San Fim
Mireya woke with a start that wasn’t a start at all. Her body didn’t ache. Her eyes didn’t burn. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, the night had let her go without clawing something out of her. The quiet wrapped close, too unusual to trust.
Her arm reached back, searching the dip of the mattress, fingers curling in empty sheets. Caine wasn’t there. The absence had weight. She sat up quick, chest pulling tight. Her gaze snapped toward Camila’s little bed tucked against the wall. Blanket pushed back, pillow indented, empty.
Her feet hit the floor before her mind had caught up. The linoleum was cold, a shock to bare skin. The hallway smelled like the same things it always did—bleach gone sour, last night’s fried rice clinging to the air, a whiff of smoke from someone’s cigarette drifting through the open window in the stairwell.
Then sound: the hiss of a burner, the faint pop of oil, and over it a laugh that cut straight through her panic. Camila. High-pitched, bubbling. Alive.
Mireya’s chest eased but her legs didn’t slow. She turned the corner into the kitchen.
Caine stood over the stove, one hand steadying Camila on his hip, the other flipping tortillas straight on the flame like the heat didn’t matter. He wore a t-shirt damp with sweat at the collar, shorts hanging low, socks without shoes. Steam curled into his face. He blinked through it, jaw tight, shoulders loose in that strange way he had—like every muscle knew how to spring but he was making it stay still.
Camila squealed, reaching a fist toward the stove. Caine tucked her higher against him, her curls sticking to his chest where sweat darkened the cotton.
“Where’s my mom?” Mireya asked, her voice scratchy with sleep.
Caine shrugged, eyes still on the flame. “Ain’t seen her. I think she left before I woke up.”
pressed her lips together, holding the sharp reply that wanted out.
He dropped the tortilla onto a chipped plate, pressed another flat against the burner with the heel of his hand. The hiss rose. He didn’t flinch. “We gotta roll soon. ACT in a few hours. My mom’s takin’ Camila.”
The words landed like another weight dropped onto her back. Test. Today. The thing she was supposed to pin her whole future on when she hadn’t even had time to breathe. Mireya nodded anyway, pushing hair out of her eyes. “Okay.”
Camila twisted in his grip, reached toward Mireya, whining her little want. Caine passed her over without looking, eyes still on the stove.
Mireya held her daughter tight, her cheek pressed against soft curls, breathing in the scent of soap and sleep.
…
The car rattled on the potholes like it was falling apart piece by piece. Caine’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes sharp, locked out ahead like he could bend the street if he stared hard enough. His silence was its own language.
Mireya sat slouched against the passenger window, the glass cool on her forehead. Her stomach was tight with hunger, but the thought of food turned her. Camila hummed in the back seat, smacking her crayon against the plastic arm of the car seat, a little rhythm that filled the space.
She should’ve been drilling vocab, running through formulas in her head, but her thoughts drifted instead to the game. The coach’s voice when he pulled Caine aside. A scholarship, full ride, next level. For him. Not her. The taste of bitterness still sat sharp in her mouth from the way she’d watched him take the news, like it was just another thing he expected to happen.
But watching him now, shoulders tight, face set in that blank control he wore like armor, the anger slipped. Not gone, just dulled by the sight of him driving, of Camila babbling behind them. For a moment, she almost forgot.
The car slowed, pulled up to the chipped curb outside his house.
Caine cut the engine, was already out before Mireya reached for the handle. He swung around, popped the back door, unbuckled Camila before Mireya had even touched her latch. He lifted the little girl out, settling her against his shoulder.
“Tell Mommy see you later,” he murmured, bouncing her lightly as he shut the door with his hip.
Camila waved, her tiny hand flopping, mouth breaking into a grin. “See you later, Mommy.”
Mireya’s hands stayed folded in her lap. Relief slid in sharp—she didn’t have to move, didn’t have to juggle straps, bottles, seat buckles. She just sat and let him carry it. For once, she wasn’t the one keeping every piece from crashing down. It felt wrong to want the moment to last, but her body eased against the seat anyway.
Caine came back quick, slid behind the wheel, the smell of sweat and detergent rising off him. He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t ask for more.
…
The testing site was a squat brick school that looked the same as every other school in the city—tired, low windows, a parking lot cracked and gleaming with heat. Cars pulled in, doors opened, students stepped out clutching folders, water bottles, parents in tow. Kids who never had to wonder if they could afford the fee to take the test. Kids who weren’t dragging a baby behind them.
Caine eased the car toward the curb. He kept the engine idling, fingers tapping once on the wheel. “I’ma park, then go sign in. You straight?”
She nodded, hand gripping the strap of her bag so hard it bit into her palm.
He glanced at her then, quick but cutting, the way he did on the field when he was reading a defense. “Suerte, nena.”
The words tightened something in her chest. She forced out, “Thanks,” before it broke loose.
She pushed the door open, feet hitting the asphalt. The air pressed hot on her shoulders, cicadas whining high in the trees. She walked toward the double doors without turning back.
…
The classroom stank faint of pencil shavings and dust, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like flies you couldn’t swat. Rows of desks sat in perfect lines, already holding kids who bent low over their test booklets like they’d been training for this moment all their lives.
Mireya slid into her seat. The chair rocked once under her weight, squeaked against tile, then stilled. Her palms pressed flat on the desk, skin damp, sticking to the cool laminate. She dragged them back slow, leaving faint smudges.
The proctor’s voice carried from the front—monotone, instructions spilling out—but the words blurred in her ears, all sound and no sense.
Her stomach pitched sharp, like she hadn’t eaten in days though the taste of greasy rice from last night still clung at the back of her tongue. The strap of her bag cut into her shoulder, deep enough she thought it might bruise, but she didn’t loosen it. Couldn’t.
She let her eyes fall to the booklet. The paper looked heavier than it was, like the weight alone might fold her in half. She thought of her mother’s voice—sharp, constant—telling her she’d never make it, that she wasn’t built for more. The echo lived under her skin, rising louder than the proctor’s droning.
Her throat tightened. She curled her fingers around the pencil until the wood dug into bone, until her knuckles turned white. She forced her jaw to lock, her breath to slow.
The page stared back, words swimming, then settling.
Her hand moved—hesitant, then steadier—as if writing was the only way to keep from breaking.
~~~
The dayroom carried its stink like skin—sweat ground into the cinderblock, bleach splashed for show, not scrubbing, and under it all the sour ghost of bodies stacked too long in one space. Fans rattled from their cages on the wall, moving more noise than air. Dominoes cracked against the plastic tables, sharp like gunshots if you weren’t used to it.
Dre sat back against the far wall, a hard chair under him, his body sunk just enough to look still. His eyes weren’t still. They cut the room in slices: who was loud, who was leaning too far forward, who kept a hand too close to their pocket. Watching was the only safety. Talking just painted you a target.
By the table closest to the TV, a cluster of younger dudes had their heads bent together, voices climbing over one another. Malik led the noise, sharp elbows braced on the edge of the table. Skinny, wiry, his neck tendons stood out with every word.
“Man, y’all lettin’ that shit slide? They jumped on us couple weeks back, left two of ours leakin’ out. You gon’ tell me we don’t get that back? That don’t sit right. That’s blood. You supposed to get it back in blood.” His fingers jittered, drumming against the table like he was holding something invisible.
DeShawn was right there with him, nodding fast, words spilling out before his voice had time to settle. “Facts. We let ‘em think they got over, next thing they takin’ the whole block. Gotta send a message.” His pitch cracked halfway through, too high for the weight he wanted on it.
Curtis—broad shoulders, gray bristling his temples—shifted his chair back slow, the scrape loud enough to cut through their fire. He’d been inside longer than some of them had been alive. His gaze didn’t rise, but his voice carried, deep and gravelled from years of smoke and shouting.
“Y’all young bloods got too much mouth, not near enough sense.” He set his palms flat on the table like he was steadying the whole thing. “This ain’t the street. You don’t just swing ‘cause your pride hurt.”
Malik’s face tightened. His nostrils flared. “So what—you say we just roll over, let ‘em clown us?”
Curtis finally looked up, the chain of his glasses glinting under the light. His stare was flat, unmoving. “What you do in here follows you everywhere. You go jumpin’ reckless, you don’t just bring heat on yourself. You bring it on all of us. COs lock this unit down, commissary gone, phones gone, yard gone. You ready for that? You ready to explain to the whole block why they can’t call they mama ‘cause you couldn’t keep your ego in your chest?”
A low tap punctuated him—Reggie at the next table, mid-tier, steady hand pressing a domino against plastic over and over. His eyes flicked up once. “Curt right. Retaliation gotta be surgical, not sloppy. You jump wild, we all payin’ for it.”
The younger ones bristled. DeShawn spat on the floor, jaw tight. “Ain’t nobody scared of a lockdown but you old niggas.”
Marcus barked a laugh, dry and sharp as a slap. “You say that now. Two weeks in a cell, piss bucket smellin’ like death, no phone, no shower, nothin’ but your own stink? We’ll see if you still talk that tough.” He leaned back slow, arms folded, belly rising under his shirt. “Strategy the only thing keep you alive in here. Pride’s what get you stabbed out.”
The air throbbed with their voices, young against old, hot against heavy. Chairs shifted. Hands carved sharp in the air. For every word Curtis dropped, Malik had three ready to throw back.
Dre stayed quiet, body pressed into the wall so hard the cinderblock left marks through his shirt. His knee bounced once, then stilled. His eyes flicked fast across the room, every move cataloged—whose voice cracked, whose eyes darted toward the CO booth, whose fists balled tight in their lap.
The memory rose anyway, unwanted: the glint of a shank, steel flashing like it had caught the one clean ray of light in the block. The air had changed that second—metal tang sharp before the swing even came. If he hadn’t ducked, if instinct hadn’t yanked him sideways, it would’ve been his blood on the floor. His ribs still burned sometimes like they remembered on their own.
He wasn’t even a year in. Not even a year, and already his life had come down to seconds, to whether he was fast enough to see the blade, fast enough to move.
Malik slammed a fist into his palm. “Them crackers don’t respect nothin’ but force.”
Curtis’s hand came down on the table so hard the dominoes jumped and clattered to the floor. The sound froze the room a beat. “And you don’t respect nothin’ but your fuckin’ ego.” His voice didn’t rise, but it filled the space like it had weight. “You make a move, it better be one every man in here can live with. Otherwise? You ain’t leadin’. You just diggin’ graves.”
For a second, even the fans sounded louder, the air thick and waiting.
Dre shifted, rolling his shoulders once like he could shake it off. His tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. Words sat heavy in him, but he swallowed them back. Silence was armor. Let the kids argue. Let the old heads fight to shut them down. His place was the wall, watching, staying alive.
His eyes dropped to the floor, scuffed concrete scored with a thousand scratches from chairs and shoes. That was prison—marks left behind, everybody ground into the same surface.
The noise rose again, younger voices snapping, older ones muttering low. Dre counted heartbeats against the sound, steady, relentless. Every beat was another he had to fight for. Another reminder: not even a year in, and every day was already survival.
~~~
The Parkway Tavern was packed tight, the kind of Sunday crowd that turned the air into a stew of grease, spilled beer, and hot sauce. The hum of voices layered with the clang of trays, a Saints game playing loud from a TV over the bar. The smell of fried oysters and roast beef hung in the air so thick it clung to skin and clothes.
Roussel sat in the corner booth, his back pressed against the wall where he could see the whole room. His shrimp po-boy lay half-devoured in front of him, the bread split and leaking gravy onto the wax paper. His wife, Anne, was talking across the table, her hands cutting the air in small gestures, her voice pitched just high enough to carry above the din. Their daughter, Claire, leaned toward her mother, nodding and smiling in all the right places. Peyton was half in the conversation, half bent over his phone, thumb swiping, the glow lighting his face in brief bursts.
Roussel chewed slow, each bite grinding louder in his own head than the roar of the room. Grease and gravy clung to his fingers; he licked them once, wiped them against the paper, unseen. The others barely glanced his way. Anne’s voice carried, Claire’s laughter trilled, Peyton grinned into the glow of his phone. Their rhythm never broke, not even when he leaned back, when his silence grew heavier than his presence. It was as if the space he left in their talk had already been filled, his absence invisible.
He reached for his glass, the ice long melted down to cloudy cubes. He drained what was left, set it back with a soft thud on the table. No one looked at him. He slid out from the booth, the vinyl squeaking under his weight, and headed toward the bar.
The tavern was hot and close, bodies pressed in at tables, servers weaving through with arms stacked full of baskets and pitchers. Roussel moved slow, steady, cutting through the space like he belonged above the noise. He set his glass down on the counter, gave the bartender a nod. The man filled it without a word.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her—Jill Babin. She stood a few feet away, hair tucked behind one ear, posture stiff. A Black man was beside her, broad-shouldered, easy in his space. Jill’s chin lifted just slightly when she noticed him. A nod, sharp and tight. No warmth in it.
Roussel let his lip curl. “Didn’t take you for a mudshark.”
The words fell casual, like nothing. Just another piece of noise in the tavern. His eyes lingered on her face, waiting for the flinch.
None came. Jill’s mouth stayed set. She didn’t blink. “You find out who those boys in the picture were?”
The bartender slid the glass back to him, beads of condensation already forming. He lifted it, took a slow sip before answering. “Likely exactly who you think they are.”
“Likely doesn’t do me any good.” Her voice was flat, clipped, cutting right past his insult.
He smiled faintly, a shadow more than anything. “Just wait for him to mess up.
They always do.”
That was all. He turned, drink in hand, and walked back across the tavern floor.
The crowd was louder now, laughter carrying from a table near the jukebox. The TV cut to commercials, voices rising to fill the gap. He slid back into the booth, the smell of his cold po-boy greeting him.
Anne was laughing at something Claire had said, her hand resting light on her daughter’s arm. Peyton leaned in, throwing in a comment that made both of them smile wider. The whole table moved like a current, flowing forward without pause.
Roussel sat down, set his glass against the wax paper, picked up what was left of his sandwich. The bread was soggy, shrimp sliding out, sauce pooling under his fingers. He bit in anyway.
No one asked where he’d gone. No one seemed to notice he’d left at all.
~~~
Ramon leaned back against the seat as Caine eased the car to the curb, the tires spitting gravel from the cracked shoulder. The night air pressed in humid and close, cicadas whining in the dark. Ramon pulled a folded wad of bills from his pocket, thumbed out a couple of hundreds, and dropped them onto the console.
“Swing back after you check on your lil’ one,” he said, pushing the door open with his shoulder. “Kick it with us.”
Tyree was already halfway out, laughing low as he straightened his shirt. E.J. was behind him, leaning forward between the seats.
“Run me to the West Bank?” E.J. asked, his tone casual, but his eyes steady on Caine.
Tyree barked out a laugh, clapping his hand against the roof of the car. “You scared the white girl you fuckin’ over there’s daddy gon’ finally kill your ass?”
“Nigga, shut yo bitch ass up,” E.J. shot back, shoving him hard enough that Tyree stumbled sideways before catching himself, still laughing.
Caine just shrugged, one hand on the wheel. “Long as you got gas money.”
E.J. slid into the front seat as Tyree pulled the door shut behind him. Ramon raised a hand in parting as Caine pulled away, the car’s headlights cutting down the narrow street.
The hum of the tires filled the silence. The smell of weed lit up sharp when E.J. dug a blunt from his pocket, sparking the lighter against it. The flame licked once, then he hesitated, glancing sideways at Caine.
“My bad,” he muttered, tucking it away without taking a pull.
Caine didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the road, the glow of his phone buzzing faint against his leg where he kept it wedged between the seat and his thigh. Mireya’s name lit the screen once, then again. He typed back with quick flicks of his thumb at stoplights, the words short, clipped, enough to keep the conversation alive.
…
Half an hour later, the West Bank houses grew wider apart, lawns green under the faint wash of streetlights. E.J. leaned forward, pointing with two fingers.
“Right there. Pull over.”
The house stood out—grass trimmed neat, porch light glowing warm against a pale door. Not perfect, but better than most.
Caine idled at the curb. E.J. sent a text, his screen lighting his face in pale blue. Silence filled the car, broken only by the cicadas and the faint bass from a car passing down the block.
The front door cracked. Tessa stepped out, pulling her hair back with one hand. Bird shot past her legs, a blur of energy, sneakers pounding against the walkway.
E.J. opened his door, grinning as he stepped out. “Lil’ man!”
Bird launched into him. E.J. crouched to catch him, their hands snapping into a dap that ended in a hug. From the car, Caine watched E.J. walk back to the trunk, grab his backpack, and pull out a brand-new copy of Madden still in the plastic. He held it out, shaking it in front of Bird.
“Got you, bruh. I’ma come back later, bust your ass in it.”
Bird’s face lit up. “Bet! Thanks, E!” He clutched the game to his chest and sprinted back inside, the door slamming behind him.
Tessa lingered on the porch. E.J. stepped close, their kiss quick, familiar, more matter-of-fact than stolen. “I’ll be back,” he told her, voice low. She nodded, slipping inside without another word.
E.J. slid back into the passenger seat, the door closing with a dull thud that seemed to echo too long in the quiet street.
Caine didn’t speak. His hands stayed on the wheel, knuckles pale, eyes fixed on nothing. Outside, the night hummed—cicadas whining, a car rolling distant on the next block, the faint bark of a dog cut short. The silence between them thickened, so full it pressed at the windows.
E.J. shifted, let out a short breath through his nose. “What?” he finally said, trying for casual, but his voice caught. “Say what you wanna say.”
Caine shook his head once, lips curling into half a smirk. “Thought y’all was joking about the white girl.”
E.J.’s laugh came sharp, more air than sound. “Bird’s my lil’ brother. Tessa’s his foster sister or whatever.”
Caine let the words hang a second. “Sound like fucking incest, brudda.”
“Man, fuck you.” E.J. shot him a look, sharp but not heated. His voice dropped. “My pops been locked up our whole lives. In and out, never around. Moms dipped when my lil’ sister was born. Probably on dope, same as that nigga got her knocked up. I just want them to have shit I never did.”
Caine’s shoulders shifted. He kept his eyes forward, one hand steady on the wheel. “Ain’t gotta explain it to me. I wouldn’t be out here neither if I knew some other way to take care of Mireya and Camila.”
The car rolled forward, headlights sweeping across the empty street.
E.J. nodded once, quiet, then leaned back. “Just keep pretendin’ the white girl’s a joke, though. I ain’t tryna have nobody come out to Belle Chasse lookin’ for me.”
Caine’s mouth tightened. His reply came low, even. “What ain’t my business, ain’t my business.”
E.J. exhaled, the tension easing. He reached forward, twisted the volume knob on the radio. Bass filled the car, loud enough to rattle the panels, pushing silence back into the night.
~~~
The office door groaned before it gave, the warped frame catching just long enough that Mireya shoved through. The yard hit her like a wall—heat and diesel, the sting of concrete dust in her nose. Trucks lined along the fence, their metal shells glinting dull in the late sun. Clipboard pressed to her chest, she headed across the lot to find a driver and settle numbers before they piled up wrong in the books—wrong for them.
“Need you to drive me.”
Leo’s voice cut across, easy but sharp enough to stop her stride. He came the other way, hair slicked back, shirt loose and sweat-dark at the collar. He didn’t even slow, just moved past her like she was already following.
“I’m busy.” She lifted the clipboard slightly, proof in her hand.
“Do it later.” His tone didn’t rise, didn’t drop—just flat. “Already told Jaime.”
The name landed heavier than the sun overhead. Mireya stopped, jaw set. The paper under her arm bent from how hard she pressed it there. For a breath she stayed still, the yard’s noise filling in—shouts from the far end, the grind of a forklift, cicadas shrill in the trees beyond the fence. Then her feet moved, carrying her toward him against her will.
The truck waited near the gate, hood powdered gray with dust. Leo pulled the keys from his pocket and tossed them underhand. They hit her palm too hard.
Inside, the vinyl burned her legs. Mireya twisted the key; the engine shuddered alive, coughing smoke. Leo leaned back, one arm slung across the seat, the other dangling out the window like he owned the street before they even left it.
They pulled out, traffic swallowing them. The cab filled with engine hum and the dry whine of cicadas. Mireya kept her eyes forward, hands locked high on the wheel.
“What exactly you picking up money for all the time?” Her voice broke the silence, clipped, no softness in it.
Leo chuckled low. “Didn’t they tell you not to ask questions?”
Her grip shifted, fingers flexing against the wheel. “I’m always in the car with you. Figure I should know what I’m gonna end up in jail for.”
That made him laugh harder. He turned just enough for her to see his grin stretch wide. “That’s why you in the car. Fine-ass Latina riding shotgun, NOPD ain’t looking too hard at me. They just gonna ask you shit to try to fuck. Can’t blame ‘em.” He leaned back, satisfied. “That’s what you here for. Distraction.”
The word slid under her skin like heat, burrowing deep.
She said nothing. The road stretched ahead, broken glass glittering in the shoulder, sweat crawling down her back until her shirt clung damp. She pressed her foot firmer on the gas, jaw locked, eyes fixed hard where the lanes funneled toward the bridge. Her knuckles whitened, the wheel slick under her grip.
…
By the time they rolled back through the gates, the yard had thinned out, evening settling in heavy. The heat didn’t lift—it just flattened, pressing everything lower to the ground. Pockets of noise broke the stillness: the hollow clang of a wrench striking concrete somewhere down the line, the stuttered reverse-beep of a forklift dragging itself toward the shed, a dog’s bark bleeding through from the shotgun house across the street. The sky had gone rust-colored, the edges already fading into bruise-purple, the kind of light that made everything look older than it was.
Mireya cut the ignition. The truck coughed into silence, the kind that doesn’t feel clean but weighted, like it was holding something back. Her fingers stayed on the wheel, knuckles pale, nails digging crescents into the cracked vinyl. Sweat slicked her palms; she could feel the tacky drag when she finally loosened her grip.
Beside her, Leo moved slow, deliberate, the kind of slowness meant to remind her he had all the time. His hand dipped into his pocket and came out with the wad—thick, rubber band barely holding, edges fanned out like the thing was swollen. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. His thumb dragged across the bills one by one, soft rasp of paper on paper, the sound needling her nerves worse than silence.
A hundred. A twenty. A five.
The stack pinched between two fingers, dangled toward her like bait.
“One twenty-five.” His voice was flat, disinterested, like he was reciting a price tag, not paying for hours of her life.
Mireya didn’t move. Her hand stayed flat against her thigh, fingers stiff, pressing bone through skin. She kept her eyes forward, on the cracked windshield where the last light bent and flared. If she looked at him, if she looked at the money, she wasn’t sure which would burn worse.
“You want more?” His tone curled now, a smirk hiding in it. She could feel his gaze slide over, slow, measuring. He wasn’t asking—he was seeing how far she’d bend.
Her chest tightened. She shook her head before the word could choke out, but her throat still betrayed her, breath catching high and hot.
Leo made a little show of it then, like he’d been waiting. The band snapped faintly as he shoved the bills back under it. His thumb peeled fresh notes free—fewer this time. A fifty. A twenty. A five. Seventy-five, crisp, deliberate. He leaned closer, holding them out just far enough that she had to turn her face or let the paper brush her skin.
“Here.”
The bills wavered between them, humid air already curling the corners. Her vision blurred; she couldn’t tell if it was the sting of sweat in her eyes or the fury rising sharp behind them. The words scraped out raw, thin: “I just drove you around for three hours.”
Leo’s shrug barely lifted one shoulder, the gesture dismissive enough to sting worse than words. “You want it or not?” The question was lazy, but the weight behind it wasn’t. He knew she’d take it. They both did.
Her hand moved before she could stop it—snatching, fast, the slap of paper loud in the cab. The bills crumpled in her fist, edges biting into her palm. Shame hit harder than heat, coiling under her ribs as she shoved the door open. The slam cracked across the yard, sharp enough to draw a few glances, sharp enough to echo back at her.
Dust lifted around her boots, clinging to her calves. She walked fast, shoulders wound tight, the roll of bills digging cruel into her hand. Each step stretched, air thick and metallic in her throat. The smell of grease hung heavy; wet cement pooled sour in the nose. Somewhere a radio crackled from the mechanic’s shed, a brass horn pushing through static, cheerful where nothing else was.
She cut past the stacks of rebar when the voice slid out of the shadow, smooth and mocking, the lilt of Spanish curling sharp:
“¿Problemas en el paraíso con tu gringo?”
Kike leaned against the steel, arms folded easy, smirk already carved into his face like it belonged there. His eyes caught hers, slow drag down and back up, not rushing, never rushing—just letting her know he’d seen everything he needed.
Mireya didn’t break stride. Her fist tightened until the paper inside creased and tore against her nails. The words shot out, low and hard: “Fuck off.”
The air caught them, hung them there between metal and concrete, sharp enough to cut. She didn’t turn her head, didn’t give him her eyes again. Just pushed forward, each step burning hotter.
The office door banged shut behind her, wood rattling in the frame, swallowing the yard whole.
