The heat had turned the whole pod sour.
Air barely moved. Sweat pooled before noon. The vents coughed but didn’t blow, and the COs stopped pretending to care. They just shouted faster and opened windows slower. Tempers flared easier. Fights sparked off nothing. Kids snapped for less.
Caine tracked it all with quiet precision. He’d carved time into routine—wake up, stretch, study, stay clear of whatever shit was going on. It had been weeks since Camila’s birthday, and the weight of August sat heavy on everything: the air, the food, the sleep, the silence.
He sat against the back wall of the pod, a world history book on the table in front of him. The pages had started to curl from the humidity. The inside cover—his makeshift calendar—held crooked pencil notes, most of them faded from sweat.
He tried to focus. Gandhi. Salt March. Civil disobedience. Something about going to jail on purpose. He underlined the word “nonviolent” and exhaled through his nose.
Trayvon’s laugh broke the air like glass.
“Yo, look at this nigga,” Trayvon called out. “Still think he in school.”
Caine didn’t look up.
“Studying for what?” another voice chimed in. “Ain’t no grades in here, bro.”
He flipped the page.
Trayvon’s tone turned hard. “Nah, see, that’s the shit I don’t like. Sit in your corner like you above everybody. Like you ain’t catch that L already.”
That was it. The real spark. Trayvon hadn’t let it go—the fight months back, the bruised ribs, the bloody nose. He’d waited, and now, stewing in sweat and resentment, he wanted his get-back.
Caine closed the book.
“You serious, lil’ bitch?” he asked quietly.
Trayvon stepped forward. “Serious as a motherfucker.”
He swung.
Caine caught it with his forearm, twisted, and cracked a shot back across Trayvon’s jaw. Another boy jumped in. Caine ducked the first punch, landed two, felt a third connect with his back before he spun and shoved the kid off.
The pod erupted.
Then Ramon charged like a train—body-checking Trayvon into a table.
EJ tackled one of the others mid-swing. Tyree grabbed the last one by the jumpsuit and flung him across the tile.
It was fast and loud. Tables tipped. Someone hit the ground hard. Then—
BZZZT.
The COs stormed in.
“Hands! Get down!”
Pepper spray burned through the pod like fire. Caine stumbled, eyes watering, body aching.
He hit the ground last.
But he went down swinging.
…
Solitary was colder, but not better. Time passed in slow drips.
When they released him hours later, the air outside still held its weight.
Ramon, EJ, and Tyree were already back at the table, cards in hand.
Caine dropped into the open seat, knuckles cracked and throbbing.
EJ dealt him in. “You in it now for real.”
Caine picked up his cards and flexed his sore knuckles.
~~~
The air inside the school felt thin. Over-cooled, maybe, or just foreign after too many weeks of concrete dust, diaper cream, and stove heat. The moment she stepped through the front doors, Mireya knew she didn’t belong in this building anymore—at least not like the others did.
Her backpack tugged at one shoulder, too light without her old binder, too heavy with everything she couldn’t put down.
First day back. Junior year. She used to circle the date on calendars, lay out outfits the night before, paint her nails. This time she’d barely remembered to pack a pen.
Camila had been up before dawn, sticky from the heat. Mireya fed her toast and cleaned her up while her mother yelled to herself in the kitchen about something that Camila had spilled the night before.
By the time Mireya got dressed, Camila had spit up on her shirt and she had to change again. No time to iron. No time to eat.
The bus ride over smelled like body spray and sweat. Kids laughed too loud. The girl next to her scrolled Instagram the whole ride and kept glancing at Mireya’s scuffed shoes.
Now, inside the school, everything felt sharp.
Voices bounced off the lockers like rubber balls. Someone brushed past her without saying excuse me. Two girls she recognized from freshman year walked by and whispered just loud enough.
“She look tired.”
“Always tired.”
Mireya didn’t turn her head.
Second period: Biology. She slid into the back row like a ghost returning to a place she’d once haunted. The desk still had the same sticker residue on the edge, like someone had once tried to make it personal and failed.
She didn’t take her schedule out. Didn’t pull out her pen. Just sat, blinking slowly, counting the minutes until she’d have to smile again.
The teacher, Ms. Chenier, walked in with a box of handouts and the same tight-lipped patience she always wore. She started calling roll.
“Rosas. Mireya Rosas?”
Mireya raised her hand halfway.
Later, while walking the aisles passing out schedules, Ms. Chenier stopped beside her desk.
“I remember you from last year,” she said, voice gentle but pointed. “You were in the dual enrollment track, right? Nursing pathway?”
Mireya nodded, even though the words felt like they came from someone else’s life.
“I’ll email you the new registration packet. Still time to apply for the early Delgado cohort—if you're interested.”
Mireya forced a small smile. “Yeah. That’d be good.”
It wasn’t true. Not really. She hadn’t even paid the activity fee yet. Her hours at the yard weren’t stable, and babysitting coverage was already a patchwork of favors and guilt.
But she said it anyway.
The teacher moved on. Mireya sat with the paper in her lap until the edges curled under her fingertips. The biology class circled terms she used to understand but now just sounded like static.
Behind her, someone laughed. She heard her name. Heard “diaper duty” and “smells like baby wipes.”
She didn’t turn around.
Instead, she folded her schedule once, twice, tucked it into her bag, and looked out the window where the heat shimmered off the pavement.
The sun would be higher by the time Camila woke from her nap. Mireya would be gone. Working or studying or pretending to do both. And her daughter would be home with someone else.
She used to feel like the future was something she could shape with enough effort.
Now it just felt like a hallway she couldn’t leave.
~~~
The room was cold and too quiet. Plastic chairs scraped the floor as other families settled in, voices kept low under buzzing lights. Caine sat at one of the corner tables, bouncing his knee, fingers twitching under the table edge.
The door opened.
Sara stepped in, her purse slung tight across her chest, her eyes scanning fast. When she saw him, something in her posture softened, but her face stayed guarded. She walked quickly, then slowed just before reaching him. She sat without speaking.
“You look skinnier,” she said after a beat.
“You look tired.”
“I am,” she admitted. “I been picking up shifts wherever I can. Motel off Airline. Some cleaning jobs from church friends. Just trying to stack what I can. Thought if I save enough, maybe I could get us a little apartment. For when you get out.”
Caine stared at her across the table, jaw tight. “I’m not getting out.”
Sara flinched, like he’d slapped the hope out of her hands. Her lips parted like she wanted to argue, but nothing came out.
“I’m just saying the truth,” he said, voice low. “Ain’t no sense in pretending.”
“I don’t want the truth,” she whispered. “I want something to hold on to.”
Her voice cracked. She blinked fast. The kind of blink people do when they’re trying not to cry in front of someone who already hurts too much.
Caine shifted, pulled a scrap of lined paper from his pocket. “Call Dre.”
Sara furrowed her brow. “Why?”
“He owes me. And you need help. Ask him. Tell him I said it’s time.”
She hesitated, then took the paper. Folded it once. Slipped it into the side pocket of her purse.
“Alright,” she said. “I will.”
They sat there a moment longer, neither looking at the clock, even though the CO in the corner was already starting to glance their way.
Sara reached into her purse again and pulled out a folded page. It was Camila’s—scribbled colors, wide strokes, and her name in Sara’s writing at the bottom. A drawing of something like a rainbow or maybe just the idea of one.
“She made this for you yesterday,” Sara said. “Then she pointed at your picture and said ‘dada.’ Just like that. Real clear. She does it all the time.”
Caine stared at the paper. Then away. His throat tightened.
“I was gonna bring her today,” Sara said softly. “But Maria—”
“Don’t,” Caine cut in. “Don’t bring her here.”
Sara looked at him, confused.
“I don’t want her seeing this place. Seeing me like this. I don’t care if she remembers or not.”
Sara was quiet, eyes glassing just slightly.
“I’m her dad,” Caine said. “Not an inmate.”
A CO tapped his watch. Time.
Sara stood slowly, then leaned in across the table and grabbed his hand, firm.
“I’m coming back next week.”
Caine didn’t look up.
“I’ll come alone if I have to. But I’ll be here.”
He gave the smallest nod.
Sara let go and straightened her shoulders.
“Te amo, mijo.”
“I love you too.”
She walked toward the door.
Caine stayed in the chair after she left, still holding the air where her hand had been, the drawing still sitting in the middle of the table.
~~~
The bell at Edna Karr rang softer than the one at Carver, but it still carried a bite. Quentin stood at the edge of his new classroom, watching his students shuffle in—new faces, clean uniforms, a few eager expressions, more guarded ones.
The room smelled like fresh paint and lemon cleaner. The air conditioner actually worked. The desks weren’t cracked. No rust-streaked filing cabinets. No busted blinds. It felt... stable.
“Alright,” he said, voice calm but clear as students settled. “Take a seat. Take a breath. You made it here. That counts.”
Some of them smirked. One boy in the front row yawned without covering his mouth. Another girl already had a pen poised, waiting to be told what mattered.
Quentin smiled faintly. “Name’s Mr. Landry. We’ll go over rules and all that tomorrow. Today I just want to know how many of you think this class is gonna be a waste of your time.”
A few tentative hands went up. He nodded.
“Appreciate the honesty.”
Laughter trickled across the room.
The first period passed steady. Second followed the same rhythm. There were questions about class structure, laptops, assignments. No fights. No outbursts. No hallway drama boiling over into his space. Not yet.
By fourth period, he found himself checking the wall clock like he couldn’t quite believe the smoothness of it all.
…
That night, Quentin stood in his kitchen, pouring rice into a pot while the radio murmured jazz from the counter.
Ashley leaned against the doorway, glass of wine in hand, loose curls pushed behind her ears. She’d changed out of her scrubs already, soft clothes, no makeup.
“You’re smiling,” she said, tilting her head. “That mean your transfer wasn’t a disaster?”
Quentin smirked. “Didn’t get cursed out. Didn’t have to break up a fight. Nobody threatened to stab anybody.”
Ashley lifted her glass. “To miracles.”
They clinked.
He stirred the pot, thoughtful. “It’s different over there. Better resources. More structure.”
“That’s why I told you to take it.”
He nodded. “Still feels weird. Like I’m cheating on the fight.”
Ashley raised an eyebrow. “The fight?”
“Kids who don’t get this kind of school. This kind of shot.”
She walked over, set her glass down, and leaned against the counter beside him.
“You didn’t stop fighting just because the cafeteria has working A/C,” she said.
He looked at her. “I sent Caine another packet last week.”
She sighed through her nose. “Quentin.”
“It’s just schoolwork.”
“It’s not just anything.”
He didn’t respond.
Ashley softened, placing a hand gently on his forearm. “I’m glad you care. I am. But that boy... I don’t know if he wants saving.”
“I’m not trying to save him,” Quentin said. “I’m just making sure if he ever reaches up, something’s there to catch him.”
Ashley didn’t argue. She didn’t agree either.
She kissed his cheek, slow and quiet. “Dinner smells good.”
“Don’t lie,” he muttered.
She laughed. “I’m not. Just hopeful.”
~~~
The motel room stank of bleach and old air. The AC unit groaned in the window like it was choking on the heat, barely doing enough to stop the sweat from creeping along Percy’s neck. It had been like this for weeks—gray curtains, scratchy sheets, stale cereal boxes on the dresser, and a view of the parking lot where nobody parked longer than a night.
He scratched absently at his ankle with the hook end of a bent hanger, dragging it under the edge of the monitor strapped to his leg. It was starting to blister. Not that anyone cared.
The walls were thin. Thin enough to hear the woman in the next room sobbing on the phone last night. Thin enough to hear the deputy’s boots echo down the breezeway before they even knocked.
Now, it was quiet. Just Percy, the hum of bad air, and a yellow manila folder sitting on the foot of the bed.
His attorney had dropped it off ten minutes ago with a mumbled, “It’s official now.” No handshake. No look in the eye.
The folder was heavier than it should’ve been. He hadn’t opened it yet.
He reached for it anyway.
Inside: a typed document, stapled neatly, state seal stamped on top. State of Louisiana vs. Caine Guerra. Percy didn’t bother reading the whole thing. He flipped straight to the bottom line.
Recommended sentence: deferred. Probation. In exchange for testimony.
He stared at it.
No jail time. No juvenile placement. No boot camp. Just witness prep, maybe court security, and then—freedom.
The price?
His name on record. His words on tape. A permanent mark with the DA’s office that said he helped.
The kind of mark you don’t shake on the outside.
Percy rubbed at his ankle again, the band itching like it knew the decision had already been made.
They’d moved him out of the city for a reason. Boutte wasn’t far, but it might as well have been a different planet. No family here. No friends. Just TV, calls from lawyers, and time.
Too much time.
He closed the folder, slid it onto the nightstand, and stared at the ceiling.
There was no going back.
