The walls in the back room of the station were off-white and stained near the floor, like someone had tried to mop away everything that ever happened there. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. It wasn’t cold exactly, but the kind of stale air that made sweat stick to your back.
Caine sat cuffed to the table, jaw tight, spine straight. He didn’t shrink from the room, didn’t flinch at the silence. He knew what this was. The only thing that surprised him was how calm he felt.
The door opened with a quiet click. A detective stepped in—not loud, not angry, just steady in the way people got when they thought they already knew the ending.
“Detective Martel,” he said, as he sat down. “Appreciate you joining us this morning.”
He tossed a small brown paper evidence bag onto the table. It slid to a stop in front of Caine. Inside was a few zips of weed.
“This what you worried about?” Martel asked, voice almost casual. “’Cause I’m not.”
He pulled out a chair, flipped open a thin manila folder, and laid it flat. Names were printed in bold type across several arrest reports. Photos. Notes.
“You know how we got to you? You got picked up because your boy rolled on you. Said you were with him and Ricardo when it went down. Put you down as the mastermind behind everything. That’s enough to hold you—for now.”
Caine didn’t move.
Martel continued, “But let’s say you help me fill in the rest. Maybe that statement doesn’t lead to charges that stick. Maybe you walk outta here with less than what you’re holding now.”
He turned the folder so Caine could see. Paper-clipped pages with photos of Ricardo. Percy. Names scribbled in the margins: guys from around the way, Tito. Dre was noticeably absent from the list.
“You see, Caine, you’re in a bad spot. But you’re not done. Not yet. You got time to help yourself.”
Still no response.
“You played quarterback for Carver, right?” Martel said, flipping to another sheet. “Pretty good one, too. Kid like you, smart, athletic… you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”
Caine looked at him, the faintest smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. "But here I am."
Martel nodded slowly. “Yeah. Here you are. But how long you stay here? That part’s up to you. Who else was there that night? You give me something real, something actionable, I go to the DA, tell them you cooperated. That matters.”
Caine’s eyes flicked to the bags of weed on the table. Then to the folder. Then back to Martel.
But he didn’t speak.
Martel exhaled through his nose. “Alright, Guerra. You wanna keep playing the strong, silent type? Let’s see how long that works for you on the tier. It’s rough even in juvenile lockup.”
He stood, tucked the folder under one arm, and knocked on the door twice. Another officer opened it without looking.
The detective didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t even glance back.
Caine sat there another full minute, eyes on the little bag of weed.
Then he leaned back against the chair and stared at the ceiling like he was trying to memorize every crack in it.
He could still hear Martel’s voice echoing in his head, soft and certain, like the man hadn’t even needed an answer. Like he already knew Caine wouldn’t fold, but wanted him to sit with the pressure. The names on the folder flickered in his mind—Ricardo, Percy, Tito, his own—and for a second, the air felt thinner in the room.
Caine flexed his fingers beneath the cuffs. Not to get free. Just to feel something that still belonged to him.
…
The cell was colder than the interrogation room and smelled like bleach and skin. Concrete walls boxed Caine in with half a dozen other boys—some younger, some maybe his age, but none older. This was juvie. And he was one of the biggest bodies in the room.
He didn’t sit. Not right away.
He stood with his back against the far wall, arms folded, chin lifted just enough to make anyone think twice. His posture said what his mouth wouldn’t: don’t come near me.
Some of the younger kids gave him quick glances and then looked away. One sat on the floor with his head buried in his knees, rocking slightly. Another paced the floor, muttering to himself. A third kept watching Caine, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to challenge him or ask for protection.
Caine stared straight ahead.
He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to listen. He just needed to survive this part without making a scene.
Eventually, he took the bench furthest from the toilet, his shoulders square, hands resting on his knees. The cuffs were off now, but the pressure in his chest hadn’t left.
A wiry kid a few feet away, probably thirteen at most, scratched at his wristband. “What you in for?” he asked.
Caine didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.
“Cool,” the kid muttered. “Me neither.”
Voices echoed from down the hall—officers shouting, a door slamming, someone shouting curses at anyone and everyone. Time didn’t move in there. It just pressed down, heavy and slow.
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, trying not to think. But everything rushed in anyway—Sara’s face when the cuffs went on, Mireya face when he left, Camila clinging on to him, Dre putting him in this by bringing Percy around.
The names from the folder floated back up.
Somewhere deep in the station, a buzzer sounded. Caine didn’t move.
A CO stepped to the bars. “Guerra. On your feet.”
He stood. Didn’t ask where they were taking him. Didn’t care. Just followed the sound of his own footsteps echoing.
The booking area buzzed with quiet machinery and louder indifference. Caine stood in line behind another boy with swollen knuckles and dried blood beneath his nose. Ahead, the fingerprinting station clicked with methodical rhythm.
When it was his turn, the deputy didn’t say much. Just motioned for him to step forward. Caine complied, silently. His hands were pressed into black ink, each finger rolled with clinical efficiency across the scan pad.
“Hold still,” the deputy muttered.
The mugshot came next. He stood against the wall, jaw tight, face blank. The flash was too bright, the lens too close. He blinked, but never looked away.
The paperwork followed. One form after another, name after name. The deputy slid a sheet toward him.
“Charges include attempted carjacking, grand theft auto, unauthorized use of a vehicle, conspiracy, possession with intent.”
Caine signed where they pointed. He didn’t read it.
“Sixteen,” one of the deputies said, glancing at the sheet. “Should’ve been worried about prom, not prison.”
Caine gave him nothing.
Another sheet landed in front of him. “Initial hearing’s set. Public defender’ll call when they feel like it.”
His wrists were re-cuffed. A second deputy took his arm and led him down a hallway that smelled like antiseptic and rubber.
As they turned the corner, Caine saw a cart stacked with plastic bags—shoes, belts, clothes. All labeled. All belonging to boys who looked like him.
He didn’t ask when he’d get his back.
He didn’t ask anything.
~~~
The baby monitor blinked quietly on the nightstand, casting soft green light across the dark room. Mireya sat on the edge of her cousin Elena’s couch, knees pulled up, phone face down beside her. She hadn’t touched it since listening to the voicemail.
Sara’s voice still echoed in her head. “They took him last night. In front of everybody.”
Camila stirred in the travel crib a few feet away, letting out a soft coo that quickly faded. Mireya didn’t move. She just stared ahead, hands clasped in her lap so tightly her knuckles had turned pale. Her back ached from sleeping in odd positions the night before. Her stomach twisted every time she thought about the way Caine looked when he walked out the door.
Elena entered the room with a warm mug of coffee and held it out silently. Mireya took it, her fingers trembling slightly.
“You okay?” Elena asked.
Mireya didn’t answer right away. She stared down at the cup like it might say something back to her. “I thought I’d feel relieved,” she said at last. “Or angry. But I just feel tired.”
Elena sat down beside her. “You’ve been doing this alone for a while. It’s okay to feel tired.”
Mireya shook her head. “I told him he’d end up like this. I told him. I begged him.”
“Yeah,” Elena said gently. “And now he knows you weren’t lying.”
Mireya looked over at Camila, who had shifted in her crib, one tiny fist tucked beneath her cheek.
“How do I tell her he ain’t coming back soon?”
“She’s a baby. She won’t remember,” Elena offered.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Mireya said, voice breaking.
Silence stretched between them.
“I didn’t want to leave him behind,” she added. “I just couldn’t let her grow up thinking that kind of love was normal. That kind of silence. I didn’t want her to grow up not knowing who her father was.”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “He chose this. Time’s are hard but there are plenty of men who make it work without crime. Don’t rewrite the story in your head before it’s even done.”
Mireya hesitated. “I know. I just…” She sighed. “I keep wondering if I made it worse by not saying more. If I should’ve tried harder to pull him out of it.”
“You said plenty,” Elena said. “And you stayed. That’s what counts. You were trying to protect yourself. Protect her.”
Mireya finally picked up the phone again. Checked it. No missed calls. No messages.
She put it right back down.
Camila sighed in her sleep, little fists resting near her face.
And Mireya leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, feeling her chest tighten like the grief was a second spine pressing through her skin.
She didn’t cry.
She didn’t have anything left to give the tears.
~~~
The phone rang twice before Sara picked up.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice steady but not cold. Just guarded.
Caine didn’t speak right away. He sat in the corner phone booth with the receiver pressed to his ear, trying to find the right words and coming up short.
“It’s me,” he finally said.
Sara let out a breath. “I know.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The cord twisted around his fingers.
“How’s Camila?”
“She’s good. With Mireya and Elena.”
He closed his eyes. “I didn’t want this to happen.”
“I believe you,” she said. “But that don’t change where you are.”
Caine pressed his forehead to the wall beside the phone. “I didn’t run, Ma. I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
“I know you didn’t,” she said. Her voice softened, but there was something underneath it. “That scared me more than if you had.”
Caine lifted his head slowly. “Why?”
“Because it means you were ready to take the weight,” she said. “And baby, I don’t want you to be that ready for it. Not yet.”
A long silence stretched between them.
“I told her you said you love her,” Sara added. “Not sure how much it means to a baby, but I told her anyway.”
Caine nodded. “Tell Mireya too. Please.”
“I will.”
He waited then asked in Spanish.
“Ma… do you hate me?”
Sara was quiet for a beat too long. When she spoke, her voice cracked for the first time.
“I don’t hate you, Caine. I’m scared for you. I’m disappointed, yeah, but I’m terrified too. You’re my only son. My only child. And every time that phone rings late, I brace for your name.”
Caine swallowed. “I’m gonna fix it. I swear.”
“I want to believe that,” she said. “But I’ve been wanting to believe for a long time.”
A mechanical voice cut in: You have one minute remaining.
“I love you, Mama.”
She paused, voice catching. “Y yo a ti, mijito. Más de lo que sabes”
The line went dead.
Caine hung up the phone and sat there a while longer, hand still resting on the receiver like it might ring again.
…
Lights dimmed at nine. Not off—just lower, like pretending to be night.
Caine lay on the top bunk, arms folded under his head, staring at the ceiling through the faint glow of the overhead bulb. He hadn’t said a word since the phone call. Not to the kid in the bunk below. Not to the COs. Not even to himself.
Around him, the dorm settled into uneasy quiet. A boy cried into his mattress two bunks over. Another mumbled threats in his sleep. Someone far across the room laughed without reason.
Caine didn’t flinch. He just listened.
The cold from the concrete seeped into the thin mattress. His sweatshirt was balled under his head for a pillow. His charge sheet sat folded in his pocket, unread.
He could still feel the phone in his hand, even though it was gone. Still hear his mother’s voice. That crack in it when she called him “baby.”
A CO walked past with heavy keys jangling, shining a flashlight through the slots.
Caine kept still. His eyes tracked the slow sweep of the beam. It passed, and he was alone again.
He thought of Mireya. Of Camila’s tiny fist gripping his finger.
He thought of the little boys who used to chase him down the field after practice, pretending they were him. The way his cleats used to dig into turf under Friday night lights. The rhythm of his cadence echoing across the line. It all felt so far away now—like someone else's story.
Now he was here.
No shoulder pads. No turf. Just walls, metal, and time.
He didn’t cry. Didn’t shake. But every part of him felt heavy.
He hadn’t even been sentenced yet, haven’t even seen the judge, but something about him already felt gone.
