The morning light settled gently on the Guerra house, casting a soft gold across the peeling kitchen tiles and cracked countertops. The house smelled of eggs, butter, and coffee—familiar and comforting in its own humble way. Sara stood at the sink, elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing a skillet with the practiced rhythm of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. Caine, crouched under the sink, twisted at the faucet’s base with a rusted wrench.
"That thing still leaking?" Sara asked without looking up.
Caine grunted. "Barely. Think I got it."
A sharp drip hit the pan beneath the pipes.
Sara turned, arching a brow. "Mmhmm. You better stick to toting babies and footballs."
Caine chuckled, wiping his hands on a rag. "Good thing football don’t need plumbing skills."
"Neither is breaking your abuela's faucet," she replied, grinning.
Their laughter filled the small kitchen, bouncing off mismatched cabinets and faded linoleum. For a moment, it wasn’t a house that struggled to hold itself together—it was just home.
The front door creaked open. Mireya stepped in with Camila bundled against her chest, her curls pulled into a loose puff, dark circles under her eyes. She smelled like baby powder and lavender soap.
"Morning," she said softly, half a smile playing on her lips.
Caine’s face lit up. "There she go. Bring me my baby."
Mireya handed Camila over, adjusting her hoodie. Caine cradled his daughter like she was glass, tickling her belly until she squealed.
"What she been up to?"
"Tried to eat my phone. Twice."
Caine held Camila up and mimicked her baby babble in a high-pitched voice, making exaggerated faces that sent her into a giggling fit. She slapped his cheeks with her tiny hands and squeaked, delighted.
Sara turned from the sink, drying her hands on a dish towel. "You ever act that goofy around me and I’d have you sweeping the whole block."
"That’s 'cause Camila actually likes me," Caine teased, nuzzling his daughter’s cheek. “Ain’t that right, mamas?”
"Oh please," Mireya said, rolling her eyes. "She laughs at the ceiling fan."
Sara chuckled, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter. "It’s nice seeing you smile again. Both of y’all."
Mireya glanced over at Sara, surprised. For once, there wasn’t tension between them—no tired barbs or sharp sighs. Just shared ground. Camila babbled from Caine’s lap, reaching her chubby hands for a spoon.
"She looks like him when she does that," Sara said quietly.
"Don’t tell him that," Mireya replied, smirking. "His head already big."
Caine looked up, mock offended. "Y’all talking like I ain’t right here."
"Exactly like that," Sara said.
Laughter rippled again, light and easy. Sara pulled a pan from the stove and served up a plate—eggs, toast, and bacon—then poured coffee for Mireya without asking. Mireya took it, grateful, and they exchanged a soft look. No truce declared, but peace shared.
Caine sat in the center, Camila against his chest, her breathing soft and steady. He fed her mashed banana off the tip of a spoon and wiped her mouth with a napkin folded three times.
This wasn’t the world outside. It wasn’t debt, or fights, or cold nights standing on corners. This was warmth. A house that smelled like food. A baby girl’s laugh. A mother’s teasing. A shared moment of understanding between two women who had every reason to be at odds.
And for one rare moment, Caine let himself believe he could have it—if only for a little while.
~~~
By midday, the hum of the city buzzed outside the window of Mr. Landry’s English classroom. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, and the old A/C unit rattled in the corner like it was struggling to keep up. The room smelled faintly of whiteboard markers and floor wax.Mr. Landry stood at the front of the room in his usual fashion—sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to make him seem less like an authority and more like someone who remembered what it felt like to sit where they did. He held a book in one hand and leaned against the desk with the other.
"Today," he said, tapping the open page, "we’re looking at a story by James Baldwin. Some of y’all groaned when I handed this out. Don’t lie. I heard it."
A few students chuckled. Caine sat in the third row, hood up, one knee bouncing. He looked like he wasn’t paying attention, but his eyes were on the teacher.
"Here’s the thing about Baldwin—he doesn’t write for comfort. He writes for clarity. He writes about choices. Consequences. And the cost of trying to be a man in a world that sometimes won’t even let you be a boy."
He let the words hang.
"Baldwin wrote, 'People pay for what they do, and still more for what they allow themselves to become.' He says we pay with our lives."
Mr. Landry’s gaze drifted across the room and paused—just briefly—on Caine.
"It’s not courage if you’re never scared. The difference between a man and a fool is what he does when he is."
The class was quiet.
"Y’all think y’all grown. Some of you got jobs, babies, bills. I see that. But I also know you’re still learning who you are. Still deciding what you’ll do when fear shows up."
Caine shifted in his seat. He scratched the edge of his desk with a fingernail. The words didn’t bounce off—they stuck.
Mr. Landry closed the book and stepped out from behind the desk.
"Let me tell y’all something. When I was sixteen, I got caught trying to impress a girl. Took my uncle’s car for a spin. No license. Ended up crashing it into a stop sign trying to show off. Spent the whole night in juvie and two weeks afraid to look my mama in the eye."
A few students laughed.
Landry smiled. "That’s not the mistake I regret. It’s the way I tried to act like it didn’t happen. The way I pretended I was still in control. Pride will get you locked up faster than anything."
His voice softened. "Don’t let the wrong moment define who you become. You’re worth more than that. Even when the world tells you otherwise."
Caine blinked slowly, jaw clenched just slightly. He didn’t say anything. But he was listening.
More than Mr. Landry could know.
~~~
The sun had long dipped below the horizon when Caine stepped into the backseat of Dre’s sedan, the door groaning slightly as it closed behind him. The car smelled faintly of Newports and cologne, the windows rolled down just enough to keep the smoke from choking the air. Ricardo sat up front, one hand resting on the dash, the other tapping a steady rhythm on his thigh. Percy was already in the backseat, bouncing slightly with nervous energy."Easy money," Dre said, grinning from behind the wheel. "We in and out. No fuck shit."
"That’s what you said last time," Ricardo muttered, glancing out the window.
"And last time we came out clean, didn’t we?"
Percy leaned forward between the front seats. "I’m telling y’all, I’ve been watching this bitch all week. Ain’t no one out there after ten. Security light on the driveway, but ain’t no cameras. We can be in an out."
"You say that like you know what you talking about," Ricardo shot back. "All you do is run your mouth."
Percy grinned, tapping the butt of a pocket knife clipped to his jeans. "You gonna see. I ain’t just talk. I move."
Caine sat back, arms crossed, his face unreadable. "What cars we looking at?"
Dre tossed a glance in the rearview. "Black Tahoe and a red Charger. Easy locks, clean tags. Neighborhood’s got money but no brains."
"Ain’t like stealing from rich people makes you smart," Caine said.
"It makes us paid," Dre countered.
Caine nodded slowly, but his eyes narrowed. "Where?"
"Off Bayou St. John. One of them quiet corners where people forget their keys in the ignition."
"That’s uptown rich," Ricardo added. "They got neighborhood patrols."
"So we make sure they ain’t patrolling when we there," Dre said, tapping the steering wheel like he was keeping tempo.
Caine met Ricardo’s gaze in the mirror. Neither said anything, but the silence between them was its own conversation. They didn’t trust Percy. Not fully.
"You sure this nigga ready?" Caine asked, eyes flicking to Percy.
Percy puffed his chest. "Man, I was born ready. I got faster hands than both y’all. Watch me."
"You talk fast. That’s about it," Ricardo muttered.
"Say what you want," Percy said, voice rising. "Y’all been doing this, sure. But I’m hungry. Y’all comfortable. I ain’t got time to play scared."
"Ain’t about scared," Caine said, voice low and even. "It’s about not getting caught. You wild, and wild gets sloppy."
"Nah," Percy snapped. "Wild gets results. Y’all too slow, think too much."
Dre held up a hand. "Alright, enough. We good. Ricky takes the Charger, me and Caine follow him. Perc’s looking out."
"I ain’t no lookout," Percy snapped. "Put me on the wheel."
"You’ll get your turn," Dre said, firm now. "Stick to the plan."
"Plan sound like y’all don’t trust me," Percy muttered.
"We don’t," Ricardo said flatly.
The tension thickened in the car, the air heavy with challenge. Dre started the engine, letting the bass hum low beneath the silence.
"Y’all don’t gotta like each other," Dre said. "But leave that complaining for tomorrow."
Caine stared out the window, fingers drumming lightly against his knee. Something gnawed at him—an itch he couldn’t shake.
He kept his voice low. "If this goes sideways, I’m not taking heat for no one."
"Ain’t gonna go sideways," Dre said. "Not tonight."
But Caine’s jaw was already tight, his gut already turning.
He didn’t believe him.
…
The street was quiet. Still. One of those tucked-away blocks where porch lights flickered behind hedges and houses slept with blinds drawn tight. The kind of neighborhood that assumed safety and didn’t bother to double-check. Dre’s sedan pulled to a slow stop at the curb, engine low, headlights off.
Ricardo stepped out first, hoodie pulled low, hands tucked into black gloves. He moved with ease, like his body already knew the rhythm. He didn’t speak—just nodded toward the red Charger parked across the driveway, its nose pointed toward the street like it was ready to go.
Caine stood beside the car with Dre, arms crossed, scanning the shadows. Percy hung back on the sidewalk, eyes wide and bouncing like a kid let loose in an arcade.
"Told you," Percy whispered. "No lights. No noise. Cakewalk."
Ricardo popped the door open with a thin metal shim, then pulled a blank key fob from his hoodie pocket. He connected it to a small handheld programmer, tapping through the menu with muscle memory. The fob blinked red, then green. With a quick press of the ignition, the Charger roared to life. Caine leaned against the mailbox post, watching, trying not to think too much.
"He fast," Dre murmured. "Told you we good."
Ricardo pulled out smooth, no tire squeal, no hesitation. He disappeared down the street like smoke.
"That’s what I’m talking about," Percy said, already stepping toward the Tahoe on the opposite driveway. "Let’s grab this one too."
Caine didn’t move. He looked at Dre. "We said one. That was the plan."
"Plan changed," Percy cut in. "We got time. We moving too clean to stop now."
Caine’s jaw twitched. "That ain't the fucking point."
Dre shrugged. "Man, look—he’s not wrong. It's sitting right there. Easy money."
Percy flashed a wide grin. "Y’all scared now? Some whole bitches? I thought y’all were the pros."
Caine narrowed his eyes, looking from Dre to Percy. "We get greedy, we get sloppy."
Percy stepped closer, bouncing on his heels. "Or we get paid. Come on, nigga. You trying to clock out before the shift over? They fire niggas for that."
Dre clapped a hand on Caine’s shoulder. "You don’t have to stay for this part. You did your part—go home if you feel a way."
Caine didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked at the Tahoe. Looked at the street. At the empty windows, the still trees, the stars scattered above like quiet witnesses.
Then he exhaled, sharp and low.
"Let’s make it quick," he said.
Percy was already moving.
He darted toward the Tahoe with a crooked grin, pulling his hoodie up higher as if it made him invisible. Caine followed slowly, footsteps quiet, eyes scanning for anything out of place. Dre lagged behind them, pulling out his phone, checking the time like they were running errands.
Percy crouched by the driver’s door, fiddling with his tools. "Got this," he muttered. "Easy work."
Caine stood to the side, arms crossed, breathing shallow. Something felt off. Too quiet. Too exposed.
Then came the click of a porch light.
Caine’s stomach dropped.
A voice rang out behind them. "Hey! Step away from that car!"
Mr. Landry.
He stood at the edge of his porch in sweatpants and a housecoat, holding a pistol two-handed like he knew how to use it. The streetlamp caught his glasses and turned them into white coins.
Caine froze.
Percy didn’t.
He spun and pulled a gun from his waistband.
"No!" Caine shouted, lunging forward and knocking Percy’s arm upward. The gun clattered to the pavement.
Mr. Landry dove behind a trash can. Dre swore, ducking low. Percy scrambled after the weapon, grabbing it as he rolled to his feet.
Pop! Pop! Pop!—wild shots into the sky.
The noise cracked the silence, bouncing off houses, waking the block.
"We out!" Dre barked.
They ran. Shoes slapping against pavement. No plan now. Just get away.
Only when they were several blocks away, lungs heaving and shadows swallowing them whole, did they slow down.
Percy jerked away from Caine, rage flashing in his eyes. "I knew you was a ponk. You froze up back there!"
"We steal cars, motherfucker," Caine snapped, stepping in close. "You wanna catch a body over a Tahoe?"
"He had a gun! What was I supposed to do, let him shoot us?"
Caine’s fists balled. “They give you the needle for killing somebody over a car!"
"I kept us alive. You was scared!"
Dre shoved between them, arms out. "Enough! Both of y’all!"
The distant echo of sirens curled through the streets again. They all paused.
"We gotta get the fuck out of here," Dre said, breathless. "Now."
Behind them, blocks away, Mr. Landry stayed crouched, breathing heavy, hand still on the grip of his pistol. His porch light flickered.
And the sirens screamed louder.
~~~
Caine stood outside Mireya’s door, knuckles hovering mid-air before he knocked. His breath came shallow, clothes damp with sweat. He hadn't run all the way, but he hadn't slowed down either. Not until he saw the dim glow from Mireya’s window. His heart thudded harder now than it had during the sprint.The door opened almost instantly, like she’d been waiting.
"Caine?"
He didn’t say anything. Just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her. She tensed for half a second, then folded into him, her chin against his shoulder.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Yeah. I just... needed to see y’all."
He stepped inside. Camila was in her bassinet by the couch, swaddled in a fleece blanket, her little chest rising and falling like waves. Caine walked over, sank to his knees, and rested his forehead gently against the edge of the cushion. Mireya watched him closely.
"You’re shaking," she said quietly, kneeling beside him.
"Long night," he murmured.
She brushed a hand over his hoodie sleeve. "I don’t like when you show up like this. You vanish, then pop up like a ghost."
"I ain’t trying to scare you."
"You just do anyway."
Caine didn’t respond. He reached down and touched Camila’s foot through the blanket, his fingers lingering on her tiny sock.
"You ever think about what happens if something happens to you?" Mireya asked, her voice soft but sharp around the edges.
"Every day."
"Then why do you keep going back out there?"
He sighed, looking up at her. "'Cause I don’t see another way yet. I’m trying, bebé. I swear I am."
She looked at him for a long beat, then nodded slowly. "I know. It just ain’t easy watching you bleed out slow."
He laughed again, dry. "I’m still here."
"For how long, Caine?"
He didn’t answer. The room fell into silence. Camila let out a soft breath in her sleep, and Caine reached over, gently adjusting the blanket around her.
Outside, the sound of sirens wailed again, distant but sharp.
Caine flinched.
Mireya noticed, but didn’t press. She just reached over and rested her hand on his.
He didn’t pull away.
~~~
Flashing red and blue lights lit up Quentin Landry’s face as he stood at the edge of his driveway, wrapped in a long coat. His hands still shook slightly, one of them clutching a thermos of coffee like it might anchor him. Beside him stood his wife, Ashley, wrapped in a thick robe, arms crossed tight against the cold. Her presence was quiet but grounding, a steadying weight at his side.Two NOPD officers stood in front of them, notepad out, expressions impassive.
"And you’re sure there were three of them?" the younger cop asked.
"Yes," Landry said. His voice was steady now, calmer than he felt. "Three. One of them tried to get into my vehicle. I turned on the porch light and told them to stop. That’s when one of them pulled a gun."
Ashley’s arm tightened around his.
The older officer frowned. "Did he aim it at you?"
"No," Landry said after a pause. "Someone else knocked it out of his hand before he could. Then he picked it up and fired into the air."
The officers exchanged a glance.
"You recognize any of them?" the younger one asked.
Landry looked off toward the quiet street, at the dark houses that now hummed with the curiosity of neighbors peeking through blinds. He thought of the voice that shouted "No!"—the silhouette that moved with desperation, not violence.
He hesitated. "No. It was too dark. They wore hoodies."
Ashley glanced up at him but said nothing.
The older officer scribbled in his notebook. "Anything else stand out?"
Landry stared at the spot where the gun had hit the pavement. "The one who shouted… didn’t sound like the kind of kid who meant to hurt anybody. He sounded scared. Like he was trying to stop it."
The younger cop raised an eyebrow. "But he still tried to steal your car."
"Yeah," Landry said. "He did."
He took a long sip of his coffee, bitter and lukewarm now. Ashley slid her hand into his free one, her touch steady.
The sirens were gone, but the tension clung to the air like smoke.
He didn’t say what he really feared.
That he might have recognized the voice.
That if he was right—it didn’t just belong to a student.
It belonged to someone he had pulled aside after class, week after week, trying to teach him how to navigate his anger without burning down everything around him. Someone he had stayed late to tutor, who'd once whispered, "I’m just trying to survive."
Someone he believed could make it out.
And someone whose height alone—tall, lean, unmistakable—he’d seen a thousand times walking through the halls.
He didn’t say that part.
He just stood there, holding his wife’s hand, staring into the dark.
Caine Guerra.
~~~
Hours later, down in the French Quarter, the blue glow of police lights washed over cracked pavement and shuttered bars. Tourists had long since vanished into ride shares and hotel lobbies, leaving behind the hum of late-night silence broken only by a distant saxophone and the low murmur of officers.Percy was face-down on the hood of a police cruiser, his breath fogging the glass beneath him. An officer snapped cuffs around his wrists while another read him his rights.
"Attempted carjacking, possession of a firearm by a minor, resisting," one cop muttered as he rifled through Percy’s hoodie. "This might be one of the ones from uptown."
Percy tried to twist around, his voice strained. "That ain’t mine! Y’all niggas planted that on me!"
The officer didn’t flinch. "We’ve got you on camera, kid."
Another officer walked up holding a backpack recovered near the scene. "Found this stashed under a parked car—loaded nine and a blank key fob inside.
Percy’s shoulders slumped.
Across the street, behind a barricade of yellow tape, a couple of bystanders filmed on their phones. One shook his head. "Dumb fuck."
The first officer opened the back door of the cruiser. "Get in."
Percy hesitated for a split second. Then climbed in, jaw set, eyes burning—not with fear, but with something hot and sharp. Shame. Anger. Betrayal.
Before shutting the door, the older officer leaned in, voice low.
"Hope you get a good lawyer, kid. DA’s gonna make an example outta you."
Percy didn’t respond.
The door slammed shut.
And the Quarter went quiet again.
