The apartment held the kind of quiet that made the AC sound like a living thing. Caine left the TV on anyway, a throwback game rolling in washed-out colors. Pads clicked. A crowd rose and fell from far away. He watched it the way you watch a ceiling fan, just enough to keep the quiet from setting teeth on edge. Statesboro at night didn’t hand him the old sounds. No sirens. No bass. Just the vent rattling and the commentary drifting out of men who were long retired.
Boxes crowded the wall like tired furniture. He sat low on the sofa and pulled the top one closer with his foot. Inside lay the journal he always put back last. He flipped to the far end where the pages bent under his hand the way a door bends at its hinges. The paper had a little grit to it. He liked that. It kept the pen honest.
Hey, mamas, he wrote. I hope you haven’t forgotten what it’s like to have me around yet. He let the line breathe and then kept going.
He paused and looked toward the kitchen. On the cabinet sat the little he owned in food. Cans and boxes stood in neat ranks because he had made them stand that way. Rice. Beans. Two cans of soup. A small bottle of oil that caught the TV light and threw a thin stripe across the wall. He had spaced each thing with the same finger width. It made the shelf look full when it wasn’t. He didn’t move anything. He took the picture in and let it say what it said.
He dropped his eyes back to the page.
It’s been only a couple weeks and I still ain’t settled. Folks here keep saying welcome like the word can do work for them. I say thank you and keep it moving. I still feel like I’m standing outside a house looking through a window.
The announcer on the TV laughed about a busted coverage from twenty years back. The laugh smoothed into the room and settled. Caine ran his thumb along the paper’s edge and let the sound fade.
He wrote the next sentence without dressing it up. I think I’m what white folks mean when they say we’re institutionalized. If I’m being real, it almost feels like I need gunshots outside to have peace. Need the arguments and the fighting.
He stopped and read it once. He wasn’t fishing for pity. He was trying to name the shape of the quiet so it would stop trying to name him.
A whistle from the TV cut through a replay. He leaned back and let the cushion take his shoulders. The fabric held a little grit from the move. Statesboro’s silence pressed at the window screens and sat there like fog that never burned off. In New Orleans, noise stitched the day together. Out here, the thread was something he had to pull himself.
He wrote around the thought instead of through it. I leave the TV on to sleep. Loud. I leave the bathroom fan running sometimes. It’s easier that way.
He glanced at the cabinet one more time. The lines stayed clean. A single bowl sat upside down to dry. A sponge drained in a cup. He had lined the shoes by the door by color. All of it was a way to make a place behave.
Back to the page. He told her a true thing she could keep, even if she wouldn’t read it for years..
The game drew a cheer that came through tinny. He let it roll past. He pictured Camila curled sideways in her bed, one foot bare and one sock halfway off because she never kept both on. He wrote to that picture.
I miss you when the house goes quiet. I miss you when it’s loud too. He scratched the line out and rewrote it cleaner. I miss you all the time.
He tapped the pen against the margin and searched himself for anything that asked too much of her. He didn’t want to hand her his weight. He wanted to leave her a trail she could follow back to what he meant.
He wrote: I want you to have more than one way to live. I want you to see enough of the world that when it’s your turn to pick a place, you won’t feel out of place in it.
He looked up at the screen. A running back broke clean and the crowd swelled like a storm moving across a map. Caine turned the volume down one notch. He felt the small shift in the room and let it stand. His hand went back to the paper.
I’m going to do right so you don’t have to carry what I did. Find your place, Camila. Wherever it is, I hope you’re comfortable there.
He set the pen in the crease and closed the journal. The TV kept its soft talk. The AC breathed. The cans on the cabinet waited in their straight lines. He leaned his head back against the sofa and let the last sentence sit in him the way you let a song play to the end.
~~~
The gym held that bleach-and-old-rubber smell that stuck to the cinderblock even with the AC running. A ball squeaked across the half-court. At the folding tables a handful of kids bent over worksheets, counting by twos under their breath. A tutor chirped a toy whistle like it mattered. Ramon sat on the low stage with his elbows on his knees, eyes moving doors to corners to hands, then back.
Nina sat beside him, not touching. Ankles crossed, hands empty. She watched the room the way she always did. A boy in light-up sneakers glanced over, then straightened, like a string got pulled between his shoulder blades.
“You heard what folks been saying?” she asked, eyes still on the court.
“Niggas say a lot of shit in the streets,” he said. “It’s the streets. That’s what they do. They talk.”
She turned enough to catch his face. “They said it was y’all that did that shooting in the Melph. Said it’s going to be a lot of back-and-forth because people want revenge.”
On the court a kid fired a pass that clapped off tiny hands and skittered into the stage. Ramon toed the ball back without looking at her. “Niggas always talking about who gonna kill who. Everybody wanna catch a hat. Everybody want stripes.”
“You’re not worried somebody might try to kill you?” Her voice stayed low. The younger ones listened even when they didn’t look like it.
He rolled one shoulder. “Ain’t like I wouldn’t deserve it.”
She blinked once. “What about me?” she asked. “You think about what would happen to me?”
“We ain’t together, though,” he said, cutting it clean. “You wanna pretend like you better than street niggas.”
The air tightened around them. The whistle chirped again. A girl with pink beads banked one in and bit her lip to hold the smile.
“Fuck you, Ramon,” Nina said. No extra on it. She stood and went down the two steps, crossing the floor toward the tables. A little one caught her sleeve. She leaned over the worksheet, finger tapping a number line, voice steady.
Ramon stayed seated. He watched her go. The fan kicked on and pushed a narrow strip of cool along his shins. The scuff in the paint at his feet turned from comet to scratch to nothing.
Two teens argued by the door over a travel that wasn’t. The older lady at sign-in cracked a Coke and wagged the tab at a boy aiming for a second one. A scooter wheel squealed in the hallway and faded. The room folded back into its regular hum.
Across the floor Nina crouched next to a girl tracing letters tight together.
“Space ’em out,” Nina said, a fingertip between shapes. Her braid slid over her shoulder. The tutor nodded and shifted a stack of worksheets, lining corners with a palm.
Ramon’s hands hung loose between his knees. He kept his eyes on the same spots she watched—rim, tables, door. He didn’t call her name. He didn’t stand. He just sat on the edge of the stage while the evening moved the way it always did in this room: squeak, thump, pencil scratch, cooler lid popping.
“One each,” the older lady said again, sending a line toward the ice. The kids made a quick river and then settled. Nina pointed two of them back to their seats and stepped toward the hoop without looking up at him.
He let his gaze follow her for a beat, then set it back on the court. He stayed seated, eyes open, watching her go.
~~~
The shade behind the church lay thin and shifting, the kind that moved when the breeze changed its mind. Caine leaned his shoulder to the pine and let the bark press through his shirt. The fence he’d spent the week fixing ran clean now, boards sitting flush, new wood bright against the old. The nail gun rested on the grass, quiet at last. Sweat cooled along his ribs and then warmed again when the sun reached past the shed roof.
Mr. Charlie sat on an upside-down bucket a few yards off, elbows on his knees, a bottle of water gone soft in his hand. The man had a grayer stubble today and a band of dirt across his forearm where he’d wiped his face. He pointed with the bottle toward the open field as if a game were playing there.
“All these boys want now is a lil’ pocket money,” he said, tone easy but sure. “Get the money, get seen on them cameras, then go find some white girls to play up under they skirts.”
Caine let a chuckle slide out and kept his eyes on the fence line. He didn’t argue. Mr. Charlie liked the run-up more than the finish.
“Back when I played at Savannah State,” the old man went on, “that was ‘74, ‘75, football turned boys to men. You put your face in the drill and you learned a lesson. Coaches ain’t care about your feelings. You got up or you got gone.” He tipped a look at Caine. “What you know about that?”
“I think I got plenty experience being a man already, OG.”
Mr. Charlie flicked his hand like he was brushing a fly. “Everybody think that.” He took a pull from the bottle and worked his jaw. “Now it’s money this and transfer that. Get mad ‘bout a depth chart, run to that portal, go beg some other white man to love you.”
Caine smiled small, not biting. The field held heat in waves that made the far trees wobble. Behind the daycare the AC units hummed in rough harmony. Somewhere in the fellowship hall a chair scraped and stopped.
“And don’t get me started on that Shannon Sharpe,” Mr. Charlie said, heat rising in his voice. “Savannah State put that boy on, fed him, raised him up, and he get on that TV and do all that clownin’. Carrying on. Actin’ like a minstrel show character ‘cause it sell clicks. That’s disrespect.”
Caine shifted his back off the tree and let it find the bark again. He rolled his wrists once. He’d learned already it was better to give Mr. Charlie the room to run and then take the one window when it opened.
“Shit was different way back then,” he said. “Different time.”
“Time ain’t the point,” Mr. Charlie said. “It’s the standard. You keep a standard or you don’t.” He set the bottle near his boot and rubbed at a knuckle that had healed wrong a long time ago.
Voices slipped through the brick from inside the church, a deep one and a lighter one answering. Caine glanced past the shed toward the patio. The door opened. Light cut a rectangle on the concrete and then a man stepped out, jacket off, shirt sleeves neat. Laney came with him, a half step behind as they moved along the edge of the building. Not trailing. Not quite level either. Close enough he didn’t have to turn his head to talk to her.
“Why she walking behind him like that?” Caine asked, eyes still on the patio.
Mr. Charlie looked over, saw what he needed to see, and made a small sound. “That’s her husband.”
“Yeah, but why she walking like that?”
“That’s respect,” Mr. Charlie said, settling back on the bucket. “Young men could learn a thing or two about it.” He hooked a finger toward the fence without looking at it. “And you don’t need to be worried ‘bout what they doing anyway. Man don’t need to be worried about another man marriage.”
Caine lifted both hands a little, palms out. “My fault, OG.” He turned his eyes from the patio and picked up the bottle of water he’d left in the grass. The plastic had warmed. He drank anyway and let the shade cover him again.
Mr. Charlie set his heel on the bottle cap and spun it in a flat circle. “Back to what I’m sayin’,” he said. “These coaches soft, too. Scared to say no. Scared to hurt somebody feelings. Talk about ‘player-led.’ Player-led got y’all giving up four yards on third and one. Where the fullback at? Where the A-gap at?”
Caine rubbed his forearm over the bark to scratch an itch he couldn’t reach otherwise. “Somebody still running it,” he said. “Somewhere.”
“Not enough,” Mr. Charlie said. “Everybody want to throw the damn ball fifty times and then they confused when they get pushed around come November.” He reached down and popped his knee with a flat palm. The sound was small and stubborn. “Savannah State wasn’t no fancy place but it made men. All the negro colleges did. You had to keep your mouth shut and your pad level down.”
A fly bothered the rim of his bottle. He shooed it away and missed and then it left on its own. Across the patio, Laney and her husband stopped at the steps. The man talked, hands in his pockets, voice too low to carry. Laney listened, eyes forward, head tilted just enough to show she heard every word. Then they moved inside and the door took back its light.
Caine let his gaze settle on end of the fence again.
Mr. Charlie exhaled slow. “Boys don’t even want to hit no more,” he said, but softer now, like the fight in the idea had already been fought a dozen times today. “They want highlights. They want to be brands.” He scratched the wrong-healed knuckle once more and left it alone. “Ain’t nothing wrong with money. But money ain’t the measure.”
Caine nodded. “I hear you.”
“Do you?” Mr. Charlie side-eyed him, a smile tucked in the corner. “My grandson showed me your tape. You be out there with them gloves on, jumping around and all that. What kind of quarterback wear any damn gloves? You think you that Michael Vick boy?”
He shook his head again and, without waiting for Caine’s answer, went right back to complaining about modern college football.
~~~
The concrete office smelled like dust and burnt coffee. Two box fans pushed warm air around and made the stack of delivery slips flutter. Mireya sat by the computer with her phone low in her hand. Angela had sent another text—Biloxi, in and out, cheap—and Paz followed with a motel link and a row of palm trees.
Mireya typed, You really want Biloxi that bad?
Paz: Or Bay St. Louis. Closer. Less gas.
Angela: One night. We need water. I’ll drive if you don’t want to.
She rubbed at the bridge of her nose and watched grit drift through the fan light. The clock dragged. Men argued out in the yard about loads that were late and loads that weren’t. She thought about sand, sun on her face, a towel she didn’t have to share, and the way quiet sounded by water.
Fine, she typed. One night. I don’t have the money to pay someone to watch Camila longer.
A shoulder filled the doorway. Jamie held a clipboard, hat pushed back. “I need you to go drive Leo,” he said.
“Now?”
“Now.”
She pocketed the phone and stood. The vinyl seat peeled at the backs of her thighs. The door stuck, then gave, and heat rolled over her like breath. The yard threw back light. A loader beeped in slow reverse. Diesel hung in the air. A gull cut across the lot and screamed at nothing.
Leo waited by his pickup with one boot on the running board. Sunglasses hung from his shirt. He didn’t look up until she was close.
“Why aren’t we taking a company truck?” she asked.
“Jalen’s got the one I like,” he said and climbed into the passenger seat.
She slid behind the wheel. The cab smelled like vinyl and detergent. He handed her the keys without ceremony. She turned the engine over. The AC coughed, then pushed warm air. She adjusted the rearview and saw a red thong on the back seat, lace bright in the light.
“Those your wife’s?” she asked.
He glanced back and laughed. “My wife? She’s been in granny panties since I proposed.” He tipped his chin at the lace. “You can leave yours back there. After.”
Her hands stayed at ten and two. The thong sat there like a bad joke that kept telling itself. Her mother’s words pressed in—extra money, no excuses—the tone that meant it wasn’t a question..
She put the truck in drive. “I won’t be doing that.”
“For someone so fucking broke, you found your morals fast,” he said, amused more than angry.
“I’m not that broke anymore.”
“Bullshit.” He snorted. “You’re just not broke today.”
They rolled off the gravel and onto the street. The yard fell away in the mirror—white dust, gray piles, orange vests moving. Houses gathered up along the block, paint peeled to different colors, chain-link shining in slices. She kept the wheel straight and let the AC climb from warm to almost cool.
Her phone buzzed once in her pocket. Angela again, probably already planning snacks. The word Biloxi floated up and sat there. Bay St. Louis sounded closer, easier to pretend you could afford it.
“Take the left up here,” Leo said, hand flicking toward the turn.
She made the left. A dog barked from under a car. A woman dragged a trash can that wheezed on one bad wheel. The road had been cut and patched. The truck bounced over the seam, then settled.
He pulled the visor down and looked at himself in the mirror. “You know you need to stop pretending you don’t like the attention I give you,” he said.
She kept her eyes ahead. “You giving me directions or talking shit?”
“Ain’t nowhere to go but straight.” He put the visor back up and drummed two fingers on the dash. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to make it hard. No one gotta know what we do. No one knows about the last time either.”
Another buzz from her pocket. Paz this time, most likely, already on outfits. The lace in the mirror felt too bright. Mireya nudged the mirror down a notch so she saw road and sky and less of the back seat.
They hit the long light at the corner. Yellow blinked to red. She slowed and stopped. Heat shimmered off the hood. The AC worked, then didn’t, then worked again.
Leo watched the cross street and tapped his foot. “You’re thinking about it,” he said.
“I’m not thinking about shit.”
Across the intersection a boy coasted his bike between cars with a plastic bag hanging from one handlebar. A bus sighed and opened its door. Somewhere a radio played a commercial that sounded like shouting. Maria’s voice crowded up again and brought the weight of everything with it.
The thong waited in the mirror like it had time. The light stayed red. They sat there with it.
