw. “That lady got big shoes, big zapatos. Why that man got no hair? Mommy, look, pigeons! Mommy, why you walk so fast?”
Inside, City Hall’s lobby was cool and cavernous, the air smelling of lemon cleaner and old paper. The light slanted through dusty glass, cutting bright rectangles on the floor. They fell into a short line at the ticket window, just three people ahead, but the minutes crawled—the clock above the bulletin board ticking loud enough to cut through the hush.
Mireya kept Camila close at her hip, shifting her weight from foot to foot. She clutched the envelope of cash, thumb pressed into the seam. Her mind whirled. The next ACT was coming, and test prep cost more than the first try. She tried not to think about the daycare, or groceries, or the ache behind her left eye that had pulsed since she’d skipped breakfast. She forced herself not to look at her phone—Arelle hadn’t answered about extra hours, and Leo was bound to text her at the worst moment as if he had a sixth sense for that type of thing.
The woman ahead of her wore her hair in thick, neat braids. A city pamphlet stuck out of her back pocket, green and white: “Know Your Rights: Civil Fines and Payment Options.” Mireya stared at it, letting the words blur, feeling every judgmental line—Options. Like she had any left.
Camila tugged at her shirt. “Mommy.”
Mireya blinked, pulling herself back. “What, baby?”
“Why that man got a gun?”
She followed Camila’s finger—security guard, bored, leaning against the wall, badge crooked. “That’s just for his job, mi amor. Don’t worry.”
Camila seemed satisfied, pushing her face into the crook of Mireya’s arm, body hot and wiggly. She bounced on her toes, then started singing the alphabet, in English and Spanish, in a whisper.
Finally, the line moved. The woman with the pamphlet stepped away, and the clerk at the window—middle-aged, short dreadlocks, glasses perched low—barely looked up.
Mireya slid the red light ticket across the glass. “I need to pay this.”
The clerk scanned the barcode, fingers flying over the keyboard. “That’s three hundred.”
Mireya’s heart stuttered. “What? No—no, the ticket was $225. I got the paper right here.”
The clerk still didn’t look at her, voice flat as copy paper. “Late fee. Payment’s late.”
Mireya squeezed the envelope so tight her knuckles blanched. “It’s only a couple weeks late—”
“Anything past the due date is three hundred, ma’am.”
Mireya clenched her jaw. She wanted to argue, to explain, but the line behind her grew restless, someone cleared their throat. She could feel the weight of Camila’s stare, could hear her own mother’s voice—You got to be on time with those things. You can’t let it slide.
She laid out the bills, hands trembling, counting them again even as she did. “I have the cash and—I can put the rest on my card.”
The clerk looked at the debit card Mireya offered and sighed. “It’ll be a three and a half percent technology charge.”
Mireya’s hand flew up to her hair, fingers raking through the mess. “Of course. Go ahead.”
She entered her PIN, not looking at the number on the keypad, praying nothing bounced. The machine beeped; the clerk handed her a stamped receipt. Mireya tucked it away, not trusting herself to speak.
“Thank you,” she muttered, the words sour on her tongue.
She ushered Camila out, half-carrying, half-dragging, her legs heavy as wet towels. The air outside had gotten hotter, the sky a dull white, sweat prickling her scalp as she buckled Camila back into the seat. She slid behind the wheel, shut the door, and let her forehead rest on the cool plastic. The steering wheel smelled faintly of hand sanitizer and old fries.
Camila wriggled in the back, voice soft and serious. “Mommy, are you sick?”
Mireya wiped at her eyes, sniffled, forced her voice steady. “No, baby. I’m fine. Just tired, okay?”
“Okay,” Camila whispered. She hugged the dog tighter, feet swinging.
Mireya stayed like that a moment longer—breathing, holding still—before she sat back, pressed the ignition, and watched the gas light blink on. It felt like a warning she couldn’t afford to listen to.
~~~
The morning sun turned the construction site hard and bright, the lot muddy in places but caked dry in others. The low drone of a generator cut through the air, a steady background to the scrape of shovels, the grunt of men lifting drywall, and the constant, shouted rhythm of Spanish and English and something rougher in between. Caine wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and straightened, his hands already nicked and raw from carrying loads that never seemed to get lighter.
He was new here—new to the faces, the routine, the order of who spoke and who kept their heads down. Most of the crew ignored him. Some nodded, maybe called him “flaco” or “lil’ brudda,” depending on which language they favored. A few older men eyed him, quiet suspicion tucked under every glance. He carried, fetched, swept, stacked—whatever was needed. He was just another body, paid to do what others wouldn’t.
The sweat under his shirt was sticky, and his hands itched for the feel of something softer, the cool metal of a football, even the smooth paper of his journal. Instead, he hauled more board. His back burned. The job was just muscle and obedience, and Caine had already learned not to talk unless asked.
Near noon, a whistle blew. The men peeled away from their work, unwrapping foil bundles of food, clattering down to rest on coolers or overturned buckets. Caine sat in the sliver of shade next to the stack of siding he’d carried all morning, water bottle pressed to his lips.
A younger guy with a fresh fade and tattooed hands slid down beside him, pulling open a bag of chips and a wrapped sandwich.
“Ayo,” he said, mouth full already. “You new, right? What’s your name?”
Caine wiped his palms on his jeans. “Caine.”
The guy nodded, offering the bag. “I’m Mateo. You work before?”
“Yeah. A little, here and there.” Caine took a chip, nodding thanks.
Mateo chewed a moment, watching the others. “You got kids?”
Caine felt the answer tighten in his chest—pride, shame, some mix of both. “Yeah. I got a daughter. She’s almost two.”
Mateo grinned, shaking his head. “Shit, me too, man. Two of them. Both girls. They wild as hell. You see them and you just… think, how am I supposed to make this work?”
Caine laughed, but it wasn’t really a laugh, more a huff of recognition. “For real. They keep you running.”
Mateo stretched out his legs, boots streaked with mud. “I’m tryna get out, though. Out of the city. Go somewhere with grass. For them. I want them to be able to run around, you know? Not worry about nothing. Not hear shooting every other night.”
He said it so matter-of-fact that Caine felt a stab of old longing. He remembered Ricardo talking about the same thing, planning for an escape to Houston before everything went pear-shaped. He wondered where Ricardo was now—if he still dreamed that dream, or if prison had pressed it out of him.
Caine twisted the cap on his water bottle, staring at the condensation running down his knuckles. “You ever think it’ll happen?”
Mateo shrugged, eyes tired, smile gone. “I dunno. Maybe. Sometimes I look around, and it feel like everybody stuck. Nobody got the money. My girl wanna move, but her mama say it’s better here than the country. I think it’s just all fucked up, wherever you go. At least here you know what to expect.”
Caine nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”
They sat in silence, the noise of the other men filling the gaps. The heat pressed down. A cicada buzzed in the tall grass beyond the chain link. A delivery truck rattled past, the smell of exhaust drifting over.
Mateo stood, brushing off his pants. “Ain’t no shame in the work, man. Just remember to keep your head up. These old dudes? They’ll run you ragged if you let ‘em.”
Caine gave a small, grateful smile. “Appreciate it.”
Lunch ended fast. Men stamped out cigarettes, balled up foil, and got back to it. Caine rose, shoulders stiff. He reached for a pack of shingles, hefted it up, feeling the strain in his biceps. Sweat ran down his temple, stinging his eyes.
A car rumbled over the loose gravel—a dusty F-150 with peeling paint and a dented fender. Mr. Lucas stepped out, cap low over his brow, steps measured and unhurried. He surveyed the lot, then fixed his gaze on Caine. There was something appraising, almost amused, in the set of his jaw.
“You ain’t quit yet?” Lucas called, voice carrying over the rattle of the generator.
Caine shook his head, setting the shingles on his shoulder, wiping sweat from his upper lip. “Not today.”
Lucas grunted, lips twitching. “Good. Means I don’t gotta find someone else. Get that shit to the roof, then come help with the siding.”
“Yes, sir.” Caine moved, muscles aching but steadier for the brief word of approval.
~~~
The concrete yard sat heavy under a sky the color of tin, dust swirling around the piles of broken stone and cinder. Mireya moved through the heat in a daze, her clipboard tucked under her arm, numbers and deadlines blurring in her head. Every minute she worked felt like it paid for nothing—one step ahead of the bill collector, one day behind the things Camila needed. Her thoughts flickered from the red light ticket to the ACT retake to the light in the fridge at home, always humming, always too close to empty.
She found Kike by the back loader, boot propped on the running board, phone pressed to his ear as he argued about a delivery. He saw her coming and slid the phone into his pocket, smirking.
“Mireyita, you finally bringing me something good?” he teased, his accent stretching the vowels. “Or just more work?”
She didn’t smile, didn’t bother with the usual banter. “I need you to sign the slip.”
He pulled a pen from behind his ear, taking his time, grinning. “You don’t look happy to see me, nena.”
She waited, weight shifting from foot to foot, silent. She could feel her patience thinning like old denim. She didn’t answer until he finally handed the slip back, his name looped in big, swaggering letters.
“Thanks,” she muttered, turning on her heel before he could say anything else.
She headed for the office, mind gone soft around the edges, as if the heat and worry together had hollowed her out. It was only halfway up the steps that she saw the woman leaning against the railing, smoke curling from the edge of a thin joint pinched in manicured fingers. She stood out against the grit of the yard—way out.
White, skin almost luminous, hair platinum and long, pulled into a lazy ponytail. She wore sunglasses, even in the shade, and a crisp blouse that looked expensive, sleeves rolled up just so. Her blue eyes flicked over Mireya, sharp and clinical, as if measuring the cost of her shoes, her sweat, her silence.
She held the joint out, expression mild. “You look like you could use this,” she said, voice cool, unbothered by the stink of diesel or the whistle of the wind.
Mireya shook her head, still not slowing. “I’m good.”
The woman’s lips curled into a little smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Suit yourself. Rough morning?”
Mireya studied her, resisting the urge to stare at the high-heeled shoes that looked like they belonged in a French Quarter boutique, not a construction lot. “Who are you?” she asked finally, keeping her voice low.
The woman took a long, slow drag, blue smoke swirling up. “Anastasia,” she said. “But everyone calls me Stasia. I’m an accountant. I work for Felix.”
Mireya’s brows pulled together, suspicion creeping in. “Why the hell does a place like this need two accountants?”
Stasia’s smile widened a notch. She tapped a finger to her lips, glancing back toward the yard as if someone else might be listening. “Let’s just say Felix is thorough,” she said, her tone almost playful, but with something else lurking underneath.
She stubbed the joint out on the metal railing, the red heel of her shoe grinding it to nothing in the gravel. “Sometimes it takes more than one person to keep the numbers straight,” she said, lifting her chin.
Her phone chimed—a short, insistent buzz. She flicked a glance at the screen, nodded at Mireya, then moved down the steps toward the car parked by the fence. Same sleek BMW Felix always brought around. She didn’t hurry. She didn’t look back.
Mireya watched her go, the scent of weed lingering in the heat. She wondered how much money Stasia made to stand around and smoke, wondered what her real job was—if she even counted concrete, or just cash. She pushed the thought away, mind already sinking under the weight of her own day.
She went inside, eyes on the floor, footsteps echoing in the empty office. Outside, the BMW door slammed, and Stasia disappeared behind tinted glass. Mireya let herself lean against the cool wall, letting silence fill her up for a moment, just long enough to remember who she was—and what she still needed to do.
~~~
Evening hung thick, painting everything in sticky gold and lavender shadows. Caine sat hunched on his grandmother’s stoop, thumb digging restless circles into his knee. The stoop was still warm from the sun, the concrete rough under his sweats. Inside the house, you could hear the TV leaking static and laughter through the open window, a spoon clinking on a pot, a baby’s distant wail. Out here, life moved slow—just the rumble of traffic at the corner and the hum of bugs rising up with the heat.
He ran his thumb over the old scar on his wrist, jaw locked tight, thinking of bills he couldn’t cover, the price of Camila’s new shoes, the way every week felt like a losing game. The block outside felt empty, but it never really was. Somebody was always watching, always counting.
A car pulled up with a low cough, music pulsing through the open windows. Caine didn’t need to look—he knew the sound, the engine’s uneven idle, the muffled bassline. Doors slammed. Ramon and Tyree climbed out, their voices trailing as they made their way across the patchy grass. He could feel them before he saw them, could feel the gravity shift. They didn’t rush—just ambled up the walk, like they belonged there, like nothing in the world could press them.
“Big brudda,” Tyree said, his voice cutting the haze. He held out his hand to Caine.
Caine dapped him up. “What’s up, man?”
Tyree dropped down beside him, sprawled out loose, elbows on knees. Ramon followed, sitting on Caine’s other side, quiet for a moment, taking in the block like he was still deciding if it belonged to him or not.
Caine didn’t meet their eyes, just nodded to the street. “Where E.J. at?”
Tyree grinned, all teeth. “Said he finally got a girl in Belle Chasse to let him hit. That nigga disappeared.”
Ramon laughed. “He trying to wife that lil’ shit up. I saw her. Bitch ain’t had no ass but he decided to go play in that snow.”
Caine snorted, a sound he barely meant to make. “Hope he don’t end up getting run out the Parish.”
The laughter faded, replaced by a hush that settled around their shoulders. The night had grown deeper, the shadows stretching out, the sounds from inside the house drifting away. It was just the three of them now, the city pressed in close, waiting to see what would happen next.
Ramon reached into his pocket, coming out with three crisp hundreds. He held the money out, not hiding it, not making a show—just a quiet offer between people who understood what was really being passed around. “For looking out for us,” he said, voice steady.
Caine stared at the bills, fingers curling into his palm. The money felt heavy, heavier than it should, and he knew what it meant. Knew that every time he said yes, it got a little harder to say no. But he needed it. He needed it bad. He took the money, folded it small, slid it deep in his pocket. Said nothing.
Ramon nodded. “That’s real. You solid, C. Ain’t too many young dudes like us that don’t start singing to the jakes as soon as shit get tough.”
Tyree stretched out, legs in the grass, a stone rolling back and forth under his shoe. “You heard anything about that shit with Tee Tito? Anybody come looking?”
Caine shook his head, keeping his voice flat. “Nah. Ain’t heard nothing. That why y’all asked me to put y’all in touch?”
Ramon sucked his teeth. “Nah, we got a few birds off him. Tee Tito always posting up, flashing stacks like he bulletproof. Made it easy for himself.”
Tyree chimed in, voice lazy but sharp. “Half the city seen him on IG flexing that day. Some of the old heads just re-upped from Tito, though. We ain’t trying to fuck up they money.”
Caine listened, eyes half-closed, feeling every word settle in his stomach like gravel. He knew the game—they all did. Everybody had a version of the truth, and nobody was dumb enough to say the real thing out loud. He kept his face blank, didn’t give them anything to read.
Ramon bumped him with his elbow, pushing for something more. “They got more work where that lick came from, though.”
Tyree nodded. “That three hundred ain’t lasting, not with a little one eating up all your paychecks.”
Caine let his head fall back against the metal railing, eyes on the streetlamp blinking to life at the corner. He thought of Camila—her giggle, the grip of her hand in his, the way her shoes wore thin faster than he could keep up. He felt something old and bitter in his chest, the urge to run clashing with the urge to stay.
He shook his head, voice low. “I ain’t scared of work. Long as I don’t gotta hurt nobody, I’ll get mine.”
Ramon grinned, reached out for another dap, this one tight and real. “My nigga. That’s what I like to hear.”
Tyree spit into the grass, the block silent for a second, the city holding its breath. Nobody said what they really meant, but everything important had already been put on the table. The money in Caine’s pocket felt like a promise and a threat, something alive and dangerous.
A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, too far to matter, but close enough to remind them all that the line between safe and gone was never as wide as you wanted it to be.
Caine watched the sky for a long time after they left, counting stars, counting the minutes until he had to move again, wishing—just once—that it all could be enough.
~~~
Sara sat alone in a worn vinyl booth, her back pressed to the cracked cushion, the bar’s lights casting dull gold halos on every sticky surface. The air was thick with fried food, old beer, and the sharp, green tang of limes. There was a jukebox near the door playing an old Zapp & Roger cut, soft enough not to drown out the steady hush of conversation, the click of pool balls, and the occasional high laugh from the far end.
She held her Bloody Mary between both hands, feeling the sweat bead on the outside of the glass, red as a warning, heavy with cheap vodka and a fat green olive. Her fingers moved absently over the THC gummy in her palm—she rolled it back and forth, thumb smearing the sugar, letting the anticipation of relief sink in before she finally let herself have it.
She wasn’t high yet, but she could already feel the beginnings of it: the dulling of the sharpest edges inside her. That was the whole point—make the night soft, make her own thoughts manageable, at least for a little while. Get out of the house, away from the weight of Caine’s moods and Hector’s voice and the smell of old bleach and fighting and everything she’d been dragging around for years.
She stared at the TV over the bar—some college baseball game, nobody she recognized, sound turned down to a murmur. For a split second, she thought about what she’d do if she’d gotten that apartment like she planned—just her, no kids, no grandkids, no one to manage or keep from burning the world down. She pressed the thought away, knowing better. She’d trained herself to kill those daydreams before they ever had a chance to take root. The world wasn’t made for women like her to go starting over.
A shadow fell across the edge of her booth. She looked up to see a man, tall, maybe forty, skin the color of old penny, shirt ironed crisp, shoes too nice for this place. He had a smooth confidence—someone who thought he still had it, maybe even did.
“Excuse me,” he said, voice pitched low, easy. “You mind if I sit?”
Sara looked him up and down, her face flat, unreadable. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she popped the gummy in her mouth and scooted a few inches closer to the wall, wordless invitation to take the other side, but keeping her own margin safe.
He slid in, careful not to crowd her, elbows on the table, a practiced smile. “Didn’t want to bother you. Just figured you looked like you had a story or two. Mind if I ask your name?”
Sara let the gummy dissolve on her tongue, letting the sugar and weed bloom slow, not quite ready to let him have her story. “You can ask,” she said, voice husky from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. “Don’t mean I’ll answer.”
He laughed, not offended. “Fair enough. Name’s Gerald.” He raised his glass—a whiskey, neat—waiting for her to follow. She tapped her Bloody Mary in salute, not bothering to give a name in return.
He tried again. “Long day?”
“Long life,” Sara answered, and sipped.
He whistled, low. “I hear that. My ex used to say every day after forty is just the same mess, different weather.” He waited to see if she’d bite, but Sara just shrugged.
He took a small gamble, leaning in. “So, what’s a beautiful woman doing sitting alone in a place like this?”
Sara almost rolled her eyes, but instead she glanced past him to the window, watching the reflection of cars sliding by in the rain-streaked glass. “I come here when I want quiet. Nobody talks to you if you don’t want it.”
Gerald chuckled. “Guess I’m the exception then. But you let me know if I’m talking too much.”
She watched him for a moment, weighing him the way she weighed fruit at the market—looking for bruises, soft spots, the truth of him. “You married?”
He smiled, not missing a beat. “Divorced. Kids are grown. Just me and the city now.”
Sara nodded. She didn’t believe him, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t here for him, not really. She was here to forget the walls closing in back home, to taste something besides worry.
He kept talking. About his job with the city, about the Saints, about how he didn’t like the new mayor. He flirted, softly, but not like a man who expected anything back. Maybe just happy to be talking to a woman who wouldn’t yell at him, who didn’t know his secrets.
Sara let him talk, let the words fill up the space where her own thoughts would have grown jagged. She nodded when he made a joke, even let herself smile once or twice. She was always in “mom mode”—ready to cut off any conversation that got too close, too sharp—but tonight, she let the chatter wash over her, a kind of lullaby she hadn’t had in years.
She thought, for a moment, about letting herself feel wanted, about saying yes if he asked for her number, about all the things she could’ve been if life hadn’t gone sideways so many times. But she didn’t. She just finished her drink, letting the tomato juice burn on her tongue, the weed starting to float behind her eyes. When he finally paused and looked at her, waiting for something more, she just shook her head.
“Gerald,” she said, and for the first time her voice was soft, “thank you for talking. I needed a little peace, that’s all.”
He smiled, easy and unbothered, and raised his glass again.
They sat a while longer, neither one asking for more than the comfort of a stranger’s company, while the night outside grew thick and forgiving, and Sara, for just a moment, let herself remember what it was like to belong to herself.
American Sun
you hit the head with how little ones can tell one something is up with Camila and Mireya 
American Sun
Men Moun Ka Fè Ou Soti Nan Manti
The heat on the field made the world shimmer, lines wavering on the painted turf as if the ground itself was unsteady. Summer practice was hell under the sun at Behrman, sweat already soaking through shirts before the first whistle. Most of the team was on the sideline, helmets in hand, watching while the five quarterbacks lined up at the 30-yard line for footwork and accuracy drills. Quarterbacks’ period—a time to measure, to test, to be seen.
Caine could feel his own heart in his teeth, blood hot in his ears. He set his feet behind the orange cone, eyes flicking left and right. Jay was two spots down, helmet at his feet, mouth tight, jaw working. Beside him: Micah, skinny but tall, with quick hands; Keon, thick-shouldered, with a cocky grin that hid nerves; and Devin, a senior who barely talked, just went about his business and waited for his chance.
Coach Martin barked, “Five-step drop, hit the net—right hash! Move!”
All five dropped at once, shoulders rising, balls of their feet light. Caine’s cleats bit into the turf as he counted off steps, the rhythm forced and familiar at once. He could feel the others around him—a kind of orbit, each player calculating, measuring. The competition was unspoken, but real.
First rep—Micah’s ball missed wide. Devin’s clipped the corner. Keon hit it dead center and grinned at Jay. Jay’s ball was a laser, fast and true, slamming through the hole in the net. Caine’s was a little low, but it still rattled the bottom edge and stuck.
Coach Joseph watched from the side, arms folded. “Again. This time, roll out—left!”
They hustled, the tiredness settling into Caine’s shoulders. He tried to keep it loose—feet quick, eyes up. Jay didn’t look at him, but Caine felt the weight anyway: every throw from Jay had something extra, the snap of his wrist tighter, his feet faster. Caine knew what that was—someone feeling the heat, someone not used to it. He’d seen it in fights, too, when a dude starts pressing, trying to make you flinch.
On the third rep, Keon’s ball sailed. Devin chucked his and muttered. Micah found the pocket, but not with force. Caine rolled left, tucked the ball in, then snapped his hips and let it go—hit, not perfect, but better. Jay tried to show out, firing one on the run, but it sailed high, ricocheting off the metal rim. Somebody on the sideline whistled low, a soft “Oooh.” Caine didn’t look over.
Coach Martin’s voice was steady: “Settle down, Jay. Make the easy throw.”
Jay glared at the coach, then at Caine. Caine just reset, letting sweat drip down his temple, listening to his own breath.
Fourth drill—timing throws to a moving target. Receivers jogged ten yards downfield, cones marking the cut, coaches snapping their fingers for the ball to be thrown on rhythm.
Micah went first, short-hopping the receiver. Keon tossed a duck, but the receiver bailed him out. Devin’s pass was smooth—nothing flashy, just right.
Jay stepped up, glancing at Caine as if to say: watch this. He called cadence to an invisible line, took the snap, and snapped off a ball so fast it surprised even the receiver—who juggled, then dropped it.
Caine felt the stare, the way Jay needed him to look, needed him to feel something. Caine refused to give it. He caught the snap, stepped, trusted his timing, and dropped the ball in a perfect window. The receiver plucked it out of the air and jogged back, giving Caine a nod.
Coach Joseph grunted. “That’s it. Break it down, hit the locker room.”
The tension didn’t fade in the walk to the building. Jay stalked off, shoving his helmet into his bag, muttering. The rest peeled away—Micah and Keon clowning each other, Devin silent. Caine lagged behind, his legs heavy, sweat cooling into a sticky film.
Inside, the locker room was all clang and echo, the hum of air conditioning barely beating back the heat. Boys laughed and cracked on each other, but the quarterbacks’ section was quiet, a bubble of old resentments and new stakes. Caine peeled off his jersey, the fabric sticking, rolling his shoulders to ease the soreness. He caught Jay’s reflection in the little strip of mirror above the sinks—eyes sharp, mouth pulled thin.
Jay said, low, “You know you just a nigga they parading around to get some eyes on us, huh? Get motherfuckers asking who that new dude is.”
Caine kept his hands steady. “Sound like you scared you about to be on that bench, lil’ bruh.”
Jay snorted. “Man, please. Ain’t nobody worried about you. You soft as baby shit.”
Caine turned, finally meeting Jay’s eyes. “Soft? Motherfucker, I been off that porch since I came out my mama. Been in the bing, too. Fighting dudes three times your size looking at life, nothing to lose, ready to poke you with a toothbrush they been sharpening just to stab you while you taking a shit. I ain’t got nothing to lose. How about you?”
Jay’s posture changed—a flicker of something, not quite fear but a shrinking, a second of doubt. He opened his mouth but nothing came.
Caine stepped closer, just enough for the message to be clear. “We both know you ain’t really ‘bout that life. But I got a few potnas that been itching to pistol whip your pussy ass because you don’t know nothing about respect.”
Jay’s fists balled. The room had gone quiet around them, Micah and Keon hanging back, half-watching, half-pretending they weren’t. Devin sat on the end of the bench, silent as always, but his eyes locked on Jay.
The silence felt heavy. Jay let his hands drop, jaw tight. “Whatever. Ain’t no one believe none of that shit.”
A door banged open. Coach Joseph stepped out, glare sweeping the room. “Problem?”
Caine answered first, not backing down. “No, sir. Just talking.”
Jay hesitated, eyes flicking between Caine and Coach Joseph, measuring. He swallowed. “No problem, Coach.”
Coach Joseph looked between them, suspicion hardening his features. “Leave the bullshit outside, boys. I need y’all locked in. Not drama. You hear me?”
Neither one answered. Coach Joseph waited a beat, then disappeared into his office.
Caine let the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Jay slammed his locker, muttering curses, and stalked away. The other QBs filtered out, Micah giving Caine a subtle nod.
Caine sat a minute, breath shaky, sweat cold on his skin, the echo of the field and the weight of Jay’s words bouncing around in his head. He didn’t know if this fight would ever end, but he knew he wasn’t the one backing down.
The old, weather-rotted plank of the steps beneath Mireya’s weight, paint flaking from the railings in long, chalky strips. The air was heavy with the syrupy heat that clung to everything in New Orleans by late June, a thickness that seemed to press sweat out of your skin just for breathing. Mireya sat on the top step, her back braced against the splintered post, a dull ache simmering in her shoulders. Her phone rested on her knee, screen cracked at one corner, thumb mindlessly refreshing a Craigslist page—“Make $75 in two hours: plasma donations, new clients only.”
Angela and Paz sprawled nearby, arms and legs loose, talking about nothing—classmates’ business, what someone posted on Instagram, whether Ms. Mouton’s son was really out on bail or just hiding at his aunt’s. Their voices drifted and broke against Mireya’s preoccupation. She heard her name, half-registered a joke, but it felt distant, like music through a closed window.
Her mind was a broken abacus, beads of anxiety clattering back and forth— ACT retake, Camila’s clothes nearly too tight, the way her last check from the boutique had disappeared before she even remembered cashing it, the yard inconsistent. The world narrowed to money: what she had, what she didn’t, and all the places in between where need gnawed at her resolve.
A shout from down the street broke the bubble. Two boys, maybe seventeen or eighteen, strolled toward the porch—one in cutoff shorts, the other with a beat-up Astros cap and gold fronts that flashed whenever he smiled.
“Aye, what up, Angie?” the taller one called, cutting his eyes across the girls on the porch. “Y’all straight?”
Angela smirked. “We chilling. What y’all on?”
Paz eyed them, her tone playful. “If you got snacks, maybe you can sit down.”
The boy in the hat grinned. “Got something better than snacks. You need some smoke?” He reached into his pocket, flashing a baggie. “I got that za.”
Angela rolled her eyes, holding her hands up. “You know I don’t got weed money. Save it for somebody else.”
“Damn, that’s a shame,” said the other boy, eyeing Mireya as she sat a little straighter. “Y’all just gonna have to be bored then.”
They started to walk away, still talking under their breath.
Mireya hesitated, fingers tight around her phone. She felt the sting of resentment, the hot edge of exhaustion—not just from being broke, but from the way money decided everything. Always money, always a door locked if you didn’t have it, always someone else’s yes or no. Today, she was tired of it.
She pushed herself up, brushed sweat from her neck, and stepped off the porch.
Angela looked up, eyebrow cocked. “Reya, where you going?”
Mireya didn’t answer. She walked down the steps, slow and measured, letting the heat settle her nerves and the eyes of the boys remind her that sometimes wanting was a kind of currency all its own.
The boys noticed her before she even said anything, posture shifting, faces splitting into slow, eager grins. Mireya stopped a few feet away, arms folded under her chest, gaze direct but with just enough curve to her lips to let them think they were in control.
She nodded at the taller one. “Let me see what you got.”
He looked pleased, sliding the baggie out and letting it dangle. “It’s good shit. This shit from a dispensary You got cash, right?”
She shook her head. “Not today. But I can work something out.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Yeah? Like what?”
She didn’t drop her gaze, letting the pause stretch just a second too long. “Depends how generous you feel. Or if you like pretty girls who say thank you.”
The second boy, slower, picked up on her tone, nudging his friend. “She just tryna scam us, bruh. Probably gonna run off with it.”
Mireya smiled, letting her voice soften, every word coated in easy confidence. “I don’t run. But I’m not paying, either. It’s just weed, not diamonds.”
For a second, nobody moved. Then the boy with the hat—deciding, weighing the worth of the bag against the prospect of a story he could tell later—shrugged. “Aight, what you got for me?”
She leaned in, close enough that he could smell the sweat and faint coconut of her hair, close enough that his bravado flickered. She whispered a phone number—one that robocalls had spoofed a few too many times—and let her fingers trail the edge of his wrist, light as a promise.
“You call me, maybe I pick up,” she said. “You remember me, I’ll remember you.”
He handed her the bag, grinning like he’d won. The other boy just shook his head but didn’t protest.
Mireya tucked the weed into her pocket and turned, chin up, pulse steady.
Angela was already laughing as Mireya walked back. “Girl, you just—what’d you do?”
Mireya plopped onto the top step, dropped the bag in Angela’s lap, and picked up her phone again. “Just wanted to see if I could get it for free. Told him what he wanted to hear.”
Angela laughed again, shaking her head. “He really gave it to you? For nothing?”
Mireya shrugged, scrolling again. “It’s not nothing if it gets you what you need.”
Paz bit her lip, a little awe mixed with worry. “What you gonna do if he actually calls that number?”
Mireya smirked, not looking up. “Ain’t my problem.”
For a moment, the porch felt lighter, the world pushed back an inch or two. Mireya let herself grin with the girls, even as her eyes flickered over ads for plasma centers and quick-cash gigs, her mind running two tracks at once—the hustle and the hope. The ache for something easy, and the pride of making a door open when the world kept shutting her out.
The office was dead quiet except for the buzz of the ceiling light and the dull tap-tap-tap of Roussel’s fingers on the keyboard. He moved slow but with purpose, the way you do when you know every step is a line in a report that can send someone back inside. His desk was stacked neat—case files, violation sheets, drug test forms, every corner squared up like a dare. It was a good day. He’d already written up two violations before lunch.
The kid today—last name, Caldwell—was barely old enough to shave, but Roussel had him sent back up for being in an Uber where the driver got caught with a brick in the trunk. “Shoulda known better,” Roussel muttered, typing the final sentence. “Always know who you get in the car with.” He liked that. Simple logic, easy to put in a report. It didn’t matter if the kid never saw the drugs—rules were rules. And rules were what kept the city from burning down.
A knock. Sharp, but not scared. Roussel glanced at the clock, then called, “Come in.”
The door opened and Jill Babin walked in, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t smile, didn’t even bother to close the door all the way. She just sat, crossing her legs, briefcase on her lap.
“William,” she said. “You got a minute?”
Roussel kept typing, not looking at her. “Depends. I’m busy, Jill.”
She let the silence hang, then reached into her bag and slid a folder across the desk. “This about your headache—Guerra.”
He glanced up, eyes cold. “What about him?”
Jill tapped the folder. “You seen this?”
He opened it, eyes flicking to the grainy color CCTV still—four kids at the Mardi Gras barricades. Caine in the middle, jaw set, beads around his neck, holding his daughter, and the others—Ramon, E.J., Tyree—faces blurred but familiar to Roussel from past sweeps, field interviews, and mugshots.
He squinted. “Who’s the crew with him?”
“State says nobody. Misdemeanors, juvie records sealed. I say suspected 39ers if they’re around someone from the Ninth Ward. Couldn’t get anything to stick. But they run with older hitters. They don’t just hang out for fun.”
Roussel set the folder down, face unreadable. “Not a violation to stand on the street with friends who aren’t felons”
Jill’s smile was a flash of teeth—hungry, professional. “Not yet. But you know how it goes. Guerra’s clean, but he’s been clean before. You shake his tree, see what falls. Get him nervous. I bet something comes loose.”
He met her gaze, blank as a cinderblock. “I don’t file violations for standing on the street. You got something real, call me. Otherwise, I’m not risking paperwork over some parade photo.”
Jill leaned in, lowering her voice. “You know what it looks like when these kids start moving again. I need leverage, Roussel. Anything to keep him on the defense. Kid’s smart, but not that smart. You put the squeeze on, he’ll trip.”
Roussel didn’t flinch. “I’ll keep an eye. But unless you get a call from NOPD or DOC, he stays out. That’s the law.”
Jill rolled her eyes, snapped the folder shut. “Fine. Just don’t let him skate if he’s still doing shit that he should be locked up for.” She grabbed her bag, heels already moving for the door. “If he slips, I want to know before the lawyers do.”
Roussel didn’t answer. He watched her go, the click of the door loud in the silence. He tossed the folder onto the corner of his desk, already picking up the next file. He was still thinking about the photo—about how Guerra always seemed to be right at the line, never over, but never safe either.
He started typing again, hands steady, jaw clenched. It wasn’t about fairness. It was about not letting a single one of them forget whose rules ran this city.
And as the office went quiet again, Roussel let the small, satisfied feeling settle.
The room was quiet except for the slow, steady hum of the box fan and the distant city noise seeping through Mireya’s open window. Night pressed heavy against the glass, but inside the light was soft and gold, spilled from a lamp on the floor. Camila was curled up on her own little mattress in the corner, her thumb in her mouth, breathing slow and deep, legs tangled in a pink blanket.
On the bed, Caine lay back against a pile of pillows, knees raised and spread apart, feet flat. Mireya was sitting in his lap, straddling him, her body pressed close but her back resting against the top of his knees for support. Her arms rested lazily at her sides, fingertips brushing his thighs.
Caine’s hands ran slowly along the tops of her legs, thumbs tracing absent patterns against her skin. He watched her face, the tired but still-bright eyes, the mouth he knew better than his own. She stared right back, a soft line between her brows, always thinking even in her moments of quiet.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Mireya felt herself sink back into his knees, letting him hold her up, letting the day slough off her skin for just a moment. The world felt far away—the bills, the shifts, the little calculations that haunted every hour.
Finally, Caine broke the silence. “You ever think about leaving?” His voice was low, careful not to wake Camila. “Like, just packing up and getting the hell out of here?”
She scoffed, a smile flickering and then dying. “Only every day. But I mean… that costs money, and you know I don’t got it. We barely get by as it is. Gas, food, everything for Camila… How we supposed to start over somewhere new?”
He nodded, rubbing her calf with his palm, grounding her. “Sometimes I think about it, though. Like if I get a scholarship—JUCO, maybe even something bigger—just going wherever they want me. Somewhere quiet. I’ll go to fucking North Dakota if they want me. No old shit, no trouble waiting for me around the block.”
She held his gaze, something stubborn in her jaw. “And what about us? You just planning to go and leave me and Camila behind?”
Caine didn’t blink. “Nah. I mean all of us. I wouldn’t leave y’all. We could go together. Start fresh, like for real.”
She looked away for a second, considering it—knowing what it meant. Following him. Leaving her own plans behind. She let herself sit with it, not rushing past the unease or the tenderness. She could see it—some other life, some other city, Camila running barefoot in grass instead of broken sidewalk. But she saw herself waiting, not moving forward, always adjusting to someone else’s dream.
“I just… sometimes I wish I could get away, not forever, just for a while. Somewhere I can breathe.” Mireya’s voice was soft, honest in a way that felt almost dangerous. “But even that ain’t happening until Camila’s older. Or unless we hit the lottery. And we both know that ain’t coming.”
Caine gave a little smile, all understanding and regret. “Yeah. I get it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—just real. His hands pressed into her legs again, reassuring, reminding her she wasn’t alone even if the answers didn’t come easy.
He shifted, just a little, then nodded toward his pocket. “Shit, I almost forgot. Get what’s in my pocket.”
She arched a brow but reached into the mesh shorts he wore, fishing out two hundred-dollar bills, folded tight and warm from his body. She looked down at the money in her palm, then back at him, one brow lifting, the question clear in her eyes.
“Where you get this?” she asked, voice low and even.
Caine met her stare without flinching. “Work.”
She looked at him longer, seeing past the easy answer, reading the tension in his mouth, the old defiance. “Work or work work?”
He said it again, softer this time. “Work.”
She let the truth settle. There was a line there, but it had gotten blurry long ago, and right now, with the world pressing in, she didn’t know if she had it in her to care. Mireya folded the bills and slid them into the pocket of her own shorts.
Her eyes softened, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, a kiss full of tired gratitude and resignation, heavy with what they shared and what they carried. It lingered, a soft collision of hope and surrender.
When she pulled back, she slid down to lay her cheek against his chest, letting his heartbeat steady her.
Caine’s arms came around her, their bodies locked together in the only safe place left to them.
They stayed that way a long time, not saying anything more, the world outside fading to nothing but the hum of the fan and Camila’s soft, even breath.
E.J. leaned against the sagging rail at the foot of Shanice’s porch, one sneaker braced on the lowest step, the other toeing the weeds creeping out of the cracked sidewalk. The air was heavy with fried grease and far-off sirens, the sky bruised purple at the edges. Shanice hovered just inside the screen door, arms crossed, the porch light fuzzing her outline.
He flashed a grin, letting his charm do the work. “For real, Shan? You gon’ make me beg just to come sit down?”
She smirked, biting her lip. “You always want to sit somewhere after you been running around with them white girls on the West Bank.”
He scoffed, putting on a wounded look. “You know why I go over there. I be needing some peace. They cook for a nigga and all. And you don’t see nobody throwing pots and pans on that side.”
Shanice’s laugh was quick, but her stance stayed cool. “That’s ‘cause they ain’t got nothing worth breaking.”
E.J. stepped one foot up, testing her, watching her eyes. “I’ll show you something worth—”
A car rolled by, engine too loud for the speed, and E.J. broke off mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. The car—some old blue Nissan—crept past, idled a few houses down, then jerked into reverse, wheels squealing as it shot backward.
Shanice dropped her arms. “Who that is?”
E.J. slid his hand down to his waistband, voice flat. “Go inside..”
The car doors burst open and three dudes hopped out, shouting before their feet hit the concrete. “Fuck 3NG and you pussy ass ninth ward niggas!”
Shanice slammed the door behind her just as the first shot cracked off the porch, splinters biting E.J.’s cheek. He hit the ground, rolling off the steps, heart slamming. Gunfire rang out, loud and wild, bullets chewing the porch, glass shattering somewhere behind him.
E.J. crawled, scrambled all hands and knees along the side of the house, but he knew better than to cut through the backyard where he’d get pinned against the fence. He shoved himself up, back pressed tight to the wall, eyes darting. The shooters were fanned out by the car, one moving up the walk, the others covering.
He darted toward the narrow space between Shanice’s house and the neighbor’s, a trash can tipping as he barreled past, knees burning. He heard one of the shooters shout—“There he go!”—then more shots, the air cracking just over his shoulder.
He fired back, barely looking, just enough to make them hesitate, then cut hard left, vaulting a chain-link, scraping his shin raw. He landed in the neighbor’s yard, dodged a busted grill and a rusted tricycle, then tore through the side gate and hit the sidewalk running.
Behind him, the gunfire slowed, a couple shouts echoing—“Get back! Get in the car!” Tires screeched. The Nissan peeled away, taillights flashing, the block suddenly too quiet.
E.J. kept moving, heart hammering, sweat pouring down his back, breath sharp in his chest. He ducked between two more houses, only slowing when he was three blocks off, knees shaking, palms burning where he’d caught himself on the fence.
His phone buzzed—Shanice’s number. He didn’t answer. He just let the sound go, standing in the shadow of someone else’s porch, the stink of cut grass and blood in his nose, wondering how many more times he could do this before he stopped making it out.
He swallowed, wiped his face, tucked the gun back into his waistband and forced himself to keep walking, each step proof he was still alive.
The heat on the field made the world shimmer, lines wavering on the painted turf as if the ground itself was unsteady. Summer practice was hell under the sun at Behrman, sweat already soaking through shirts before the first whistle. Most of the team was on the sideline, helmets in hand, watching while the five quarterbacks lined up at the 30-yard line for footwork and accuracy drills. Quarterbacks’ period—a time to measure, to test, to be seen.
Caine could feel his own heart in his teeth, blood hot in his ears. He set his feet behind the orange cone, eyes flicking left and right. Jay was two spots down, helmet at his feet, mouth tight, jaw working. Beside him: Micah, skinny but tall, with quick hands; Keon, thick-shouldered, with a cocky grin that hid nerves; and Devin, a senior who barely talked, just went about his business and waited for his chance.
Coach Martin barked, “Five-step drop, hit the net—right hash! Move!”
All five dropped at once, shoulders rising, balls of their feet light. Caine’s cleats bit into the turf as he counted off steps, the rhythm forced and familiar at once. He could feel the others around him—a kind of orbit, each player calculating, measuring. The competition was unspoken, but real.
First rep—Micah’s ball missed wide. Devin’s clipped the corner. Keon hit it dead center and grinned at Jay. Jay’s ball was a laser, fast and true, slamming through the hole in the net. Caine’s was a little low, but it still rattled the bottom edge and stuck.
Coach Joseph watched from the side, arms folded. “Again. This time, roll out—left!”
They hustled, the tiredness settling into Caine’s shoulders. He tried to keep it loose—feet quick, eyes up. Jay didn’t look at him, but Caine felt the weight anyway: every throw from Jay had something extra, the snap of his wrist tighter, his feet faster. Caine knew what that was—someone feeling the heat, someone not used to it. He’d seen it in fights, too, when a dude starts pressing, trying to make you flinch.
On the third rep, Keon’s ball sailed. Devin chucked his and muttered. Micah found the pocket, but not with force. Caine rolled left, tucked the ball in, then snapped his hips and let it go—hit, not perfect, but better. Jay tried to show out, firing one on the run, but it sailed high, ricocheting off the metal rim. Somebody on the sideline whistled low, a soft “Oooh.” Caine didn’t look over.
Coach Martin’s voice was steady: “Settle down, Jay. Make the easy throw.”
Jay glared at the coach, then at Caine. Caine just reset, letting sweat drip down his temple, listening to his own breath.
Fourth drill—timing throws to a moving target. Receivers jogged ten yards downfield, cones marking the cut, coaches snapping their fingers for the ball to be thrown on rhythm.
Micah went first, short-hopping the receiver. Keon tossed a duck, but the receiver bailed him out. Devin’s pass was smooth—nothing flashy, just right.
Jay stepped up, glancing at Caine as if to say: watch this. He called cadence to an invisible line, took the snap, and snapped off a ball so fast it surprised even the receiver—who juggled, then dropped it.
Caine felt the stare, the way Jay needed him to look, needed him to feel something. Caine refused to give it. He caught the snap, stepped, trusted his timing, and dropped the ball in a perfect window. The receiver plucked it out of the air and jogged back, giving Caine a nod.
Coach Joseph grunted. “That’s it. Break it down, hit the locker room.”
The tension didn’t fade in the walk to the building. Jay stalked off, shoving his helmet into his bag, muttering. The rest peeled away—Micah and Keon clowning each other, Devin silent. Caine lagged behind, his legs heavy, sweat cooling into a sticky film.
Inside, the locker room was all clang and echo, the hum of air conditioning barely beating back the heat. Boys laughed and cracked on each other, but the quarterbacks’ section was quiet, a bubble of old resentments and new stakes. Caine peeled off his jersey, the fabric sticking, rolling his shoulders to ease the soreness. He caught Jay’s reflection in the little strip of mirror above the sinks—eyes sharp, mouth pulled thin.
Jay said, low, “You know you just a nigga they parading around to get some eyes on us, huh? Get motherfuckers asking who that new dude is.”
Caine kept his hands steady. “Sound like you scared you about to be on that bench, lil’ bruh.”
Jay snorted. “Man, please. Ain’t nobody worried about you. You soft as baby shit.”
Caine turned, finally meeting Jay’s eyes. “Soft? Motherfucker, I been off that porch since I came out my mama. Been in the bing, too. Fighting dudes three times your size looking at life, nothing to lose, ready to poke you with a toothbrush they been sharpening just to stab you while you taking a shit. I ain’t got nothing to lose. How about you?”
Jay’s posture changed—a flicker of something, not quite fear but a shrinking, a second of doubt. He opened his mouth but nothing came.
Caine stepped closer, just enough for the message to be clear. “We both know you ain’t really ‘bout that life. But I got a few potnas that been itching to pistol whip your pussy ass because you don’t know nothing about respect.”
Jay’s fists balled. The room had gone quiet around them, Micah and Keon hanging back, half-watching, half-pretending they weren’t. Devin sat on the end of the bench, silent as always, but his eyes locked on Jay.
The silence felt heavy. Jay let his hands drop, jaw tight. “Whatever. Ain’t no one believe none of that shit.”
A door banged open. Coach Joseph stepped out, glare sweeping the room. “Problem?”
Caine answered first, not backing down. “No, sir. Just talking.”
Jay hesitated, eyes flicking between Caine and Coach Joseph, measuring. He swallowed. “No problem, Coach.”
Coach Joseph looked between them, suspicion hardening his features. “Leave the bullshit outside, boys. I need y’all locked in. Not drama. You hear me?”
Neither one answered. Coach Joseph waited a beat, then disappeared into his office.
Caine let the tension bleed out of his shoulders. Jay slammed his locker, muttering curses, and stalked away. The other QBs filtered out, Micah giving Caine a subtle nod.
Caine sat a minute, breath shaky, sweat cold on his skin, the echo of the field and the weight of Jay’s words bouncing around in his head. He didn’t know if this fight would ever end, but he knew he wasn’t the one backing down.
~~~
The old, weather-rotted plank of the steps beneath Mireya’s weight, paint flaking from the railings in long, chalky strips. The air was heavy with the syrupy heat that clung to everything in New Orleans by late June, a thickness that seemed to press sweat out of your skin just for breathing. Mireya sat on the top step, her back braced against the splintered post, a dull ache simmering in her shoulders. Her phone rested on her knee, screen cracked at one corner, thumb mindlessly refreshing a Craigslist page—“Make $75 in two hours: plasma donations, new clients only.”
Angela and Paz sprawled nearby, arms and legs loose, talking about nothing—classmates’ business, what someone posted on Instagram, whether Ms. Mouton’s son was really out on bail or just hiding at his aunt’s. Their voices drifted and broke against Mireya’s preoccupation. She heard her name, half-registered a joke, but it felt distant, like music through a closed window.
Her mind was a broken abacus, beads of anxiety clattering back and forth— ACT retake, Camila’s clothes nearly too tight, the way her last check from the boutique had disappeared before she even remembered cashing it, the yard inconsistent. The world narrowed to money: what she had, what she didn’t, and all the places in between where need gnawed at her resolve.
A shout from down the street broke the bubble. Two boys, maybe seventeen or eighteen, strolled toward the porch—one in cutoff shorts, the other with a beat-up Astros cap and gold fronts that flashed whenever he smiled.
“Aye, what up, Angie?” the taller one called, cutting his eyes across the girls on the porch. “Y’all straight?”
Angela smirked. “We chilling. What y’all on?”
Paz eyed them, her tone playful. “If you got snacks, maybe you can sit down.”
The boy in the hat grinned. “Got something better than snacks. You need some smoke?” He reached into his pocket, flashing a baggie. “I got that za.”
Angela rolled her eyes, holding her hands up. “You know I don’t got weed money. Save it for somebody else.”
“Damn, that’s a shame,” said the other boy, eyeing Mireya as she sat a little straighter. “Y’all just gonna have to be bored then.”
They started to walk away, still talking under their breath.
Mireya hesitated, fingers tight around her phone. She felt the sting of resentment, the hot edge of exhaustion—not just from being broke, but from the way money decided everything. Always money, always a door locked if you didn’t have it, always someone else’s yes or no. Today, she was tired of it.
She pushed herself up, brushed sweat from her neck, and stepped off the porch.
Angela looked up, eyebrow cocked. “Reya, where you going?”
Mireya didn’t answer. She walked down the steps, slow and measured, letting the heat settle her nerves and the eyes of the boys remind her that sometimes wanting was a kind of currency all its own.
The boys noticed her before she even said anything, posture shifting, faces splitting into slow, eager grins. Mireya stopped a few feet away, arms folded under her chest, gaze direct but with just enough curve to her lips to let them think they were in control.
She nodded at the taller one. “Let me see what you got.”
He looked pleased, sliding the baggie out and letting it dangle. “It’s good shit. This shit from a dispensary You got cash, right?”
She shook her head. “Not today. But I can work something out.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Yeah? Like what?”
She didn’t drop her gaze, letting the pause stretch just a second too long. “Depends how generous you feel. Or if you like pretty girls who say thank you.”
The second boy, slower, picked up on her tone, nudging his friend. “She just tryna scam us, bruh. Probably gonna run off with it.”
Mireya smiled, letting her voice soften, every word coated in easy confidence. “I don’t run. But I’m not paying, either. It’s just weed, not diamonds.”
For a second, nobody moved. Then the boy with the hat—deciding, weighing the worth of the bag against the prospect of a story he could tell later—shrugged. “Aight, what you got for me?”
She leaned in, close enough that he could smell the sweat and faint coconut of her hair, close enough that his bravado flickered. She whispered a phone number—one that robocalls had spoofed a few too many times—and let her fingers trail the edge of his wrist, light as a promise.
“You call me, maybe I pick up,” she said. “You remember me, I’ll remember you.”
He handed her the bag, grinning like he’d won. The other boy just shook his head but didn’t protest.
Mireya tucked the weed into her pocket and turned, chin up, pulse steady.
Angela was already laughing as Mireya walked back. “Girl, you just—what’d you do?”
Mireya plopped onto the top step, dropped the bag in Angela’s lap, and picked up her phone again. “Just wanted to see if I could get it for free. Told him what he wanted to hear.”
Angela laughed again, shaking her head. “He really gave it to you? For nothing?”
Mireya shrugged, scrolling again. “It’s not nothing if it gets you what you need.”
Paz bit her lip, a little awe mixed with worry. “What you gonna do if he actually calls that number?”
Mireya smirked, not looking up. “Ain’t my problem.”
For a moment, the porch felt lighter, the world pushed back an inch or two. Mireya let herself grin with the girls, even as her eyes flickered over ads for plasma centers and quick-cash gigs, her mind running two tracks at once—the hustle and the hope. The ache for something easy, and the pride of making a door open when the world kept shutting her out.
~~~
The office was dead quiet except for the buzz of the ceiling light and the dull tap-tap-tap of Roussel’s fingers on the keyboard. He moved slow but with purpose, the way you do when you know every step is a line in a report that can send someone back inside. His desk was stacked neat—case files, violation sheets, drug test forms, every corner squared up like a dare. It was a good day. He’d already written up two violations before lunch.
The kid today—last name, Caldwell—was barely old enough to shave, but Roussel had him sent back up for being in an Uber where the driver got caught with a brick in the trunk. “Shoulda known better,” Roussel muttered, typing the final sentence. “Always know who you get in the car with.” He liked that. Simple logic, easy to put in a report. It didn’t matter if the kid never saw the drugs—rules were rules. And rules were what kept the city from burning down.
A knock. Sharp, but not scared. Roussel glanced at the clock, then called, “Come in.”
The door opened and Jill Babin walked in, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t smile, didn’t even bother to close the door all the way. She just sat, crossing her legs, briefcase on her lap.
“William,” she said. “You got a minute?”
Roussel kept typing, not looking at her. “Depends. I’m busy, Jill.”
She let the silence hang, then reached into her bag and slid a folder across the desk. “This about your headache—Guerra.”
He glanced up, eyes cold. “What about him?”
Jill tapped the folder. “You seen this?”
He opened it, eyes flicking to the grainy color CCTV still—four kids at the Mardi Gras barricades. Caine in the middle, jaw set, beads around his neck, holding his daughter, and the others—Ramon, E.J., Tyree—faces blurred but familiar to Roussel from past sweeps, field interviews, and mugshots.
He squinted. “Who’s the crew with him?”
“State says nobody. Misdemeanors, juvie records sealed. I say suspected 39ers if they’re around someone from the Ninth Ward. Couldn’t get anything to stick. But they run with older hitters. They don’t just hang out for fun.”
Roussel set the folder down, face unreadable. “Not a violation to stand on the street with friends who aren’t felons”
Jill’s smile was a flash of teeth—hungry, professional. “Not yet. But you know how it goes. Guerra’s clean, but he’s been clean before. You shake his tree, see what falls. Get him nervous. I bet something comes loose.”
He met her gaze, blank as a cinderblock. “I don’t file violations for standing on the street. You got something real, call me. Otherwise, I’m not risking paperwork over some parade photo.”
Jill leaned in, lowering her voice. “You know what it looks like when these kids start moving again. I need leverage, Roussel. Anything to keep him on the defense. Kid’s smart, but not that smart. You put the squeeze on, he’ll trip.”
Roussel didn’t flinch. “I’ll keep an eye. But unless you get a call from NOPD or DOC, he stays out. That’s the law.”
Jill rolled her eyes, snapped the folder shut. “Fine. Just don’t let him skate if he’s still doing shit that he should be locked up for.” She grabbed her bag, heels already moving for the door. “If he slips, I want to know before the lawyers do.”
Roussel didn’t answer. He watched her go, the click of the door loud in the silence. He tossed the folder onto the corner of his desk, already picking up the next file. He was still thinking about the photo—about how Guerra always seemed to be right at the line, never over, but never safe either.
He started typing again, hands steady, jaw clenched. It wasn’t about fairness. It was about not letting a single one of them forget whose rules ran this city.
And as the office went quiet again, Roussel let the small, satisfied feeling settle.
~~~
The room was quiet except for the slow, steady hum of the box fan and the distant city noise seeping through Mireya’s open window. Night pressed heavy against the glass, but inside the light was soft and gold, spilled from a lamp on the floor. Camila was curled up on her own little mattress in the corner, her thumb in her mouth, breathing slow and deep, legs tangled in a pink blanket.
On the bed, Caine lay back against a pile of pillows, knees raised and spread apart, feet flat. Mireya was sitting in his lap, straddling him, her body pressed close but her back resting against the top of his knees for support. Her arms rested lazily at her sides, fingertips brushing his thighs.
Caine’s hands ran slowly along the tops of her legs, thumbs tracing absent patterns against her skin. He watched her face, the tired but still-bright eyes, the mouth he knew better than his own. She stared right back, a soft line between her brows, always thinking even in her moments of quiet.
Neither of them spoke for a long time. Mireya felt herself sink back into his knees, letting him hold her up, letting the day slough off her skin for just a moment. The world felt far away—the bills, the shifts, the little calculations that haunted every hour.
Finally, Caine broke the silence. “You ever think about leaving?” His voice was low, careful not to wake Camila. “Like, just packing up and getting the hell out of here?”
She scoffed, a smile flickering and then dying. “Only every day. But I mean… that costs money, and you know I don’t got it. We barely get by as it is. Gas, food, everything for Camila… How we supposed to start over somewhere new?”
He nodded, rubbing her calf with his palm, grounding her. “Sometimes I think about it, though. Like if I get a scholarship—JUCO, maybe even something bigger—just going wherever they want me. Somewhere quiet. I’ll go to fucking North Dakota if they want me. No old shit, no trouble waiting for me around the block.”
She held his gaze, something stubborn in her jaw. “And what about us? You just planning to go and leave me and Camila behind?”
Caine didn’t blink. “Nah. I mean all of us. I wouldn’t leave y’all. We could go together. Start fresh, like for real.”
She looked away for a second, considering it—knowing what it meant. Following him. Leaving her own plans behind. She let herself sit with it, not rushing past the unease or the tenderness. She could see it—some other life, some other city, Camila running barefoot in grass instead of broken sidewalk. But she saw herself waiting, not moving forward, always adjusting to someone else’s dream.
“I just… sometimes I wish I could get away, not forever, just for a while. Somewhere I can breathe.” Mireya’s voice was soft, honest in a way that felt almost dangerous. “But even that ain’t happening until Camila’s older. Or unless we hit the lottery. And we both know that ain’t coming.”
Caine gave a little smile, all understanding and regret. “Yeah. I get it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t heavy—just real. His hands pressed into her legs again, reassuring, reminding her she wasn’t alone even if the answers didn’t come easy.
He shifted, just a little, then nodded toward his pocket. “Shit, I almost forgot. Get what’s in my pocket.”
She arched a brow but reached into the mesh shorts he wore, fishing out two hundred-dollar bills, folded tight and warm from his body. She looked down at the money in her palm, then back at him, one brow lifting, the question clear in her eyes.
“Where you get this?” she asked, voice low and even.
Caine met her stare without flinching. “Work.”
She looked at him longer, seeing past the easy answer, reading the tension in his mouth, the old defiance. “Work or work work?”
He said it again, softer this time. “Work.”
She let the truth settle. There was a line there, but it had gotten blurry long ago, and right now, with the world pressing in, she didn’t know if she had it in her to care. Mireya folded the bills and slid them into the pocket of her own shorts.
Her eyes softened, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”
She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his, a kiss full of tired gratitude and resignation, heavy with what they shared and what they carried. It lingered, a soft collision of hope and surrender.
When she pulled back, she slid down to lay her cheek against his chest, letting his heartbeat steady her.
Caine’s arms came around her, their bodies locked together in the only safe place left to them.
They stayed that way a long time, not saying anything more, the world outside fading to nothing but the hum of the fan and Camila’s soft, even breath.
~~~
E.J. leaned against the sagging rail at the foot of Shanice’s porch, one sneaker braced on the lowest step, the other toeing the weeds creeping out of the cracked sidewalk. The air was heavy with fried grease and far-off sirens, the sky bruised purple at the edges. Shanice hovered just inside the screen door, arms crossed, the porch light fuzzing her outline.
He flashed a grin, letting his charm do the work. “For real, Shan? You gon’ make me beg just to come sit down?”
She smirked, biting her lip. “You always want to sit somewhere after you been running around with them white girls on the West Bank.”
He scoffed, putting on a wounded look. “You know why I go over there. I be needing some peace. They cook for a nigga and all. And you don’t see nobody throwing pots and pans on that side.”
Shanice’s laugh was quick, but her stance stayed cool. “That’s ‘cause they ain’t got nothing worth breaking.”
E.J. stepped one foot up, testing her, watching her eyes. “I’ll show you something worth—”
A car rolled by, engine too loud for the speed, and E.J. broke off mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. The car—some old blue Nissan—crept past, idled a few houses down, then jerked into reverse, wheels squealing as it shot backward.
Shanice dropped her arms. “Who that is?”
E.J. slid his hand down to his waistband, voice flat. “Go inside..”
The car doors burst open and three dudes hopped out, shouting before their feet hit the concrete. “Fuck 3NG and you pussy ass ninth ward niggas!”
Shanice slammed the door behind her just as the first shot cracked off the porch, splinters biting E.J.’s cheek. He hit the ground, rolling off the steps, heart slamming. Gunfire rang out, loud and wild, bullets chewing the porch, glass shattering somewhere behind him.
E.J. crawled, scrambled all hands and knees along the side of the house, but he knew better than to cut through the backyard where he’d get pinned against the fence. He shoved himself up, back pressed tight to the wall, eyes darting. The shooters were fanned out by the car, one moving up the walk, the others covering.
He darted toward the narrow space between Shanice’s house and the neighbor’s, a trash can tipping as he barreled past, knees burning. He heard one of the shooters shout—“There he go!”—then more shots, the air cracking just over his shoulder.
He fired back, barely looking, just enough to make them hesitate, then cut hard left, vaulting a chain-link, scraping his shin raw. He landed in the neighbor’s yard, dodged a busted grill and a rusted tricycle, then tore through the side gate and hit the sidewalk running.
Behind him, the gunfire slowed, a couple shouts echoing—“Get back! Get in the car!” Tires screeched. The Nissan peeled away, taillights flashing, the block suddenly too quiet.
E.J. kept moving, heart hammering, sweat pouring down his back, breath sharp in his chest. He ducked between two more houses, only slowing when he was three blocks off, knees shaking, palms burning where he’d caught himself on the fence.
His phone buzzed—Shanice’s number. He didn’t answer. He just let the sound go, standing in the shadow of someone else’s porch, the stink of cut grass and blood in his nose, wondering how many more times he could do this before he stopped making it out.
He swallowed, wiped his face, tucked the gun back into his waistband and forced himself to keep walking, each step proof he was still alive.
-
Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
American Sun
I see the crumbs you sprinkling in when it comes to Caine and Mireya 
American Sun
get ready to learn coparent buddy
American Sun
Captain Canada wrote: ↑27 Jul 2025, 12:22I see the crumbs you sprinkling in when it comes to Caine and Mireya
Absolutely diabolical thing to say.
American Sun
Shiiiiit with his rap sheet it ain’t gon be no co parenting. She gonna take him for a check ina heartbeat especially if he ups and chases his dream while she stuck.
Just means this is trending towards Caine taking Camila and cutting out
EDIT:
Also forgot to add. Jay didn't do his homework on the guy coming for his job???? Stepping to Caine like that like he ain't gave back 100 years
Just shows how comfortable Jay is in his environment, didn't expect someone to have the balls to punk him like that.Caine hit him with the Kendrick shit: "YOU EVER WALK SOMEONE DOWN WITH A POKER FACE"
American Sun
Tout Kote Fè Nwa Gen Limyè Pa Lwen
The sun was already bruising the sky with heat, the kind that climbed up from the turf and radiated through the soles of your cleats until every bone ached. Sweat beaded under Caine’s helmet, trickling down his spine in thin, itchy lines. The field snapped with the sound of cleats, whistles, and the call-and-response of coaches and players—“Set! Blue eighty! Hut!”—echoing off the empty bleachers.
Caine set his feet behind the white line, ball in hand, vision narrowing. Across from him, Jay was barking at the scout team, arms waving, showy as ever. You could feel him even when you didn’t look. In the small world of quarterbacks, gravity had a name and a jersey number.
Coach Joseph’s voice cut through everything: “Let’s work! Run it again—QBs, five-step drop, hit your read.”
Caine exhaled, focusing on the snap count, on the familiar weight of the ball. His body remembered this rhythm even on days his mind felt like it belonged somewhere else. The line fired off, Caine’s feet chopping quick through the steps, eyes up. The play called for a dig—Tyron crossing at twelve yards. The pocket squeezed, but he stayed calm, letting it collapse just enough before releasing, snapping his hips, threading the ball between two outstretched arms.
Tyron snagged it, tucked, turned upfield, breaking free for another ten before a whistle stopped the play.
“Nice ball, Caine!” Coach LeBlanc called from the sideline, clipboard tight under one arm.
Caine jogged back, glancing at Jay. Jay didn’t look his way, but the way he flexed his neck, jaw set, was all the acknowledgment Caine needed. They rotated again—Jay stepped in, called his cadence, the offense quick and loud behind him. Jay’s ball was sharp, a rope to Corey on the sideline. The sideline noise picked up: coaches talking, linemen ribbing each other, a couple JV guys trying to keep up with drills.
On the far sideline, the coaching staff clustered together, quiet but intent. Coach Joseph had his arms crossed, face unreadable behind his sunglasses. Next to him, Coach Martin muttered something under his breath, head nodding toward the quarterbacks. Coach LeBlanc, the quarterback coach, made small notes on his clipboard, glancing back and forth from Jay to Caine, not missing a detail.
“You see how Caine reads the safety?” Martin said, voice low. “That’s faster than last week. He’s getting it.”
LeBlanc grunted, tapping his pen. “Jay’s the better runner, but if we line him up wide or in motion, he draws coverage. Could pull the safety down, let Caine throw deep. We could play both—nobody else got a two-QB look like that.”
Coach Joseph shook his head, not giving anything away. “I don’t want drama in that locker room. This ain’t a trick show. Whoever wants that job, gotta take it.”
Martin pressed, “You keep Jay involved, he won’t start moping. Caine’s steady, Jay’s a weapon—you play both, keep ‘em hungry. Make defenses guess.”
Joseph’s jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the field. “Let’s see who handles the pressure next week. We got time.”
Back on the field, Caine bent over, hands on knees, catching his breath. His lungs burned, chest tight, but it was a good hurt—the kind that made you feel present, alive, worth the sweat. The day’s heat felt different when you were winning.
Jay jogged over, shoulder-checking him just hard enough to make a point. “You slow on that backside slant.”
Caine kept his face blank, but his jaw tensed. “Ain’t you slow on every read?”
Jay scoffed, lips curled. “This still my fucking team, though.”
Caine shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”
Jay shot him a look, but the coaches were already calling for the next rep.
The whistle blew. The drill reset. Caine’s hands shook for a split second as he took the snap again, but he found Tyron on a quick out, the ball spinning tight. Every throw felt like a small argument won, a place staked out on the field where he could prove—if only for a moment—that he belonged.
On the sideline, Martin watched, arms folded. “He’s not afraid to stay in. That’s something.”
LeBlanc nodded, quiet. “If he keeps it up, we’re gonna have a decision.”
Coach Joseph grunted, but he didn’t disagree.
The sun dropped lower, the field painted gold and long shadow, the city humming in the distance. Caine took off his helmet, wiping sweat from his eyes. He watched Jay line up again, the tension between them electric and quiet, pulsing with the knowledge that nothing was settled yet—not in this city, not on this team.
…
The parking lot was mostly empty, dusk cooling the worst of the day’s heat. Caine’s legs ached, sweat salty and dried on his forehead, helmet banging against his thigh as he made his way out toward his old Buick. Practice had gone long, and his stomach was starting to twist with hunger, but it was the kind of ache he was used to.
He spotted Mr. Landry at the trunk of his Tahoe, one foot braced against the bumper, trying to wrangle two lopsided boxes into his arms. The boxes looked heavy, corners bowed, and there was a stack of loose folders perched on top, threatening to slide.
“Need a hand?” Caine called out, his voice carrying across the lot.
Landry grinned, but there was exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. “Could’ve used about three, but I’ll take one.”
Caine jogged over and took the bigger box off the pile, feeling the weight settle into his shoulder. “You moving out?” he asked.
“New classroom. You know how it goes—get comfortable, they want to shake it up. Never let a teacher feel too settled,” Landry said, the old joke easy between them.
They started the slow walk back into the building, Caine matching his pace to Landry’s. The hallways echoed with their footsteps, distant voices from the janitors, the tang of Pine-Sol still clinging to the air.
Landry glanced over, careful with the folders. “You sign up for the ACT yet?”
Caine shook his head, the words tight in his chest. “Nah, not yet. I mean—Ain’t never really saw the point.”
Landry looked over, his expression gentle but direct. “You still thinking about playing at the next level? College coaches are going to need a score. That’s how they get you in the door, Caine. Not just talent.”
“Yeah,” Caine said quietly. “But, I mean… It cost, right? I ain’t got money for all that.”
They reached Landry’s new classroom—a boxy, windowless space smelling of old books and dust. Landry set his stack down, wiped his forehead, then unzipped his laptop case.
“That’s what the fee waiver is for,” he said, flicking on the power button. “I’ve told you before, you fill out the right paperwork, it’s covered. Come here, let me show you.”
Caine hesitated, shifting his weight, uncomfortable with the feeling of being helped, of needing it. But he set the box down anyway, coming around to the battered desk where Landry had already pulled up the ACT website.
Landry nudged the screen toward him. “You’re gonna sign up, right now. There’s no excuse. I’ll help you get the forms. You just have to want it enough to show up.”
Caine hovered, staring at the keyboard like it might bite. He wasn’t sure he could even remember the last time he filled out something official. His throat felt tight, but he tried to play it off. “You sure it ain’t too late? What if I mess it up?”
Landry’s tone softened. “You won’t mess it up. You got this. Just follow my lead.”
So, Caine typed in his name, stumbling over the spelling once, hands big and clumsy on the keys. Landry pointed out which boxes needed to be checked, which forms meant he’d qualify for the waiver. Every click of the mouse felt like a bigger risk than he wanted to admit.
They worked in silence for a moment. Landry watched, not rushing him, just letting Caine move at his own pace. When Caine hesitated, Landry filled in the gaps, always patient.
When they finished, Landry saved the confirmation email. “See? Not so hard. Now you gotta make time to prep. I want you to come see me after school—twice a week if you can. We’ll work through the practice book together. I still remember how bad you hated algebra a couple years back.”
Caine let out a breath, some of the tightness leaving his chest. He wasn’t sure he could say thank you the way he meant it—not out loud, not right now—so he just nodded. “I appreciate it, for real.”
Landry smiled, tired but proud. “Black men got enough getting thrown our way for us not to be there for each other.”
As Caine left, the registration confirmation fresh in his head and his heart still pounding, he felt the small shift of something he hadn’t felt in a while—a little bit of hope, fragile but stubborn, pressing up against all the places he’d taught himself not to believe.
The window AC rattled hard in the girl’s room, blowing tepid air over Percy’s skin as he lay on his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. The sheets tangled at his feet smelled faintly of lavender and smoke, and beside him, the girl—white, soft-limbed, freckles everywhere—dragged a lazy finger across his chest, humming some old country tune under her breath. Her name was Emily, or Emmie, something that belonged to these pines and slow highways, not the city.
He couldn’t relax. He never did here, not really. The bed frame creaked as she rolled onto her side, letting a knee rest against his thigh. She smiled, blue eyes content, unbothered by anything at all. “You always get up so quick?” she teased, her voice thick and easy with the drawl that had grown on him and grated at the same time.
Percy just shrugged. “I got work in the morning. Early.” His stomach clenched at the lie, but he’d learned to keep some distance—always, out here.
She pouted a little, then flopped back, hair sticking to her neck in the muggy air. “It’s just the country, Percy. Ain’t nobody in a rush but you.”
He sat up, feeling for his boxers in the dark. The room was dim, cluttered, every surface holding a piece of her life: knotted hair ties, battered romance paperbacks, empty Dr. Pepper cans. As he reached for his shirt, his hand brushed something rough and worn—he looked up and froze.
On the nightstand, propped carelessly against a jewelry box, was a small Confederate flag, stitched onto a faded trucker hat. A wooden plaque on the wall above the dresser read “DIXIE PRIDE—OUR HERITAGE.” There were a couple old photos too—teenage boys with rifles in camo, somebody’s granddad in Army dress blues, another in a gray uniform Percy recognized from too many textbooks.
He felt his chest tighten, a heat flushing his neck. “Yo, you ever think about taking that down?” he asked quietly, gesturing at the hat, the plaque, all of it.
She glanced over, following his gaze. Her expression didn’t change—just that same small, patient smile. “It’s just our family stuff. My brother’s hat, my peepaw’s plaque. Don’t mean nothing bad. It’s heritage, you know?”
He waited, hoping for some flicker of embarrassment, maybe a sign that she saw him in this room, saw him as he was. But all he got was the flat certainty of someone who’d never had to think twice.
Percy pulled his jeans on, hands tight. “Heritage,” he repeated, voice flat. “Right.”
She stretched, unconcerned, watching him from the bed. “You want a Coke for the road?”
“Nah. I’m good.” His voice was clipped, sharper than he meant, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.
He fished his keys out of his shoe and headed for the front door. The living room was dark, old dog asleep on the couch, shotgun propped in the corner, family photos all up and down the walls. On the way out, he paused at the fridge—bumper stickers: TRUMP 2024, HUNTIN’ IS LIFE, a faded “FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.” His mouth felt dry.
Outside, the night was close and humid, full of the croak of frogs and the whir of bugs. His breath felt hot in his chest. He stood for a second on the porch, letting the door shut behind him, then walked fast down the cinder drive to his car. The old Monte Carlo he bought for $1,000 before he left New Orleans looked out of place, dusted over from gravel, city plates still showing.
He slid behind the wheel, hands trembling a little, and just sat, staring at the glow from the house. He felt the ache of it—the way a body can feel out of place, unwelcome, no matter what it just shared. The way you can fuck someone and still be a stranger.
He started the car. The engine caught with a cough. In the rearview, his eyes looked wide, uncertain, rimmed with the kind of tired that didn’t come from working a shift. He thought of New Orleans, the lights and the noise, the way you could lose yourself and still know who you were, even when you were broke, even when you were scared. He missed the way Black folks talked loud on the street, the way somebody always had music playing somewhere. Here, even the dark felt different—thicker, watching.
He backed out slow, gravel crunching under the tires. For a long stretch of road there were no lights, just the black sweep of pine, the haunted look of fields at night. He drove with the windows down, letting the hot air slap his face, the only sound the engine and his own heart, loud as a drum.
Halfway to Leesville, he found himself muttering under his breath, angry and sad, shamed for feeling both. This place would swallow him if he let it—chew him up, spit him out, leave nothing but the memory of a Black boy who didn’t belong.
As the headlights cut through the next patch of empty road, Percy blinked hard, jaw set, and promised himself—he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d find a way out. He had to.
The living room was hot, stale with the ghost of last night’s dinner and a sweetness that clung to the walls—baby powder, the faint floral of cheap detergent. Mireya sat cross-legged on the rug, Camila’s laughter bubbling up as she tried to stack plastic cups into a tower that kept collapsing sideways. Sunlight bled through the crooked blinds, striping their shadows over the scuffed floor and Mireya’s bare feet.
Her phone vibrated on the coffee table—a reminder about an overdue bill she couldn’t look at yet. She stretched for it, careful not to knock over Camila’s work, and thumbed open her banking app. The screen loaded slow, spinning. She tapped her knee, sweat prickling under her tank top. Camila’s tower finally gave way, cups clattering, and she looked up at her mother, eyes wide and expectant.
“Try again, nena,” Mireya said gently, forcing a smile. “You almost had it.”
Camila’s face wrinkled in determination, bottom lip poking out, and she started the ritual over.
The app chimed: $243.17. She exhaled—almost a laugh, but nothing funny in it. Caine’s money was in there, his $200 making the difference between overdraft and just-barely-scraping-by. She scrolled to the ACT registration page, heart heavy as she typed in her card number. $95—writing portion included. It felt reckless, almost stupid. But Mireya pressed the button, waited for the green check, and stared at the new balance: $148.17.
A pit opened in her chest. Rent was coming. So was daycare. The car insurance, if she remembered right, was due the week after next. She closed her eyes, picturing the envelope with her name on it, stuck behind a magnet on the fridge.
Behind her, the front door groaned on its hinges. Mireya didn’t turn—just listened to the shuffle of tired feet, the clack of keys on the countertop. Maria’s voice drifted in, the scrape of her purse dropped onto a kitchen chair.
The silence held for a beat, then Maria called, “Ya llegué.”
“Hey, Ma.” Mireya kept her eyes on Camila, not trusting her own face.
Maria appeared in the doorway, hair pulled back tight, face shining with sweat and exhaustion from the factory shift. She glanced at Camila—one look soft, then hardened again. “You feed her yet?”
“Yeah. Oatmeal and banana.”
Maria nodded, eyes flicking to the phone in Mireya’s hand. “You working today?”
Mireya shook her head. “Not at the boutique.”
Maria just grunted, going to the sink, running water. The tap sputtered, pipes knocking behind the wall. Camila babbled, waving a cup in the air, her world whole for the moment.
Mireya tried to keep her voice light. “Insurance is due next week, right?”
Maria didn’t answer at first, drying her hands with the kitchen towel. When she turned, her gaze was level, tired, but sharp enough to cut. “Sí. Don’t forget. They’ll cancel if you’re late.”
Mireya wanted to argue—to remind Maria she already covered groceries last week, that she’d been the one to buy Camila’s clothes. She opened her mouth, then let it close. The words felt dangerous, sharp-edged, and pointless. Instead, she just nodded. “Okay.”
Maria lingered in the doorway, the muscles in her jaw working. Her gaze slid over the room—the blocks, the phone, Mireya on the floor in sweatpants and yesterday’s shirt, Camila’s hair wild and cheeks sticky.
“You could’ve been at work,” Maria said finally, voice flat but not loud. “Instead of sitting around doing nothing.”
Mireya flinched, swallowing the urge to snap back. The shame burned under her skin, familiar as her own reflection. “You’re right.”
Maria watched her a moment longer, lips pressed tight. Then she turned, footsteps retreating down the hall. The door to her bedroom closed—not a slam, just the finality of a wall going up.
Camila crawled into her lap, laying her head on Mireya’s knee. “Mommy, up,” she said, reaching.
Mireya scooped her daughter close, pressing her face into the little girl’s hair. She could still smell baby shampoo, but it was nearly drowned out by the scent of sweat and city. Camila squirmed, then settled, small arms around Mireya’s neck, content in the silence.
Mireya’s phone screen had gone dark. She tapped it, saw the balance again, and closed her eyes.
She wondered, not for the first time, if this was all her life would ever be—a line of zeroes threatening to run red, a mother who only saw what was missing, a daughter who deserved more.
The weight pressed down, relentless. But Camila’s breath was warm on her collarbone. Mireya ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, slow and soft, promising herself she’d make it work—even if she had no idea how.
Outside, the day moved on, traffic and sirens blurring into the usual city song. Inside, Mireya sat with her child in her lap, back against the couch, holding her own exhaustion close, wishing—just for a minute—that she could be enough.
She stayed that way a long time, until Camila wiggled free, crawling back to her fallen tower. Mireya watched her try again and again, the blocks never quite fitting, but her daughter’s hands refusing to give up. The lesson was there, bitter and bright. Mireya swallowed it whole.
When she finally stood to fix lunch, her knees cracked. Camila giggled, pushing the blocks together, and Mireya forced a small smile. The cost of hope was higher than she thought. But for Camila’s sake, she kept paying.
Dre woke before dawn most days, long before the guards banged the doors. At Hunt, time stretched and curled in on itself, slow as syrup and twice as sticky. The air in his cell was thick with sweat, dust, and that undercurrent of fear he’d learned to taste on his tongue. Some mornings he’d lie on his bunk, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, listening for the shuffle of feet—his cellie, the COs, the sounds of the other men, coughing, cursing, starting the same day over again.
He dressed by rote—orange jumpsuit faded by a hundred washes, elastic gone slack at the cuffs, socks thin as tissue. His hands shook a little as he laced up the shoes, but he told himself it was just the cold. There was always a chill in here, even when the heat beat down outside.
By breakfast, the main tier was alive. Voices—loud, sharp, sometimes laughing, sometimes not—bounced off cinderblock walls painted a color meant to be soothing but just felt flat. In the chow hall, Dre kept his tray close to his chest. He sat with the other Black men, mostly the New Orleans and Baton Rouge boys, a loose circle near the back. Everyone talked in low voices, careful not to let the guards catch more than scraps.
“Ain’t no grits again?” Markell asked, poking at the pale lump on his tray. “Man, this shit look like caulk.”
The others snorted, but Dre kept his eyes on the table. The rules here were different than OPP. You learned quick: don’t stare, don’t smile too wide, don’t draw attention. The lines weren’t painted on the floor, but everyone saw them—Black, white, Latin, every block carving out its own kingdom in this hell.
Sometimes, when the guards circled, Dre could see the way they looked right through them. Like they weren’t people, just problems to be counted and moved. A CO—big, pale, arms knotted with old ink—leaned against the wall, jaw moving slow as he chewed his toothpick. He let the white boys jaw and jostle, let the Aryan crowd bark and play spades as loud as they wanted, but when Dre’s table got too loud, he’d snap: “Y’all keep it down, now.” The message was clear. This was their place, not yours.
Dre chewed slow, swallowing past a knot in his throat. He missed home, missed even the cracked tile of his grandma’s kitchen, the easy way his cousins talked shit on the stoop. Here, every word cost something. Even laughing could get you marked.
After breakfast, they filed into the yard. Hunt’s rec yard was ringed by razor wire, the ground bare in places where too many feet had stomped the grass away. Dre stuck with his own—Markell, Rondo, a couple others from the city. They clustered near the half-broken weight bench, all eyes up, backs to the fence. On the far side, the whites gathered around the handball court, tattoos on display, voices sharp with the freedom of being in the majority. Dre felt it—the way everything in here bent around race, the way you could feel a fight coming in the way men looked at each other, in the silences that stretched too tight.
Sometimes, the guards watched. Most times, they didn’t. A CO might be close enough to hear the tension rise, to see a shank passed or a handball game turn into a brawl, but mostly they let it play out. Let the men keep themselves in check. Power, Dre realized, didn’t always look like a baton or a badge. Sometimes it looked like looking away, like letting men police themselves until the rules wrote themselves in blood.
Rondo nudged him. “You hear from home?” he asked, voice low.
Dre shook his head. “Mail’s slow.”
Markell grunted. “Ain’t no mail, Dre. You know how they do. Keep a nigga waiting, make him soft.”
Dre looked at the sky—gray, cut with barbed wire. He wondered how many days, how many years, would bleed away before he forgot how freedom even felt.
A whistle shrieked. Everyone stilled, waiting for the guards to signal, to say whose turn it was to move, to run the court, to sit in the shade. Dre kept his face blank, kept his hands where everyone could see them.
“Yo, Dre,” Rondo said, close now, “you straight?”
He nodded, though the knot in his chest stayed tight. “I’m good.”
But even as he said it, he knew: this was life now. Edges sharpened by silence, alliances drawn in skin, in city, in the way you learned to keep your voice down and your fists ready.
The whistle blew again. Time to go in. The guards herded them back inside, boots echoing on the tile. Dre walked slow, feeling the weight of all the eyes on him—not just white, not just Black, but everyone watching, everyone measuring, everyone trying to survive.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t give anyone the satisfaction. Just kept moving, the line behind him, the world outside shrinking to memory.
Inside, he settled onto his bunk, eyes on the door. For a moment, he let himself feel tired. Let himself remember the world before Hunt, before all of this. Then he closed his eyes, steadying his breath.
Another day done. Another piece of himself left behind.
The air outside the Guerra house was thick with humidity, the porch light flickering and drawing slow moths to circle above Sara as she sat slumped on the front steps, rolling a half-burned joint between her fingers. She watched the orange tip flare and fade, breath coming slow after more than twelve hours on her feet. Her body ached everywhere. Still, she couldn’t let herself fully unwind—not with her head full of worry, her nerves still tuned to the question that never seemed to leave: Was Caine really okay? Had he brought something back from prison she couldn’t fix?
The scrape of tires across gravel made her glance up. Hector’s truck pulled in too fast, the suspension groaning. He killed the engine hard, like he was mad at the vehicle itself, and came around with his jaw set, eyes already searching for a fight.
He caught sight of Sara, the joint, and wasted no time.
“That right there,” Hector snapped, pointing, “that’s why your boy got problems. You baby him, let him get away with whatever the fuck he wants. And you not showing him the right way to live. Still a criminal, still a fuck-up.”
Sara didn’t blink. She let the words hit, took a long drag, holding the smoke in her chest until it stung, then let it out slow. Her gaze never left his. “Only the gringos want you to think that weed turns us into monsters.”
Hector strode closer, looming over her, voice rising. “No, it ain’t weed that turned Caine the way he is. That’s just in his nature. You messed him up when you chose to open your legs for whatever one of them knocked you up. But you know, I’m gonna keep talking to Ma about it until she agrees to throw him out. He’s violent and dangerous to the little ones, Ada, Rosario, Ma.”
Sara’s laugh was dry, almost bitter. “Dangerous? Because he beat Saul’s ass? Maybe Saul’s just a little bitch. Una putita.”
Hector’s face flushed. He jabbed a finger at her, eyes wild. “You callin’ my boy weak? At least he’s not a criminal. At least he don’t got nobody knocking at the door looking for him with a warrant! At least he’s not a fucking deadbeat just like his father.”
Sara was on her feet now, tired but standing firm, voice low and fierce. “You’re talking a lot for someone who lives at home with his mommy and sisters, Hector. I keep telling you that Ma isn’t putting Caine out. But we keep having this conversation as if you think I’m going to suddenly turn my back on him. I’ll always take his side. Sobre todos ustedes, sobre todo.”
For a moment, the only sound was the buzz of the porch light, the muffled clatter of a TV behind the screen door. The distance between them felt like a live wire, one spark away from burning down the whole block.
Sara watched Hector for a long moment, her knuckles white around what was left of the joint. She wanted to tell him to get out, to leave her a moment’s peace on her own porch, but she knew that wasn’t possible—not with him living under the same roof, not with the house already stretched thin with old resentments and the noise of too many lives tangled together.
Hector lingered at the top of the steps, his anger raw and unhidden. For a second he looked like he might spit again, or say something worse, but he just shook his head and muttered, “Ain’t right. That’s all I’m saying. You keep covering for him, you keep defending him—just don’t come crying when it all blows up in your face.”
Sara didn’t look up as he stomped past her and into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him, the echo sharp as a slap. She waited until she was sure he was gone, out of sight at least, and then she let herself exhale.
She sat there in the heat, the smell of weed curling around her, the neighborhood humming in the deep dark, letting the tension bleed out through her fingertips. Maybe tomorrow would be easier. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, her choice was already made—her loyalty unshaken, even if the whole house turned against her.
She stared at the sky a while longer, letting her anger settle into resolve, holding fast to the only truth she had left: that she wouldn’t let Caine be alone, not ever, not while she still had breath.
Caine pushed out through the cracked glass doors of the Chevron with the cheap bell jangling behind him. The dusk was sticky on his skin—July heat refusing to let go, pressing sweat out from under his collar even as the sky darkened. The station’s lot glowed under flickering sodium lights, broken beer bottles glittering in the gutters, and the stink of burnt oil layered under the sharp bite of fresh asphalt.
Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. walked ahead of him, carrying their own plastic bags—chips, sodas, Black & Milds. E.J. kept glancing over his shoulder, shoulders stiff, eyes darting to the street, then to the corner, then back to the store like he expected a car to pull up any second. He pulled at the collar of his white T-shirt, neck slick with sweat. Even standing still, he looked ready to bolt.
Tyree caught it, gave E.J. a sideways look, mouth twisting. “Damn, nigga, you actin’ scary as hell tonight,” Tyree said, half-laughing, half-needling. “Ain’t nobody spinning on you in a Chevron lot. Chill.”
E.J. shot him a glare, pushing at Tyree’s arm with more force than the moment needed. “Say that shit again, see what happen. You wasn’t the one got shot at last week. Some shit just make you watch different, you feel me?” His voice was rough, jaw set tight.
Tyree held up both hands, palms open. “Alright, man. I ain’t playing you. Just—you keep lookin’ like that, you gon’ make us a target for real.”
Caine stayed quiet, head down, moving steady with them toward the Buick. The car sat dull under the parking lot lights, a patchwork of faded black and primer gray, hubcap missing on the front left. It was hot as a skillet inside; he could already feel the vinyl sticking to his skin.
Ramon lingered at the curb, watching the street. “Look, Caine,” he said, voice pitched lower now that they were out of earshot of the cashier. “We got another play lined up. Nothing crazy. Could get you paid, easy.”
Caine paused with the car keys in his hand, thumb flicking at the faded Saints keychain. “What kind of play?”
Ramon shrugged, gaze skimming over a pair of kids riding past on bikes, then back to Caine. “Just need you to drive. Drop us somewhere, wait a sec, pick us up, that’s it. Ain’t nothing hot, ain’t nobody getting hurt. Just a move for a little cash.”
Caine’s chest tightened, heartbeat ticking faster behind his ribs. He glanced at Tyree, who leaned up against the trunk, grinning.
Tyree chimed in, all loose charm and bravado, but Caine could feel the edge beneath it. “Ain’t nothing but moving a couple packs, dawg. We just need a car that don’t get us pulled over. Your Buick clean—ain’t nobody looking for it. Except from somebody Pawpaw trying to get in Ms. Earnestine draws.”
Caine’s jaw worked as he looked at the Buick. He pictured Mireya’s tired voice, the electric bill on the counter, his mother working two and three shifts. He tried not to think about how quickly the wrong decision could snatch it all away.
He nodded once, quiet. “Alright. But y’all don’t bring heat in my car. My mama use this shit, too.”
Ramon grinned, relief in his eyes. “Easy. Just in and out.”
As he unlocked the door, E.J. stepped in closer, voice pitched low and urgent. “You got a gun, Caine? Just in case? Niggas out here been wylin’. I ain’t tryna get caught slippin’. They took a shot at me last week, for real.”
Caine shook his head, almost smiling but not. “Not since I got locked up.”
Ramon scanned the lot, the tension in his jaw returning. He reached under his shirt, pulled a small, worn pistol from his waistband—metal glinting under the buzzing lights—and pressed it into Caine’s hand, careful, quick, nothing showy.
Caine didn’t flinch but looked at it, weighing the cold metal, the danger humming under his skin. “This shit got bodies on it?”
Ramon shook his head once, voice flat. “Not that I put on it.”
Caine slid the gun beneath a flap of torn upholstery near the floorboard, jamming it deep until only the black of the grip showed if you knew exactly where to look. He let his palm rest there for a second—heat and weight and memory pressing down all at once—before straightening up, eyes steady on Ramon.
Tyree glanced between them, jaw clenched for a beat, then cracked a joke to break the moment, “Man, hide that good, or your PO gon’ send you back to the bing.”
Nobody laughed, but the tension loosened a little, air moving again.
Caine shut the driver’s door behind him, hand lingering on the steering wheel, sweat slicking his neck. The others drifted off toward their own rides or the street, E.J. still glancing over his shoulder, Tyree swaggering like nothing could touch him, Ramon with that look that said he saw every angle, even the ones nobody talked about.
For a moment, Caine sat alone in the car, the night pressing in, heart ticking fast. His hands trembled just a little as he pressed his palms to the wheel.
This was how it started—always. Just a ride, just a favor, just a little bit to help out. The way back never felt like a choice. Only gravity.
He closed his eyes, letting the noise of the lot wash over him—the buzz of the lights, the distant wail of sirens, the scrape of bottles in the gutter. When he opened them, he felt heavier, older, like every easy answer had just gotten farther away.
He started the car and pulled off, the pistol rattling beneath the seat. The sound followed him all the way home.
The parking lot at the concrete yard was so hot it shimmered. Sunlight bounced off every bare patch of gravel and metal, painting white streaks on the dashboard. Mireya sat in her car with the A/C roaring, the cold air pushing beads of sweat back across her scalp but not drying them. Her shirt stuck to the small of her back.
She pressed her phone to her chest, eyes closed, counting the seconds. Each tap of the A/C knob was another bit of gas wasted, but the office was a sauna and Denise had two of the fans aimed at herself, leaving nothing but stale heat for the rest. Mireya felt guilty about burning fuel but couldn’t bring herself to shut the engine off. Not yet.
Her eyelids fluttered at a dull thunk on the glass. Leo, squinting into the glare, hand on the roof. She didn’t want to see him. She forced herself to breathe out slow, then thumbed the window down halfway—just enough to talk, not enough for him to lean in.
“What you need?” she asked, keeping her voice flat.
Leo smiled, the kind that always felt off—nothing but teeth, eyes scanning her face, her hair, her shirt, down to her legs, lingering. “A/C blowing like you got money,” he said, chin flicking at her dashboard. “Can’t be too hot for you out here.”
She gritted her teeth. “It’s Louisiana. Everybody hot.”
He leaned his forearm on the window frame, too familiar. “You know, if you need anything—extra cash or something—I’m always willing to help out. Times is tough.”
She held his gaze, steady and dry then let her face go blank.
“I’m fine, Leo.”
He didn’t move, just looked her over again, slower this time. “Your kid’s birthday coming up, ain’t it? Little ones, man, they get expensive. All those gifts, the party—shit, I don’t know how you moms do it.”
She arched an eyebrow, turning her body away a little. “What you know about throwing birthday parties?”
Leo grinned, brushing something off his sleeve. “I got wife and kids, man. And I told you before, I’m always watching out for the pretty young things I know.”
Mireya didn’t answer. She looked through him, out at the cranes and forklifts rattling at the edge of the lot, pretending she couldn’t feel the attention crawling on her skin. She thought about Camila—how her daughter’s birthdays had always been loud, too many cousins, too many hands grabbing at cake, her mother complaining about decorations and Mireya taking the blame for everything not perfect.
Leo waited a beat. “You sure you good? I know you been hustling but… don’t make it harder than it gotta be.”
“I said I’m good.” She flicked her hand, gesturing for him to move back. “You’re making me let the cold out.”
His mouth tightened, just a little, annoyance slipping through. “I’m just trying to help, Mireya.”
“Don’t need it.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t flinch.
For a second he stayed, the air between them tense. Leo’s eyes went hard, like he wanted to say something else, some warning or reminder, but he swallowed it and stepped away from the window. He shook his head, muttering something she couldn’t hear, then walked back toward the office, shoulders set.
Mireya let the window glide up and sat with her hand on the switch, heart pounding too fast. She wiped sweat off her upper lip, feeling the cold air finally catch up to her again. She imagined her family’s reaction when she found out—Camila’s birthday not as big, not as full of food or decorations as it should be. There would be a fight, maybe something worse. Mireya could already feel the ache of being called selfish, lazy, a bad mother. It was always there, a knot she couldn’t untangle.
Her phone buzzed—a text from Angela, something about a cousin with a job lead. Mireya stared at it a moment, feeling the ache behind her eyes, the heavy stretch of the afternoon. She looked at the gas gauge—almost on E, again. Still, she didn’t turn off the car.
In the distance, Denise and the yard boys were laughing, the sound barely reaching her through the glass. Mireya pressed her thumb into the seam of the steering wheel until her nail hurt. She was tired of feeling watched, tired of being someone’s “maybe.” She sat there, breathing, until her shoulders loosened just enough to make it through the next hour.
The sun was already bruising the sky with heat, the kind that climbed up from the turf and radiated through the soles of your cleats until every bone ached. Sweat beaded under Caine’s helmet, trickling down his spine in thin, itchy lines. The field snapped with the sound of cleats, whistles, and the call-and-response of coaches and players—“Set! Blue eighty! Hut!”—echoing off the empty bleachers.
Caine set his feet behind the white line, ball in hand, vision narrowing. Across from him, Jay was barking at the scout team, arms waving, showy as ever. You could feel him even when you didn’t look. In the small world of quarterbacks, gravity had a name and a jersey number.
Coach Joseph’s voice cut through everything: “Let’s work! Run it again—QBs, five-step drop, hit your read.”
Caine exhaled, focusing on the snap count, on the familiar weight of the ball. His body remembered this rhythm even on days his mind felt like it belonged somewhere else. The line fired off, Caine’s feet chopping quick through the steps, eyes up. The play called for a dig—Tyron crossing at twelve yards. The pocket squeezed, but he stayed calm, letting it collapse just enough before releasing, snapping his hips, threading the ball between two outstretched arms.
Tyron snagged it, tucked, turned upfield, breaking free for another ten before a whistle stopped the play.
“Nice ball, Caine!” Coach LeBlanc called from the sideline, clipboard tight under one arm.
Caine jogged back, glancing at Jay. Jay didn’t look his way, but the way he flexed his neck, jaw set, was all the acknowledgment Caine needed. They rotated again—Jay stepped in, called his cadence, the offense quick and loud behind him. Jay’s ball was sharp, a rope to Corey on the sideline. The sideline noise picked up: coaches talking, linemen ribbing each other, a couple JV guys trying to keep up with drills.
On the far sideline, the coaching staff clustered together, quiet but intent. Coach Joseph had his arms crossed, face unreadable behind his sunglasses. Next to him, Coach Martin muttered something under his breath, head nodding toward the quarterbacks. Coach LeBlanc, the quarterback coach, made small notes on his clipboard, glancing back and forth from Jay to Caine, not missing a detail.
“You see how Caine reads the safety?” Martin said, voice low. “That’s faster than last week. He’s getting it.”
LeBlanc grunted, tapping his pen. “Jay’s the better runner, but if we line him up wide or in motion, he draws coverage. Could pull the safety down, let Caine throw deep. We could play both—nobody else got a two-QB look like that.”
Coach Joseph shook his head, not giving anything away. “I don’t want drama in that locker room. This ain’t a trick show. Whoever wants that job, gotta take it.”
Martin pressed, “You keep Jay involved, he won’t start moping. Caine’s steady, Jay’s a weapon—you play both, keep ‘em hungry. Make defenses guess.”
Joseph’s jaw clenched, eyes never leaving the field. “Let’s see who handles the pressure next week. We got time.”
Back on the field, Caine bent over, hands on knees, catching his breath. His lungs burned, chest tight, but it was a good hurt—the kind that made you feel present, alive, worth the sweat. The day’s heat felt different when you were winning.
Jay jogged over, shoulder-checking him just hard enough to make a point. “You slow on that backside slant.”
Caine kept his face blank, but his jaw tensed. “Ain’t you slow on every read?”
Jay scoffed, lips curled. “This still my fucking team, though.”
Caine shrugged. “Yeah, alright.”
Jay shot him a look, but the coaches were already calling for the next rep.
The whistle blew. The drill reset. Caine’s hands shook for a split second as he took the snap again, but he found Tyron on a quick out, the ball spinning tight. Every throw felt like a small argument won, a place staked out on the field where he could prove—if only for a moment—that he belonged.
On the sideline, Martin watched, arms folded. “He’s not afraid to stay in. That’s something.”
LeBlanc nodded, quiet. “If he keeps it up, we’re gonna have a decision.”
Coach Joseph grunted, but he didn’t disagree.
The sun dropped lower, the field painted gold and long shadow, the city humming in the distance. Caine took off his helmet, wiping sweat from his eyes. He watched Jay line up again, the tension between them electric and quiet, pulsing with the knowledge that nothing was settled yet—not in this city, not on this team.
…
The parking lot was mostly empty, dusk cooling the worst of the day’s heat. Caine’s legs ached, sweat salty and dried on his forehead, helmet banging against his thigh as he made his way out toward his old Buick. Practice had gone long, and his stomach was starting to twist with hunger, but it was the kind of ache he was used to.
He spotted Mr. Landry at the trunk of his Tahoe, one foot braced against the bumper, trying to wrangle two lopsided boxes into his arms. The boxes looked heavy, corners bowed, and there was a stack of loose folders perched on top, threatening to slide.
“Need a hand?” Caine called out, his voice carrying across the lot.
Landry grinned, but there was exhaustion in the lines around his eyes. “Could’ve used about three, but I’ll take one.”
Caine jogged over and took the bigger box off the pile, feeling the weight settle into his shoulder. “You moving out?” he asked.
“New classroom. You know how it goes—get comfortable, they want to shake it up. Never let a teacher feel too settled,” Landry said, the old joke easy between them.
They started the slow walk back into the building, Caine matching his pace to Landry’s. The hallways echoed with their footsteps, distant voices from the janitors, the tang of Pine-Sol still clinging to the air.
Landry glanced over, careful with the folders. “You sign up for the ACT yet?”
Caine shook his head, the words tight in his chest. “Nah, not yet. I mean—Ain’t never really saw the point.”
Landry looked over, his expression gentle but direct. “You still thinking about playing at the next level? College coaches are going to need a score. That’s how they get you in the door, Caine. Not just talent.”
“Yeah,” Caine said quietly. “But, I mean… It cost, right? I ain’t got money for all that.”
They reached Landry’s new classroom—a boxy, windowless space smelling of old books and dust. Landry set his stack down, wiped his forehead, then unzipped his laptop case.
“That’s what the fee waiver is for,” he said, flicking on the power button. “I’ve told you before, you fill out the right paperwork, it’s covered. Come here, let me show you.”
Caine hesitated, shifting his weight, uncomfortable with the feeling of being helped, of needing it. But he set the box down anyway, coming around to the battered desk where Landry had already pulled up the ACT website.
Landry nudged the screen toward him. “You’re gonna sign up, right now. There’s no excuse. I’ll help you get the forms. You just have to want it enough to show up.”
Caine hovered, staring at the keyboard like it might bite. He wasn’t sure he could even remember the last time he filled out something official. His throat felt tight, but he tried to play it off. “You sure it ain’t too late? What if I mess it up?”
Landry’s tone softened. “You won’t mess it up. You got this. Just follow my lead.”
So, Caine typed in his name, stumbling over the spelling once, hands big and clumsy on the keys. Landry pointed out which boxes needed to be checked, which forms meant he’d qualify for the waiver. Every click of the mouse felt like a bigger risk than he wanted to admit.
They worked in silence for a moment. Landry watched, not rushing him, just letting Caine move at his own pace. When Caine hesitated, Landry filled in the gaps, always patient.
When they finished, Landry saved the confirmation email. “See? Not so hard. Now you gotta make time to prep. I want you to come see me after school—twice a week if you can. We’ll work through the practice book together. I still remember how bad you hated algebra a couple years back.”
Caine let out a breath, some of the tightness leaving his chest. He wasn’t sure he could say thank you the way he meant it—not out loud, not right now—so he just nodded. “I appreciate it, for real.”
Landry smiled, tired but proud. “Black men got enough getting thrown our way for us not to be there for each other.”
As Caine left, the registration confirmation fresh in his head and his heart still pounding, he felt the small shift of something he hadn’t felt in a while—a little bit of hope, fragile but stubborn, pressing up against all the places he’d taught himself not to believe.
~~~
The window AC rattled hard in the girl’s room, blowing tepid air over Percy’s skin as he lay on his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. The sheets tangled at his feet smelled faintly of lavender and smoke, and beside him, the girl—white, soft-limbed, freckles everywhere—dragged a lazy finger across his chest, humming some old country tune under her breath. Her name was Emily, or Emmie, something that belonged to these pines and slow highways, not the city.
He couldn’t relax. He never did here, not really. The bed frame creaked as she rolled onto her side, letting a knee rest against his thigh. She smiled, blue eyes content, unbothered by anything at all. “You always get up so quick?” she teased, her voice thick and easy with the drawl that had grown on him and grated at the same time.
Percy just shrugged. “I got work in the morning. Early.” His stomach clenched at the lie, but he’d learned to keep some distance—always, out here.
She pouted a little, then flopped back, hair sticking to her neck in the muggy air. “It’s just the country, Percy. Ain’t nobody in a rush but you.”
He sat up, feeling for his boxers in the dark. The room was dim, cluttered, every surface holding a piece of her life: knotted hair ties, battered romance paperbacks, empty Dr. Pepper cans. As he reached for his shirt, his hand brushed something rough and worn—he looked up and froze.
On the nightstand, propped carelessly against a jewelry box, was a small Confederate flag, stitched onto a faded trucker hat. A wooden plaque on the wall above the dresser read “DIXIE PRIDE—OUR HERITAGE.” There were a couple old photos too—teenage boys with rifles in camo, somebody’s granddad in Army dress blues, another in a gray uniform Percy recognized from too many textbooks.
He felt his chest tighten, a heat flushing his neck. “Yo, you ever think about taking that down?” he asked quietly, gesturing at the hat, the plaque, all of it.
She glanced over, following his gaze. Her expression didn’t change—just that same small, patient smile. “It’s just our family stuff. My brother’s hat, my peepaw’s plaque. Don’t mean nothing bad. It’s heritage, you know?”
He waited, hoping for some flicker of embarrassment, maybe a sign that she saw him in this room, saw him as he was. But all he got was the flat certainty of someone who’d never had to think twice.
Percy pulled his jeans on, hands tight. “Heritage,” he repeated, voice flat. “Right.”
She stretched, unconcerned, watching him from the bed. “You want a Coke for the road?”
“Nah. I’m good.” His voice was clipped, sharper than he meant, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care.
He fished his keys out of his shoe and headed for the front door. The living room was dark, old dog asleep on the couch, shotgun propped in the corner, family photos all up and down the walls. On the way out, he paused at the fridge—bumper stickers: TRUMP 2024, HUNTIN’ IS LIFE, a faded “FREEDOM ISN’T FREE.” His mouth felt dry.
Outside, the night was close and humid, full of the croak of frogs and the whir of bugs. His breath felt hot in his chest. He stood for a second on the porch, letting the door shut behind him, then walked fast down the cinder drive to his car. The old Monte Carlo he bought for $1,000 before he left New Orleans looked out of place, dusted over from gravel, city plates still showing.
He slid behind the wheel, hands trembling a little, and just sat, staring at the glow from the house. He felt the ache of it—the way a body can feel out of place, unwelcome, no matter what it just shared. The way you can fuck someone and still be a stranger.
He started the car. The engine caught with a cough. In the rearview, his eyes looked wide, uncertain, rimmed with the kind of tired that didn’t come from working a shift. He thought of New Orleans, the lights and the noise, the way you could lose yourself and still know who you were, even when you were broke, even when you were scared. He missed the way Black folks talked loud on the street, the way somebody always had music playing somewhere. Here, even the dark felt different—thicker, watching.
He backed out slow, gravel crunching under the tires. For a long stretch of road there were no lights, just the black sweep of pine, the haunted look of fields at night. He drove with the windows down, letting the hot air slap his face, the only sound the engine and his own heart, loud as a drum.
Halfway to Leesville, he found himself muttering under his breath, angry and sad, shamed for feeling both. This place would swallow him if he let it—chew him up, spit him out, leave nothing but the memory of a Black boy who didn’t belong.
As the headlights cut through the next patch of empty road, Percy blinked hard, jaw set, and promised himself—he wouldn’t let it happen. He’d find a way out. He had to.
~~~
The living room was hot, stale with the ghost of last night’s dinner and a sweetness that clung to the walls—baby powder, the faint floral of cheap detergent. Mireya sat cross-legged on the rug, Camila’s laughter bubbling up as she tried to stack plastic cups into a tower that kept collapsing sideways. Sunlight bled through the crooked blinds, striping their shadows over the scuffed floor and Mireya’s bare feet.
Her phone vibrated on the coffee table—a reminder about an overdue bill she couldn’t look at yet. She stretched for it, careful not to knock over Camila’s work, and thumbed open her banking app. The screen loaded slow, spinning. She tapped her knee, sweat prickling under her tank top. Camila’s tower finally gave way, cups clattering, and she looked up at her mother, eyes wide and expectant.
“Try again, nena,” Mireya said gently, forcing a smile. “You almost had it.”
Camila’s face wrinkled in determination, bottom lip poking out, and she started the ritual over.
The app chimed: $243.17. She exhaled—almost a laugh, but nothing funny in it. Caine’s money was in there, his $200 making the difference between overdraft and just-barely-scraping-by. She scrolled to the ACT registration page, heart heavy as she typed in her card number. $95—writing portion included. It felt reckless, almost stupid. But Mireya pressed the button, waited for the green check, and stared at the new balance: $148.17.
A pit opened in her chest. Rent was coming. So was daycare. The car insurance, if she remembered right, was due the week after next. She closed her eyes, picturing the envelope with her name on it, stuck behind a magnet on the fridge.
Behind her, the front door groaned on its hinges. Mireya didn’t turn—just listened to the shuffle of tired feet, the clack of keys on the countertop. Maria’s voice drifted in, the scrape of her purse dropped onto a kitchen chair.
The silence held for a beat, then Maria called, “Ya llegué.”
“Hey, Ma.” Mireya kept her eyes on Camila, not trusting her own face.
Maria appeared in the doorway, hair pulled back tight, face shining with sweat and exhaustion from the factory shift. She glanced at Camila—one look soft, then hardened again. “You feed her yet?”
“Yeah. Oatmeal and banana.”
Maria nodded, eyes flicking to the phone in Mireya’s hand. “You working today?”
Mireya shook her head. “Not at the boutique.”
Maria just grunted, going to the sink, running water. The tap sputtered, pipes knocking behind the wall. Camila babbled, waving a cup in the air, her world whole for the moment.
Mireya tried to keep her voice light. “Insurance is due next week, right?”
Maria didn’t answer at first, drying her hands with the kitchen towel. When she turned, her gaze was level, tired, but sharp enough to cut. “Sí. Don’t forget. They’ll cancel if you’re late.”
Mireya wanted to argue—to remind Maria she already covered groceries last week, that she’d been the one to buy Camila’s clothes. She opened her mouth, then let it close. The words felt dangerous, sharp-edged, and pointless. Instead, she just nodded. “Okay.”
Maria lingered in the doorway, the muscles in her jaw working. Her gaze slid over the room—the blocks, the phone, Mireya on the floor in sweatpants and yesterday’s shirt, Camila’s hair wild and cheeks sticky.
“You could’ve been at work,” Maria said finally, voice flat but not loud. “Instead of sitting around doing nothing.”
Mireya flinched, swallowing the urge to snap back. The shame burned under her skin, familiar as her own reflection. “You’re right.”
Maria watched her a moment longer, lips pressed tight. Then she turned, footsteps retreating down the hall. The door to her bedroom closed—not a slam, just the finality of a wall going up.
Camila crawled into her lap, laying her head on Mireya’s knee. “Mommy, up,” she said, reaching.
Mireya scooped her daughter close, pressing her face into the little girl’s hair. She could still smell baby shampoo, but it was nearly drowned out by the scent of sweat and city. Camila squirmed, then settled, small arms around Mireya’s neck, content in the silence.
Mireya’s phone screen had gone dark. She tapped it, saw the balance again, and closed her eyes.
She wondered, not for the first time, if this was all her life would ever be—a line of zeroes threatening to run red, a mother who only saw what was missing, a daughter who deserved more.
The weight pressed down, relentless. But Camila’s breath was warm on her collarbone. Mireya ran her fingers through her daughter’s curls, slow and soft, promising herself she’d make it work—even if she had no idea how.
Outside, the day moved on, traffic and sirens blurring into the usual city song. Inside, Mireya sat with her child in her lap, back against the couch, holding her own exhaustion close, wishing—just for a minute—that she could be enough.
She stayed that way a long time, until Camila wiggled free, crawling back to her fallen tower. Mireya watched her try again and again, the blocks never quite fitting, but her daughter’s hands refusing to give up. The lesson was there, bitter and bright. Mireya swallowed it whole.
When she finally stood to fix lunch, her knees cracked. Camila giggled, pushing the blocks together, and Mireya forced a small smile. The cost of hope was higher than she thought. But for Camila’s sake, she kept paying.
~~~
Dre woke before dawn most days, long before the guards banged the doors. At Hunt, time stretched and curled in on itself, slow as syrup and twice as sticky. The air in his cell was thick with sweat, dust, and that undercurrent of fear he’d learned to taste on his tongue. Some mornings he’d lie on his bunk, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, listening for the shuffle of feet—his cellie, the COs, the sounds of the other men, coughing, cursing, starting the same day over again.
He dressed by rote—orange jumpsuit faded by a hundred washes, elastic gone slack at the cuffs, socks thin as tissue. His hands shook a little as he laced up the shoes, but he told himself it was just the cold. There was always a chill in here, even when the heat beat down outside.
By breakfast, the main tier was alive. Voices—loud, sharp, sometimes laughing, sometimes not—bounced off cinderblock walls painted a color meant to be soothing but just felt flat. In the chow hall, Dre kept his tray close to his chest. He sat with the other Black men, mostly the New Orleans and Baton Rouge boys, a loose circle near the back. Everyone talked in low voices, careful not to let the guards catch more than scraps.
“Ain’t no grits again?” Markell asked, poking at the pale lump on his tray. “Man, this shit look like caulk.”
The others snorted, but Dre kept his eyes on the table. The rules here were different than OPP. You learned quick: don’t stare, don’t smile too wide, don’t draw attention. The lines weren’t painted on the floor, but everyone saw them—Black, white, Latin, every block carving out its own kingdom in this hell.
Sometimes, when the guards circled, Dre could see the way they looked right through them. Like they weren’t people, just problems to be counted and moved. A CO—big, pale, arms knotted with old ink—leaned against the wall, jaw moving slow as he chewed his toothpick. He let the white boys jaw and jostle, let the Aryan crowd bark and play spades as loud as they wanted, but when Dre’s table got too loud, he’d snap: “Y’all keep it down, now.” The message was clear. This was their place, not yours.
Dre chewed slow, swallowing past a knot in his throat. He missed home, missed even the cracked tile of his grandma’s kitchen, the easy way his cousins talked shit on the stoop. Here, every word cost something. Even laughing could get you marked.
After breakfast, they filed into the yard. Hunt’s rec yard was ringed by razor wire, the ground bare in places where too many feet had stomped the grass away. Dre stuck with his own—Markell, Rondo, a couple others from the city. They clustered near the half-broken weight bench, all eyes up, backs to the fence. On the far side, the whites gathered around the handball court, tattoos on display, voices sharp with the freedom of being in the majority. Dre felt it—the way everything in here bent around race, the way you could feel a fight coming in the way men looked at each other, in the silences that stretched too tight.
Sometimes, the guards watched. Most times, they didn’t. A CO might be close enough to hear the tension rise, to see a shank passed or a handball game turn into a brawl, but mostly they let it play out. Let the men keep themselves in check. Power, Dre realized, didn’t always look like a baton or a badge. Sometimes it looked like looking away, like letting men police themselves until the rules wrote themselves in blood.
Rondo nudged him. “You hear from home?” he asked, voice low.
Dre shook his head. “Mail’s slow.”
Markell grunted. “Ain’t no mail, Dre. You know how they do. Keep a nigga waiting, make him soft.”
Dre looked at the sky—gray, cut with barbed wire. He wondered how many days, how many years, would bleed away before he forgot how freedom even felt.
A whistle shrieked. Everyone stilled, waiting for the guards to signal, to say whose turn it was to move, to run the court, to sit in the shade. Dre kept his face blank, kept his hands where everyone could see them.
“Yo, Dre,” Rondo said, close now, “you straight?”
He nodded, though the knot in his chest stayed tight. “I’m good.”
But even as he said it, he knew: this was life now. Edges sharpened by silence, alliances drawn in skin, in city, in the way you learned to keep your voice down and your fists ready.
The whistle blew again. Time to go in. The guards herded them back inside, boots echoing on the tile. Dre walked slow, feeling the weight of all the eyes on him—not just white, not just Black, but everyone watching, everyone measuring, everyone trying to survive.
He didn’t look back. Didn’t give anyone the satisfaction. Just kept moving, the line behind him, the world outside shrinking to memory.
Inside, he settled onto his bunk, eyes on the door. For a moment, he let himself feel tired. Let himself remember the world before Hunt, before all of this. Then he closed his eyes, steadying his breath.
Another day done. Another piece of himself left behind.
~~~
The air outside the Guerra house was thick with humidity, the porch light flickering and drawing slow moths to circle above Sara as she sat slumped on the front steps, rolling a half-burned joint between her fingers. She watched the orange tip flare and fade, breath coming slow after more than twelve hours on her feet. Her body ached everywhere. Still, she couldn’t let herself fully unwind—not with her head full of worry, her nerves still tuned to the question that never seemed to leave: Was Caine really okay? Had he brought something back from prison she couldn’t fix?
The scrape of tires across gravel made her glance up. Hector’s truck pulled in too fast, the suspension groaning. He killed the engine hard, like he was mad at the vehicle itself, and came around with his jaw set, eyes already searching for a fight.
He caught sight of Sara, the joint, and wasted no time.
“That right there,” Hector snapped, pointing, “that’s why your boy got problems. You baby him, let him get away with whatever the fuck he wants. And you not showing him the right way to live. Still a criminal, still a fuck-up.”
Sara didn’t blink. She let the words hit, took a long drag, holding the smoke in her chest until it stung, then let it out slow. Her gaze never left his. “Only the gringos want you to think that weed turns us into monsters.”
Hector strode closer, looming over her, voice rising. “No, it ain’t weed that turned Caine the way he is. That’s just in his nature. You messed him up when you chose to open your legs for whatever one of them knocked you up. But you know, I’m gonna keep talking to Ma about it until she agrees to throw him out. He’s violent and dangerous to the little ones, Ada, Rosario, Ma.”
Sara’s laugh was dry, almost bitter. “Dangerous? Because he beat Saul’s ass? Maybe Saul’s just a little bitch. Una putita.”
Hector’s face flushed. He jabbed a finger at her, eyes wild. “You callin’ my boy weak? At least he’s not a criminal. At least he don’t got nobody knocking at the door looking for him with a warrant! At least he’s not a fucking deadbeat just like his father.”
Sara was on her feet now, tired but standing firm, voice low and fierce. “You’re talking a lot for someone who lives at home with his mommy and sisters, Hector. I keep telling you that Ma isn’t putting Caine out. But we keep having this conversation as if you think I’m going to suddenly turn my back on him. I’ll always take his side. Sobre todos ustedes, sobre todo.”
For a moment, the only sound was the buzz of the porch light, the muffled clatter of a TV behind the screen door. The distance between them felt like a live wire, one spark away from burning down the whole block.
Sara watched Hector for a long moment, her knuckles white around what was left of the joint. She wanted to tell him to get out, to leave her a moment’s peace on her own porch, but she knew that wasn’t possible—not with him living under the same roof, not with the house already stretched thin with old resentments and the noise of too many lives tangled together.
Hector lingered at the top of the steps, his anger raw and unhidden. For a second he looked like he might spit again, or say something worse, but he just shook his head and muttered, “Ain’t right. That’s all I’m saying. You keep covering for him, you keep defending him—just don’t come crying when it all blows up in your face.”
Sara didn’t look up as he stomped past her and into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind him, the echo sharp as a slap. She waited until she was sure he was gone, out of sight at least, and then she let herself exhale.
She sat there in the heat, the smell of weed curling around her, the neighborhood humming in the deep dark, letting the tension bleed out through her fingertips. Maybe tomorrow would be easier. Maybe it wouldn’t. Either way, her choice was already made—her loyalty unshaken, even if the whole house turned against her.
She stared at the sky a while longer, letting her anger settle into resolve, holding fast to the only truth she had left: that she wouldn’t let Caine be alone, not ever, not while she still had breath.
~~~
Caine pushed out through the cracked glass doors of the Chevron with the cheap bell jangling behind him. The dusk was sticky on his skin—July heat refusing to let go, pressing sweat out from under his collar even as the sky darkened. The station’s lot glowed under flickering sodium lights, broken beer bottles glittering in the gutters, and the stink of burnt oil layered under the sharp bite of fresh asphalt.
Ramon, Tyree, and E.J. walked ahead of him, carrying their own plastic bags—chips, sodas, Black & Milds. E.J. kept glancing over his shoulder, shoulders stiff, eyes darting to the street, then to the corner, then back to the store like he expected a car to pull up any second. He pulled at the collar of his white T-shirt, neck slick with sweat. Even standing still, he looked ready to bolt.
Tyree caught it, gave E.J. a sideways look, mouth twisting. “Damn, nigga, you actin’ scary as hell tonight,” Tyree said, half-laughing, half-needling. “Ain’t nobody spinning on you in a Chevron lot. Chill.”
E.J. shot him a glare, pushing at Tyree’s arm with more force than the moment needed. “Say that shit again, see what happen. You wasn’t the one got shot at last week. Some shit just make you watch different, you feel me?” His voice was rough, jaw set tight.
Tyree held up both hands, palms open. “Alright, man. I ain’t playing you. Just—you keep lookin’ like that, you gon’ make us a target for real.”
Caine stayed quiet, head down, moving steady with them toward the Buick. The car sat dull under the parking lot lights, a patchwork of faded black and primer gray, hubcap missing on the front left. It was hot as a skillet inside; he could already feel the vinyl sticking to his skin.
Ramon lingered at the curb, watching the street. “Look, Caine,” he said, voice pitched lower now that they were out of earshot of the cashier. “We got another play lined up. Nothing crazy. Could get you paid, easy.”
Caine paused with the car keys in his hand, thumb flicking at the faded Saints keychain. “What kind of play?”
Ramon shrugged, gaze skimming over a pair of kids riding past on bikes, then back to Caine. “Just need you to drive. Drop us somewhere, wait a sec, pick us up, that’s it. Ain’t nothing hot, ain’t nobody getting hurt. Just a move for a little cash.”
Caine’s chest tightened, heartbeat ticking faster behind his ribs. He glanced at Tyree, who leaned up against the trunk, grinning.
Tyree chimed in, all loose charm and bravado, but Caine could feel the edge beneath it. “Ain’t nothing but moving a couple packs, dawg. We just need a car that don’t get us pulled over. Your Buick clean—ain’t nobody looking for it. Except from somebody Pawpaw trying to get in Ms. Earnestine draws.”
Caine’s jaw worked as he looked at the Buick. He pictured Mireya’s tired voice, the electric bill on the counter, his mother working two and three shifts. He tried not to think about how quickly the wrong decision could snatch it all away.
He nodded once, quiet. “Alright. But y’all don’t bring heat in my car. My mama use this shit, too.”
Ramon grinned, relief in his eyes. “Easy. Just in and out.”
As he unlocked the door, E.J. stepped in closer, voice pitched low and urgent. “You got a gun, Caine? Just in case? Niggas out here been wylin’. I ain’t tryna get caught slippin’. They took a shot at me last week, for real.”
Caine shook his head, almost smiling but not. “Not since I got locked up.”
Ramon scanned the lot, the tension in his jaw returning. He reached under his shirt, pulled a small, worn pistol from his waistband—metal glinting under the buzzing lights—and pressed it into Caine’s hand, careful, quick, nothing showy.
Caine didn’t flinch but looked at it, weighing the cold metal, the danger humming under his skin. “This shit got bodies on it?”
Ramon shook his head once, voice flat. “Not that I put on it.”
Caine slid the gun beneath a flap of torn upholstery near the floorboard, jamming it deep until only the black of the grip showed if you knew exactly where to look. He let his palm rest there for a second—heat and weight and memory pressing down all at once—before straightening up, eyes steady on Ramon.
Tyree glanced between them, jaw clenched for a beat, then cracked a joke to break the moment, “Man, hide that good, or your PO gon’ send you back to the bing.”
Nobody laughed, but the tension loosened a little, air moving again.
Caine shut the driver’s door behind him, hand lingering on the steering wheel, sweat slicking his neck. The others drifted off toward their own rides or the street, E.J. still glancing over his shoulder, Tyree swaggering like nothing could touch him, Ramon with that look that said he saw every angle, even the ones nobody talked about.
For a moment, Caine sat alone in the car, the night pressing in, heart ticking fast. His hands trembled just a little as he pressed his palms to the wheel.
This was how it started—always. Just a ride, just a favor, just a little bit to help out. The way back never felt like a choice. Only gravity.
He closed his eyes, letting the noise of the lot wash over him—the buzz of the lights, the distant wail of sirens, the scrape of bottles in the gutter. When he opened them, he felt heavier, older, like every easy answer had just gotten farther away.
He started the car and pulled off, the pistol rattling beneath the seat. The sound followed him all the way home.
~~~
The parking lot at the concrete yard was so hot it shimmered. Sunlight bounced off every bare patch of gravel and metal, painting white streaks on the dashboard. Mireya sat in her car with the A/C roaring, the cold air pushing beads of sweat back across her scalp but not drying them. Her shirt stuck to the small of her back.
She pressed her phone to her chest, eyes closed, counting the seconds. Each tap of the A/C knob was another bit of gas wasted, but the office was a sauna and Denise had two of the fans aimed at herself, leaving nothing but stale heat for the rest. Mireya felt guilty about burning fuel but couldn’t bring herself to shut the engine off. Not yet.
Her eyelids fluttered at a dull thunk on the glass. Leo, squinting into the glare, hand on the roof. She didn’t want to see him. She forced herself to breathe out slow, then thumbed the window down halfway—just enough to talk, not enough for him to lean in.
“What you need?” she asked, keeping her voice flat.
Leo smiled, the kind that always felt off—nothing but teeth, eyes scanning her face, her hair, her shirt, down to her legs, lingering. “A/C blowing like you got money,” he said, chin flicking at her dashboard. “Can’t be too hot for you out here.”
She gritted her teeth. “It’s Louisiana. Everybody hot.”
He leaned his forearm on the window frame, too familiar. “You know, if you need anything—extra cash or something—I’m always willing to help out. Times is tough.”
She held his gaze, steady and dry then let her face go blank.
“I’m fine, Leo.”
He didn’t move, just looked her over again, slower this time. “Your kid’s birthday coming up, ain’t it? Little ones, man, they get expensive. All those gifts, the party—shit, I don’t know how you moms do it.”
She arched an eyebrow, turning her body away a little. “What you know about throwing birthday parties?”
Leo grinned, brushing something off his sleeve. “I got wife and kids, man. And I told you before, I’m always watching out for the pretty young things I know.”
Mireya didn’t answer. She looked through him, out at the cranes and forklifts rattling at the edge of the lot, pretending she couldn’t feel the attention crawling on her skin. She thought about Camila—how her daughter’s birthdays had always been loud, too many cousins, too many hands grabbing at cake, her mother complaining about decorations and Mireya taking the blame for everything not perfect.
Leo waited a beat. “You sure you good? I know you been hustling but… don’t make it harder than it gotta be.”
“I said I’m good.” She flicked her hand, gesturing for him to move back. “You’re making me let the cold out.”
His mouth tightened, just a little, annoyance slipping through. “I’m just trying to help, Mireya.”
“Don’t need it.” Her voice came out sharper than she meant, but she didn’t flinch.
For a second he stayed, the air between them tense. Leo’s eyes went hard, like he wanted to say something else, some warning or reminder, but he swallowed it and stepped away from the window. He shook his head, muttering something she couldn’t hear, then walked back toward the office, shoulders set.
Mireya let the window glide up and sat with her hand on the switch, heart pounding too fast. She wiped sweat off her upper lip, feeling the cold air finally catch up to her again. She imagined her family’s reaction when she found out—Camila’s birthday not as big, not as full of food or decorations as it should be. There would be a fight, maybe something worse. Mireya could already feel the ache of being called selfish, lazy, a bad mother. It was always there, a knot she couldn’t untangle.
Her phone buzzed—a text from Angela, something about a cousin with a job lead. Mireya stared at it a moment, feeling the ache behind her eyes, the heavy stretch of the afternoon. She looked at the gas gauge—almost on E, again. Still, she didn’t turn off the car.
In the distance, Denise and the yard boys were laughing, the sound barely reaching her through the glass. Mireya pressed her thumb into the seam of the steering wheel until her nail hurt. She was tired of feeling watched, tired of being someone’s “maybe.” She sat there, breathing, until her shoulders loosened just enough to make it through the next hour.