Oveja Negra
The morning was still cloaked in a silvery mist when Caine trudged out the front door, the chill of dawn biting at his skin through his thin hoodie. The humid Louisiana air clung to him, promising another sweltering day ahead. The house on Desire Street was quiet for once, the chaos of his family muted in the early hour. Even his cousins were still asleep, their snores vibrating through the thin walls like distant thunder.
Hector’s truck idled at the curb, its engine growling impatiently, a plume of exhaust curling into the pale sky. Caine stuffed his hands into his hoodie pockets as he walked toward it, his footsteps crunching against the gravel driveway. The truck’s headlights cut through the fog, the beams dancing off the cracked concrete.
“About time,” Hector barked through the open window, his voice already gravelly and rough, like he’d been smoking since before sunrise. He leaned out, his elbow resting on the doorframe, his sharp features set in a scowl. “You move slower than molasses, boy.”
Caine ignored him and opened the back door, sliding onto the tattered bench seat next to his cousin Saul. Saul shot him a lazy grin, his dark hair slicked back and still damp, like he’d barely had time to shower before Hector dragged him out of bed.
“Thought maybe you’d decided to sleep in, primo,” Saul teased, kicking Caine lightly in the shin. “Don’t worry, we’d’ve left your ass here. Hector says you ain’t worth half what you eat anyway.”
Caine gave him a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a smirk. “Good. Next time, leave me so I can fucking sleep,” he said, his voice low and even. His tone carried a weight that made Saul snicker nervously but not push further.
“Alright, enough,” Hector grunted from the driver’s seat, throwing the truck into gear. “You two wanna bicker like a couple of viejas, do it on your own time. We got shit to do.”
…
The sun began to crest over the horizon as they pulled into a small gas station off a lonely stretch of road in Plaquemines Parish. It was the kind of place where time felt frozen, the peeling paint on the storefront and the faded Coca-Cola sign standing testament to decades of wear. A single pump sat out front, its numbers turning sluggishly as Hector filled the tank. Caine stepped out of the truck, stretching his arms over his head, his muscles still stiff from the previous day’s work.
Inside the gas station, the air was thick with the smell of fried food and stale coffee. Saul made a beeline for the drink cooler, grabbing a can of Monster and a bag of hot Cheetos. Hector, meanwhile, browsed the counter, squinting at a display of scratch-off lottery tickets like he thought he could read his way into luck.
Caine drifted toward the coffee pot, pouring himself a cup of the bitter, burnt brew and taking a sip without adding sugar. It was too hot, scalding the back of his throat, but he swallowed it anyway. The man behind the counter, an older white guy with a sunburned neck and a cap emblazoned with the logo of some local shrimping company, gave Caine a lingering look but didn’t say anything.
When Saul joined him at the counter, he leaned in with a sly grin. “Hey, moreno, you sure you don’t want a honey bun or something? Ain’t that what y’all like? A little watermelon Kool-aid to wash it down?”
Caine’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking toward Saul, but his expression didn’t change. “Nah,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “I’ll leave that for you. I know y’all be hungry after jumping that border.”
Hector, who had just finished paying, glanced over his shoulder and chuckled. “Cuidado, Saul. Caine’s quiet until he ain’t. You know how they get.”
Saul snorted, but his grin faltered. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, grabbing his snack and heading for the door. “Just fucking with you, man.”
Caine followed them out, the tension rolling off him like steam. He was used to it by now—the teasing, the little digs about his skin, his hair, his place in the family. He knew they didn’t mean it maliciously, not really. But it still sat heavy in his chest, a weight he couldn’t quite shake. He reminded himself, as he always did, that the world would come at him harder than his family ever could. Better to take it here, from them, than to let it catch him off guard out there.
…
When they reached the job site, the sun was fully up, blazing against a clear blue sky. The air was already sticky, the heat clinging to their skin like a second layer. The site was a stretch of barren land where a warehouse was being built, the skeletal frame rising against the backdrop of the marshland beyond. A group of men was already there, standing near a pile of rebar and cement bags. Most of them were Latino, their shirts damp with sweat despite the early hour.
Hector strode over, clapping hands with one of the men, a broad-shouldered guy with a salt-and-pepper beard. “Miguel,” Hector said, his tone warmer than usual. “Got the boys with me today.”
Miguel nodded, his eyes flicking to Caine and Saul. “Good. We need all the hands we can get.”
The men split into groups, and Caine found himself hauling bags of cement with a younger guy named Luis. Luis was slim but wiry, his dark hair slicked back and his hands calloused from years of labor. They fell into an easy rhythm, the sound of their boots crunching on the gravel filling the silence between them.
“You from New Orleans?” Luis asked after a while, his Spanish quick and fluid.
“Yeah,” Caine replied in the same language, his voice steady despite the weight of the cement bag on his shoulder. “The East. You?”
“Mexico, originally,” Luis said, grinning. “But I’ve been here long enough to call it home.”
Caine nodded, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. He liked speaking Spanish—it came naturally, a part of him that felt solid and rooted, even when everything else in his life was shifting. It reminded him of his mother, of the nights she spent teaching him the words while she cooked dinner, her voice lilting like a song.
“Your Spanish is good,” Luis said, his tone a little surprised.
“Gracias,” Caine said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Mi mama made sure of that.”
Luis chuckled and nodded in approval. “Smart woman.”
…
The work was brutal, the kind that left Caine’s arms trembling and his back aching, but he didn’t complain. He’d learned a long time ago that whining got you nowhere. Hector barked orders like a drill sergeant, but Caine didn’t mind—it kept his mind occupied, gave him something to focus on besides the gnawing frustration in his chest.
By midday, the sun was high overhead, its heat pounding down on them like a hammer. The men gathered under a makeshift canopy for a break, drinking water from gallon jugs and sharing jokes in rapid Spanish. Caine sat off to the side, his muscles screaming as he leaned back against a stack of pallets.
“You alright, negrito?” Saul asked, smirking as he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Looking a little tired.”
Caine rolled his eyes. “I’m straight,” he said, tipping his head back to take a long swig of water.
Luis walked over, a grin splitting his face. “You’re stronger than you look,” he said in Spanish, nudging Caine’s arm. “Hector’s lucky to have you out here.”
Caine let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I don’t plan on making this a habit.”
Luis laughed. “I don’t blame you.”
As the break ended and the men returned to their work, Caine couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride. The work was hard, but he’d kept up with them. He belonged here, in his own way. But as he hefted another bag of cement onto his shoulder, the familiar thought crept back into his mind—the one that never quite left him.
I don’t want to do this forever.
~~~
The dim light in Tito’s garage flickered, the fluorescent tubes overhead casting a sickly green glow over the cluttered space. The air was heavy with the smell of motor oil, mildew, and cigarette smoke, a combination that clung to Caine’s clothes every time he left. Cars in various states of disrepair lined the walls, their hoods yawning open like metal corpses waiting to be gutted. Tito sat on a worn-out office chair near the back, a man with smooth, dark skin and a face that looked far too cheerful for the business he ran. His gold chain caught the light as he leaned forward, grinning in a way that never quite reached his eyes.
“Alright, lil’ niggas,” Tito said, his voice smooth but with a faint edge of impatience. He slid a black backpack across the workbench between them, the sound of its weight thudding against the scarred wood. “This right here? Premium. Straight from my guy. Got some pills in there, some powder. I don’t wanna hear nothing about no short money or no short counts. You handle it, clean and quick.”
Caine stood a step back from Dre and Ricardo, arms crossed, his eyes steady on the bag. He didn’t say anything, just listened. He wasn’t one to run his mouth around Tito. Dre, though, always felt the need to fill the silence.
“You know us, Tito,” Dre said, flashing his signature, too-wide grin. He reached for the bag, his long fingers curling around the straps. “We ain’t gonna do you wrong. No mess, no fuss.”
Tito gave a short laugh, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. “Yeah, well, let’s keep it that way. Last thing I need is y’all acting sloppy out there. Cops’ve been circling this part the city like they got some juvies lined up for they nasty asses. You screw this up, and it’s your asses, not mine.”
Ricardo gave Tito a short nod. “We got it.”
Dre slung the backpack over his shoulder, the weight of it shifting his stance slightly. “Appreciate you, Tito.”
Tito waved them off, his grin fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Get the fuck outta here.”
Outside, the early evening air was cooler than Caine had expected, the sky a deepening orange streaked with purple. The three of them walked toward Dre’s beat-up Buick, parked half a block away. The streetlights buzzed faintly, moths swirling in their halos. Dre whistled a low tune, the backpack bouncing lightly on his shoulder as they walked.
“Say, uh, listen,” Dre said, his tone too casual to be innocent. “I was talking to my cousin Percy the other day, and he’s looking to make some extra bread. Figured maybe he could ride with us on a couple jobs, you know, see how things work.”
Ricardo stopped in his tracks, turning sharply to face Dre. His expression was somewhere between disbelief and annoyance. “Your cousin? Fuck no.”
Dre blinked, feigning surprise. “What? Why not?”
“‘Cause I don’t know his ass,” Ricardo said firmly, his words clipped. “You don’t just bring some random motherfucker into this. I don’t care if he’s your blood. He ain’t mine, and I ain’t about to trust my neck to some guy I’ve never even met. If 12 catch his ass, my name the first one coming out his fucking mouth. Me and Caine.”
Dre laughed, a short, incredulous sound. “Man, Perc ain’t no snitch. He cool. He just need to make a little paper.”
“Everyone needs to make a little paper,” Ricardo snapped. “That don’t mean they got to do it with us. You wanna vouch for him? Fine. But if shit goes sideways, that’s on you, and I’m not sticking my neck out for it. You gonna take that fucking charge.”
Caine watched the exchange silently, leaning against a streetlight with his hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. His face was impassive, unreadable, but his eyes flicked between Dre and Ricardo as they argued.
Dre turned to Caine, spreading his arms as if to say, help me out here. “Caine, tell him the shit ain’t that serious. You know if I’m good then my people good, right?”
Caine shrugged, pushing off the streetlight and taking a step forward. “I don’t care,” he said flatly. “That’s your mans. That’s your business.”
Dre raised an eyebrow, smirking like he’d just won a minor victory. “See? Caine don’t mind.”
Ricardo scoffed, throwing his hands up. “Of course he don’t. He’s too busy pretending he’s above all this to have an opinion.”
Caine’s gaze snapped to Ricardo, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something sharp and dangerous in his eyes. Ricardo saw it and quickly looked away, muttering something under his breath. Dre stepped in, eager to steer the conversation back to his side of things.
“Look, Caine,” Dre said, shifting the backpack higher on his shoulder. “Think about it. If Perc comes along, that’s one more nigga to handle the heavy stuff. You could take a step back, you know? Do some of the easier shit. Ain’t gotta worry about getting locked and being away from your little girl.”
Caine tilted his head slightly, his expression still unreadable. “Easier shit mean less money,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “Less money means less food in Camila’s mouth. Less for Mireya. You gonna make up that difference?”
Dre hesitated, the grin slipping from his face. He glanced at Ricardo, who was watching the exchange with a smug look of told you so. “I mean, it’s not like you gotta do all the heavy lifting every time,” Dre tried again, but his voice lacked conviction.
Caine took a step closer, his broad shoulders towering over Dre. “I don’t care who does what,” he said, his tone calm but heavy with finality. “But don’t act like it’s better for me. I’m in this because I have to be, not because I want to be. And if your cousin’s gonna take food off my table, that’s gonna be a fucking problem.”
Dre shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the pavement. “Alright, alright,” he muttered. “I was just saying.”
“Yeah,” Ricardo cut in, his voice sharp. “And what you were saying was fucking stupid. This shit works fine. Leave your cousin out of it.”
For a long moment, the three of them stood in tense silence, the only sound the faint buzz of a nearby streetlight. Finally, Caine turned and started walking toward the car, his hands still in his pockets. “Let’s just get this shit off,” he said over his shoulder, his voice low but carrying enough weight to end the conversation.
Dre and Ricardo exchanged a glance, then followed him without another word. As they climbed into the Buick, the air between them was thick with unspoken tension. Dre slumped in the driver’s seat, his usual bravado dimmed, while Ricardo stared out the window, his jaw tight.
Caine sat in the back, his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights as they pulled away from Tito’s garage. His mind was already elsewhere—on Camila, on Mireya, on the weight of the backpack in Dre’s lap and everything it represented.
Season Stats
