The chair creaked when he shifted, a thin scrape of wood against the floor that made him freeze. He waited, pen paused between his fingers, eyes flicking to the two bodies in the beds.
Mireya lay on her side, one hand tucked under her cheek, hair spilling loose across the pillow. Camila’s smaller form rose and fell in steady rhythm, her thumb half-pressed against her mouth, the soft wheeze of her baby-breath breaking the quiet. Neither stirred.
Only then did Caine let the chair tilt back onto its rear legs again, balancing it in a way that let him rock without noise. The pen twirled once more over his knuckles, smooth from hours of practice. Little tricks like that kept his hands busy when the rest of him wouldn’t stay still.
The room smelled faintly of bleach and baby powder, undercut with fried grease clinging to the fabric of Mireya’s curtains. Outside, a siren moaned somewhere too far off to be urgent, fading back into the heavy night hum of the city. The walls here were thin, but for once New Orleans wasn’t spilling into the room.
His notebook sat open across his lap. The lines caught the light from the weak bulb in the hall that leaked under the crack of the door. He bent low, shoulder hunched, writing in the tight, slanted script he didn’t let anybody see.
Camila, he wrote.
The words came slow at first, like they always did.
Dreams don’t live here. Not for us. People talk about goals like they a thing you just walk toward. Like you get to pick. But I was brought up different. Learned that kind of shit died when the levees broke. Learned that anything soft get washed away first. That’s when I stopped thinking about dreaming. All I learned to do was survive.
He pressed the pen harder, the letters grooving into the paper.
You gon’ hear people tell you you can be anything. They ain’t lying exactly. But they ain’t talking to girls like you. World already got its hands out waiting to take something from you. You half-Mexican, half-Honduran, Black. Poor. With me as your daddy. They gon’ expect you to fail before you even talk.
He stopped, jaw tightening. The silence pressed harder now, the kind that made every creak in the walls sound like footsteps coming for you. He rolled the pen between his fingers again, then set it down long enough to flex his hand.
His eyes drifted back to Mireya. Even in sleep her face looked worn, like she never got the hours she needed. She curled toward the empty space where he’d been, as if her body knew where to find him even half-dreaming.
He pulled the notebook closer again.
But tu mama—she different. She the only one who ever made me think maybe I could want more than what the streets give. She make me believe for a second I could be more than somebody running round with a gun, taking from people just to make sure we had diapers and food. She the closest I ever got to thinking maybe I could want better. Not just for you. For me.
His throat tightened. He tapped the pen against the page until the urge passed. Then he shut the notebook fast, the soft thump of it closing louder than it should have been in the quiet room.
He slid it into his backpack, deep into the side pocket where nobody would think to look. Even Mireya didn’t know about the pages he kept adding. Letters stacked on letters, some finished, some just lines trailing off mid-thought. They weren’t for her. They weren’t for him either. Only for Camila, if she ever got old enough to want them.
Caine stood, careful to push the chair back without a sound. The floorboards gave under his weight anyway. He crossed the small room, every step a measured silence.
Camila stirred but didn’t wake when his shadow fell over her. Her curls were damp against her forehead, one little fist clenched near her cheek. He crouched low, sliding his palm softly over her hair, the strands fine as thread against his skin. For a second her face relaxed, her mouth falling open, breath catching. He bent and pressed his lips just above her temple.
Then he straightened and turned back toward the bed. Mireya shifted as he slid under the blanket, the mattress sagging toward him. Her body found his automatically, head nuzzling against his chest, hand slipping across his stomach. She sighed once, deep, and settled back into sleep.
Caine lay still, staring up at the cracked ceiling where the paint had started to bubble near the vent. His heart beat hard from words he hadn’t said out loud.
The city outside kept humming, but inside that room, in that one small space, he let himself breathe like it was safe.
Even if it never really was.
~~~
The block was alive in fits and starts, the way it always was when the sun started its slow dip but the night hadn’t claimed it yet. Laughter scattered across the cracked pavement, dice clicking against concrete, somebody’s ringtone buzzing sharp before being silenced.
Ramon stood a half-step back from the circle, hands in his pockets, watching the cubes dance. Sweat clung to the back of his neck, his shirt sticking, the September heat refusing to fade even with evening coming on.
E.J. crouched low, all grin and trash talk. “Come on, nigga, don’t be scared. Let them bitches roll.” He snapped his wrist, the dice bouncing, clattering to a stop on sevens. Groans went up. He snatched the bills off the ground, holding them high like a trophy.
Ramon didn’t smile. He tapped the shoulder of one of the younger boys in the circle and nodded toward the edge of the block where a skinny man hovered, scratching at his arm. The boy caught it quick, slid off, hand already digging into his pocket for the small bag. The fiend passed over a few crumpled bills, barely looked at what he got before hustling back down the street, shoulders jerking with that too-fast, too-nervous walk.
Money in, money out. Just like always.
E.J. cursed as his next throw came up snake eyes. “Man, fuck this game.” He pushed back, brushing dirt off his shorts, and walked over to where Ramon had posted. His grin was still there, but tighter now, his cash folded smaller in his hand.
Ramon didn’t look at him. He jerked his chin toward the far end of the block. “That car been sittin’ there a lil’ minute. You think that’s the jakes?”
At the corner, a dark sedan idled, lights off, windows tinted too heavy.
E.J. squinted, then laughed. “We been serving fiends all day. If that was them boys, they’d been hopped out on our ass already. That’s somebody waiting on something.”
“Or waiting on us,” Ramon said. His voice stayed flat, but his eyes didn’t leave the car. “Could be 110. Could be Dooney. ROD. Byrd. Anybody.”
E.J. shrugged like it was nothing, then stepped off the curb. “Fuck that.” He strutted into the middle of the street, arms spread wide. “Aye!” His voice carried down the block. He flashed signs with both hands, chin raised, daring. “What’s good?”
For a second, nothing moved. Then the driver’s window eased down. A Black man leaned out—dreads hanging to his jaw, gold fronts glinting when he spoke.
“I’m just waiting for my baby mama, lil’ brudda,” he called, voice lazy, unbothered.
E.J. barked a laugh. “Then wait somewhere else. Get the fuck on..”
The window slid back up, but the car stayed put, engine humming low.
E.J. shook his head, turned back to Ramon with a shrug. “Nigga soft. He ain’t nothing. Let him sit.” He jogged back to the circle, sliding into the noise of the dice game like he hadn’t just put himself in the open.
Ramon stayed where he was. He stared at the car, long enough that the sounds around him started to blur. Dice hit pavement. Voices rose and fell. A bottle clinked against the curb. But all of it sat behind the hum of that engine.
Finally he moved, slow, crossing to the steps of a vacant lot where weeds grew tall through the chain link. He sat, knees wide, elbows braced. His hand slipped down to the shadow under the bottom step.
The cold steel of the handgun found his palm like it had been waiting.
He shifted it once, making sure the weight sat right, then set it close enough to reach fast, far enough it didn’t look like he was flashing. His eyes never left the car.
The block kept laughing, kept losing money, kept serving fiends like it was nothing. E.J. whooped at a lucky roll, back in the middle, money flashing in his fist again.
But Ramon’s gaze stayed locked. He knew better than to let comfort fool him. Cars didn’t just sit for no reason.
The hum of the engine never went away.
And neither did the weight in his hand.
~~~
The apartment door clicked shut behind her, too loud in a space this quiet. Mireya slid her bag down by the wall, kicked off her shoes, shoulders sagging under the weight of the day. The smell hung heavy—bleach that couldn’t hide the grease clinging from something fried earlier.
“Mami,” she called, voice flat. She wanted her mother to know she was home. No later claim of sneaking.
A faint “hm” floated from the back bedroom. Nothing more.
The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Counters cluttered with unopened mail, a chipped ashtray, the usual small decay. On the stove sat a pot with rice hardened to its edges. Mireya scraped some onto a plate, added a piece of chicken from under foil, shoved both into the microwave. The door clapped too loud.
At the table, something caught her eye: a white card, clean and sharp against the mess. She pulled it close.
William Roussel. Probation Officer.
Heat shot through her chest. The microwave’s hum blurred into a growl. The chair screeched back as she stood, the card pinched between her fingers like evidence.
Her mother was on the bed in her house dress, folding a shirt into neat squares. She didn’t look up when Mireya entered.
“Where you get this?” Mireya’s voice cracked sharp.
Maria placed the shirt down, smoothing it once with her palm. “He came to my job. Said if Caine start slipping, I should call him.”
Mireya blinked, heat flaring. “You serious? That’s the same man who tore through my room at Camila’s birthday. You already know what he is.”
Maria didn’t flinch, her tone flat. “He keeps clean, there’s no problem.”
“That’s not the point.” Mireya’s voice climbed. “Why would you talk to the police? You call him, you might as well be the one locking the door on him.”
Maria folded another shirt, eyes steady. “He already locked his own door. I didn’t put him there.”
Mireya’s breath came sharp. “So you just gonna help keep him there? That helps who? Sure as hell not Camila.”
Maria finally looked up. Her gaze was tired, but the words were sharp as glass. “Better she learns early. Men like him don’t stay. Prison or a coffin. That’s the truth you don’t want to face. I keep telling you but you want to learn the hard way. Doesn’t mean my granddaughter has to with you.”
Mireya’s throat tightened. “You don’t get to say that. He’s still here. He’s trying. And you—” her chest rose hard, “—you’d rather hand him over than admit you might have been wrong about Caine.”
Maria’s jaw set, but her tone didn’t rise. If anything, it softened, crueler for it. “You think I’m wrong? Do you see how they live? Why do you think he’s always here? Su madre? Ha. Siempre drogado. Love has you blinded. La manzana no cae lejos del árbol.”
The words landed heavier than if she’d screamed them. Mireya’s hand trembled around the card.
“So you’d rather side with him?” Maria went on, folding slow, deliberate. “The man who has power over him, over all of us. At least he’s honest about what he is. Your boy’s the one still lying.”
Mireya’s chest burned. “You talk like he’s nothing. Like he’s disposable. But he’s Camila’s daddy. He’s the only one who ever—” her voice broke, “—who ever stayed.”
Maria shook her head, calm, dismissive. “Stayed? He was never here, mija. You are just too stubborn to admit it. Don’t mistake his shadow in your bed for a future.”
The microwave beeped, shrill, splitting the silence.
Mireya’s hands shook. She tore the card in half, then again, the pieces falling like scraps of ash. “You’re not calling him.”
Maria’s reply came quick, flat as a slap: “Childish. Paper or no paper, the world still works how it works. You’ll learn that one way or another.”
Mireya stormed back down the hall, fury buzzing in her ears. The microwave had long stopped, but the plate inside was steaming when she yanked the door open. She grabbed it too quick—the heat seared her fingers.
“Shit.” The hiss slipped between her teeth as she dropped it onto the counter with a crack. Rice scattered, chicken slid against plastic. Her hand throbbed, skin angry red.
From the bedroom, Maria’s voice carried steady, final: “You still a child. Pretend all you want, but the world don’t care.”
Mireya didn’t answer. She stood over the counter, chest heaving, staring at the mess. The apartment hummed with refrigerator noise, a siren fading outside.
She pressed her burned fingers into her palm until the pain steadied her. The anger stayed. Heavy. Lodged where nothing could shake it loose.
The torn pieces of the card still littered the hall, proof that in this house, even silence belonged to somebody else.
~~~
The huddle broke with Caine and Jay stepping onto the field together. The Karr fans felt it before the snap — the two-QB look had the bleachers buzzing. Heritage’s sideline started pointing, their safeties hollering checks, everyone scrambling like they’d just seen a ghost formation.
Caine lined up in shotgun, Jay sliding into the slot. Tyron split wide right, Matt alone on the left, Corey tucked in tight. In the trenches, the line dropped into their stances, arms slick with sweat, already jawing at the line across from them.
The snap smacked into Caine’s hands. One step left, then the quick shovel to Jay. Heritage’s linebackers bit instantly, chasing Jay like the ball had glued itself to him.
Jay didn’t even flinch. He reared back and zipped it right back across the formation to Caine, drifting behind the line.
Caine caught it clean, eyes upfield before his cleats even dug in. The safety froze, caught between Tyron’s crossing route and Matt breaking deep. Caine drove a strike over the middle.
Tyron snatched it in stride, lowered his shoulder through one DB, twisted free for ten more before getting dragged down near midfield. Chains moved. Crowd roared.
The sideline rushed forward, helmets bouncing, hands waving. But Jay was the first one in Tyron’s face, smacking his helmet, shouting loud enough for both sidelines.
“That’s me! That’s me!” He pounded his chest, grinning wide, pointing back toward where he’d thrown it. “Ain’t stoppin’ me, bitch niggas!”
Caine jogged up, giving Tyron a slap on the back of the helmet, but his eyes cut sideways at Jay. The grin stuck to Jay’s face like it was permanent, basking in the noise as if the pass belonged in his stat line.
Derrick shoved the Heritage nose tackle after the whistle, barking, “Soft! Whole line soft!” while Darnell yanked him back by the jersey, muttering but smirking the whole time.
The ref motioned for the ball to reset. Caine wiped sweat off his face with the back of his glove, jaw tight, and got set for the next call.
…
The snap came hot. Caine dropped back, eyes cutting across the field — Matt covered on the dig, Corey jammed at the line, Tyron doubled over the top. Jayden leaked out but the linebacker closed too fast. Nothing there.
Pressure crashed in from his blindside. He felt it before he saw it — the way the air shifted, the sudden shadow flicking across his edge vision. He spun left, the defender’s hand just grazing his shoulder pad.
Now the pocket was gone. Green jerseys chasing. Cleats tearing at the turf.
Caine darted downfield, cutting across the hash, then planted hard to the sideline. A Heritage corner lunged, fingertips brushing his jersey — too late.
The crowd roared as he sprinted free, feet chewing yards. He kept his eyes up, scanning even as he ran, every instinct tuned to angles, pursuit, escape. Twenty yards. Twenty-five. He slid at the sideline before the safety could close, dirt flying up around his knees.
First down.
He popped up, chest heaving, slapping the ball once against his thigh. Helmets slapped his shoulders when he jogged back toward the huddle.
The scoreboard lights reflected in his visor, Karr up big and cruising. He felt the weight of every eye in the stands, the whole city watching him move.
…
The call came in heavy on motion.
The crowd was already stamping the bleachers, the sound rolling down like thunder. Heritage’s corners barked checks, pointing at Corey, trying to disguise the double.
Caine saw it. Didn’t matter.
The snap hit his palms. Jay streaked across the formation in motion, defenders turning their heads with him. Caine faked the handoff into Jayden’s stomach, then dropped back two quick steps, eyes still on the defense.
Corey broke inside hard, then snapped vertical, slicing between the safeties before they even knew they were late.
Caine’s arm whipped. The ball screamed downfield, tight and perfect.
Corey stretched, snagged it over his shoulder, and trotted into the end zone untouched.
The stadium detonated.
Caine jogged downfield, grinning for the first time all night. Corey spiked the ball, then mimed cocking a machine, firing at the Heritage defensive backs. The whole offense piled in — dancing, clowning.
Even Derrick lumbered downfield, both arms raised, shouting, “That’s us! That’s us all night!” Darnell jogged behind him, laughing, throwing up mock pistols with his fingers.
Caine lifted his hands, running by Patriots sideline, and mimed three clean trigger pulls at their players. The Karr sideline exploded in answer, players running out just to join the noise.
The ref’s whistle shrieked, hands waving them back. But the swagger lingered, echoing in every gesture, every laugh.
Heritage jogged back to their sideline, heads down.
Caine kept running, mouthpiece dangling from his teeth, sweat running into his mouth. For once, the noise wasn’t chasing him. It was carrying him.
…
Third and short. Heritage stacked the box, linebackers crouched low, daring Karr to run it.
Caine crouched in shotgun, Jayden lined up beside him. Derrick barked at the defense, Darnell slapping his helmet, ready to maul whoever crossed his face.
The snap cracked. Caine faked the handoff into Jayden’s gut, tucking the ball against his own chest. The defense collapsed inside, but by the time they realized, Caine was already cutting off Derrick’s hip, legs churning.
The first linebacker hit him square, helmet under his chin. Pain burst across his ribs, but his feet never stopped. Another body piled on, then another, but Caine leaned forward, driving through the mess. The whistle blew only after he dragged them all three yards past the marker.
First down.
He popped up fast, ripping the ball out from under the pile, raising it high. His mouthguard hung from his facemask as he shouted, “You gotta see me, pussy! You gotta see me!”
The sideline roared. Teammates swarmed — Tyron slapping the back of his helmet, Ricky grabbing his shoulder pads, laughing. Even Jay jogged up slow, chin high, muttering, “They lucky you didn’t fumble.”
Caine smirked, chest heaving, but he didn’t answer. He just flipped the ball back at the ref and turned for the huddle.
The crowd was on its feet, stomping and hollering. Caine wiped sweat from his face, breath ragged but steady.
…
The scoreboard read lopsided now. The last minutes ticked away with the backups on the field — freshmen getting their shine, the crowd already celebrating.
Caine stood near the sideline, helmet off, sweat cooling on his temples. His jersey clung heavy, grass stains streaked across the front. He paced a line just behind the white chalk, still locked in like the game hadn’t ended yet.
A hand clapped his shoulder pads.
Coach Joseph. Headset off, play sheet folded under his arm. His voice cut through the noise, calm but edged with pride.
“Hell of a night, Guerra,” he said. “You commanded that shit.”
Caine nodded once, eyes still on the field. “Felt good.”
Joseph tilted his head. “It looked good. Reads were clean. Ball came out quick. And you ain’t just surviving out there — you owning it.”
Caine’s chest rose, a mix of exhaustion and something sharper. He kept his face straight, but the words sat deep.
Joseph leaned closer, voice low so it didn’t get lost under the band’s horns blaring from the bleachers. “Keep stacking games like this, son, and they gon’ have to pay attention. Colleges, scouts — all of ‘em.”
Caine swallowed, jaw tight. He thought about Roussel, about probation meetings at sunrise, about the leash he could never shake. But out here, under lights, it felt like Joseph’s words might be true.
“Yes, sir,” he said finally, steady.
Joseph patted his shoulder again, then stepped back, eyes already back on the freshmen grinding out the clock.
Caine stayed on the sideline, helmet dangling at his side, watching the seconds bleed away.
For once, he let the noise wash over him — the band, the crowd, his teammates still clowning. For once, it didn’t feel like it was pressing him down.
It felt like it was carrying him.
