The clock on the microwave blinked 3:22 AM, but Caine didn’t bother looking at it. The house was still except for the faint creak of an old fan down the hall and the whine of a mosquito circling somewhere near the open window. Sweat slicked his skin in the dead heat, every breath sticky as syrup, city air thick with the threat of rain that wouldn’t come. Caine sat hunched at the little card table, cheap blue pen between his fingers, pages spread in front of him, everything else boxed up for when he had to move again.
He didn’t think about what time it was, or who might walk in and see him there. He just wrote—left-handed, crooked, neat in its own way. Sometimes the words stalled out, but tonight they kept coming, faster than he could get them down. He started with the old address, like always:
They say men in our family got something wrong with us. Not the Guerra side. The other one. The one I don’t know. Abuelo used to say it—darkness in the blood. Some kind of curse, maybe. You know how old people talk. I used to think he was talking shit, just being mean. But now I wonder. I feel it in me, some nights, like something coiled up in my chest. Like I was born for trouble, like it was waiting for me.
He paused, thumb rubbing at a dark mark on the page. He could hear the icebox kick on, then rattle quiet again.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be a good man. That’s just honest. Sometimes I think about dying before I get a chance to try. Sometimes I think you’ll grow up with nothing but stories, people telling you about me like I’m a ghost. I don’t want that. I want you to know me for real. Even the ugly parts.
He tapped the pen against the table, mind tracing backward: his grandfather’s hands—thick, old, always stained with something that didn’t wash out. The old man telling him, eyes hard, “No light in you, boy. Tienes los ojos del diablo.” Like the world was always waiting to prove him right.
I ain’t never known what it means to be good. Not really. Where I come from, the ones who try end up dead, or run out. I want better for you. But I know the world don’t care what I want.
He scratched out a sentence, wrote another.
If I don’t make it—if I go out before I’m ready—I want you to know you were always enough. Never blame yourself for where I ended up. Sometimes I look at you and I see hope. Sometimes I see everything I’m scared I’ll ruin. But I’m still here. I’m still trying. That’s what I got.
He put the pen down, flexed his hand. The house was quiet, humming with the slow ache of people who’d given up on sleep hours ago. He tucked the new letter into the box with the rest.
Caine stood, shoulders stiff from being hunched over, and slipped out into the dark. The kitchen tiles were cold underfoot, but outside the air was hotter, buzzing with crickets and the far-off sound of someone yelling three streets over. He moved down the steps, crossed the patchy grass, keys in his palm, fingers already slick.
The Buick sat where he left it. He popped the door with a soft clack, sliding into the footwell, hands working by feel. His knuckles brushed against metal—a dull, familiar weight. He pulled the pistol free, careful to wipe the grip as he did.
He shut the car with a soft thud, checking the street, the porch, the neighbor’s windows. Then he moved quickly, down the side of the house, through weeds and broken bricks, sweat trickling down his jaw. The shed’s door scraped open, hinges complaining. Caine stepped inside, the air heavy with oil and dust, the dark crowded with old tools and bike parts that hadn’t moved in years.
He pulled his grandfather’s toolbox out from the corner, the red paint chipped and greasy. He opened it, pressing the gun flat under a tangle of rusted sockets and a pack of nails. He hesitated for a second, thumb brushing the cold metal, then closed the lid, shoved it deep behind the shelf.
Outside, a siren cut through the night. Caine straightened, mouth pressed tight, eyes tracking the shadows for movement. He waited until the noise faded, then stepped back into the yard, wiping his palms on his jeans, his pulse slowing.
Back in the house, he moved quietly, slipping into the living room, the city still pressing in from all sides. He sat on the edge of the sofa, watching the moon fade behind the clouds, thinking about darkness, about blood, about everything he owed and all the ways he might never pay it back.
He closed his eyes and counted his breaths, the sound of the city crawling into his bones, the words he’d written to his daughter heavy in the silence, waiting for morning.
~~~
Practice always started with the sun too high, heat rolling off the turf like an accusation. Caine tightened his chin strap, sweat already leaking behind his ears, helmet pressing down. Out past the fences, the city hummed—distant sirens, fryers hissing behind takeout windows, the boom of a bass line from some car always rolling by.
Coach Joseph split the squad with a whistle. “On the hop! Caine, you’re in. Jay—motion strong side, slot left. Defense, eyes up!”
The team jogged to the line. Caine called the cadence, voice deep and clipped, eyes flicking over the defense’s shape. Jay bounced in motion, body twitchy, the sort of smooth that made people stare. Caine saw it, even as he kept his face blank: the way DBs tensed up when Jay hit the edge, the way the linebackers flinched every time he faked a jet sweep.
They snapped. Caine’s feet danced through his drop, body remembering more than his mind. Jay flashed through the backfield, dragging the nickel with him. Tyron broke off a slant. Caine didn’t force it—waited, scanned, flicked it to Keon dragging underneath. Gain of ten. Coaches yelled approval. Jay jogged back, sweat shining at his temples, jaw locked. Never a smile when he wasn’t the one with the ball.
Next play, Coach Joseph held up a fist. “Flex! Jay—Z, orbit! Caine, keep your eyes downfield. Give it if you got it.”
The huddle buzzed. Keon bumped Caine’s elbow, grinning. “Jay gon’ have y’all fighting in the locker room, bro.”
Caine didn’t answer, just set his jaw and called the play. “Trips left, 25 zone read. Watch the safety, he biting.”
Jay motioned again, this time swirling behind Caine as the snap came. Caine rode the mesh, eyes locked on the DE, who froze just enough. Jay took the handoff, skirted the edge, juked a DB out his shoes, and got lit up at the sideline. The defense barked, hyped on the hit, but Jay bounced up quick, tossing the ball at their feet.
The offense huddled. Tyron snickered, “You see his face? Jay hate this shit.”
Caine shrugged. “Motherfucker need to get open more if he want the ball..”
They rotated. Sometimes Caine rolled right, always the point guard, the safe pair of hands. Jay lined up wild—slot, tailback, outside, always trying to show he could do everything. Coaches watched close, making notes. Martin and LeBlanc traded words, Martin nodding toward Caine, LeBlanc glancing at Jay and shaking his head.
By the end of install, nobody smiled. Team split down the seams—starters, backups, JV callups—everybody with a side, even if they didn’t say it. Corey and Derrick rode with Jay, old loyalty. Tyron and Keon with Caine, ready to see a change. Some of the linemen didn’t care, just wanted water and a breeze.
Final period, Coach Joseph called, “Ones! Full speed! Let’s see it!”
Caine set up under center, feeling Jay’s eyes burning at his back. The play was a boot—Jay flaring wide, Tyron on a post. Snap, fake handoff, roll left. Caine saw the pressure coming, waited until the last second, then zipped it to Jay, who hauled it in, spinning upfield before getting shoved out by two defenders. Sideline popped; even the defense had to admit the shit was clean.
“Bout damn time y’all used me right,” Jay snapped as he jogged past. He didn’t look at Caine. Caine didn’t look at him either.
When Coach Joseph blew the final whistle, helmets dropped, pads unbuckled, the heat finally settling on their backs. The mood was brittle. Nobody lingered.
In the locker room, Caine stripped slow, shoulders sore, jersey sticky. He barely listened to the shit talk echoing off the tile—too busy replaying every snap, every look Jay threw his way. He could feel the wedge growing, splitting the team, and part of him wanted to say something, call it out. But he knew better. Better to keep your mouth shut, stay ready. Let them talk.
Out in the lot, dusk pressed in. Caine walked with his bag slung low, legs tired. Jay’s voice cut across the parking lot—loud, always performing. Caine ignored it, headed for the old Buick.
Janae was leaned on her Honda, scrolling her phone, hoop earrings flashing in the low sun. She looked up, a sly smile curling her lips. “Hey, big head. You out there looking like you done carried all them boys on your back.”
He rolled his eyes, cracking a tired grin. “You watching me that hard? Thought you be out here for your bitch ass brother.”
She laughed, pushing off the hood. “What can I say? I like what I like.”
Janae smiled, eyes lingering. “You looking rough, Caine. What, nobody retwist your head all summer?”
Caine huffed, tugging at a dread with mock offense. “Ain’t nobody touching my hair but my Miss Sue on the corner. You offering?”
She grinned, stepping a little closer. “I don’t do charity work. Maybe if you stop acting too good for everybody, I’ll put you on.”
He smirked, nodding at her car. “You say that, but I gotta see some of your work first. Can’t be letting just all up around my neck with sharp shit. You got some proof?”
Janae laughed, voice bright. “Maybe. Depends what you’re asking to see.”
He shrugged. “I need at least five references. It’s serious business over here.”
She rolled her eyes. “Boy, please. I know what I’m doing. You just need to stop playing and find out.”
Jay emerged from the locker room, eyes already cutting their way, his bag slung low. He walked right up, a little too close, and clipped Caine’s shoulder with his own. Not hard enough to move him, but enough to let him know.
Caine’s body tensed, his hand balling into a fist. Then, he took a deep breath and turned, voice flat. “Keep fucking around, bruh, and someone gonna swing on your pussy ass one day.”
Jay sucked his teeth. “Ain’t nobody worried about you, bitch nigga.” He kept walking to the parking lot where Janae’s car sat, baking in the sun.
Janae shook her head, looking at Caine like she’d been through this before. “Y’all niggas is exhausting. If you want to catch your one, catch your one.” Then she said under her breath to Caine. “He can’t fight.”
Caine snorted a laugh as she headed for the car, yelling for Jay to stop messing with people before he gets his ass kicked.
He watched them for a second before beginning to walk down the street to where the Buick was parked, ready to go home and rest.
~~~
The community center off Louisa was packed tight, sweat and voices bouncing off the walls as if the heat itself was listening. Folding chairs filled every inch of the battered linoleum, and people fanned themselves with whatever they could—church programs, handouts, the back of a water bill. At the front, a row of city staffers did their best to look in charge, but all eyes kept sliding to the corner where a cluster of young men—39ers, mostly 3NG with a couple G-Strip—held court. Ramon and E.J. arrived with them, their posture easy but alert, the room shifting to accommodate their presence.
Older folks shot side-eyes, some of the younger boys—runners and wannabes—gravitated closer, but nobody said much. Ramon kept his expression flat, observing, hands tucked in his pockets.
A woman stepped up to the mic. Nina Jackson—her name circled in bold on every program. She was maybe twenty-one, sharp-featured, skin the color of pecans, hair pulled into a neat bun that somehow defied the humidity. She wore a yellow dress and a pin on her chest that read STOP SHOOTING, START LIVING. Her phone buzzed once and she ignored it, gaze steady on the audience as she raised the mic.
Her voice cut through the hum. “Some of y’all came here to listen. Some to be seen. But I want you to hear me for real. When a kid gets killed on your block, the whole city carries it. I’m not up here to point fingers—I’m here because my little cousin died waiting for a bus, just like half these boys in the back.”
E.J. leaned over, voice low. “Shit, she act like she know us or something. She fine, though.” Then, lower: “Bet she’d be less of a bitch if she got just got some dick.” The other 3NG boys cracked up, loud enough for Nina to pause and glance their way. Ramon’s laugh was just a breath, not quite joining, not quite condemning, eyes never leaving her.
Nina’s gaze lingered on their side of the room. She didn’t blink. “We all got a choice,” she said, and when she said it, she was looking dead at Ramon. “Even when it feels like we don’t.”
The room stilled for a second—just the buzz of the fan and the tick of someone’s phone vibrating in a pocket.
After the meeting, the crowd thinned—older folks exchanging numbers, a few boys hanging back to dap up the 39ers, but most drifted off quick, ducking the streetlights. E.J. peeled away with the crew, still talking shit, but Ramon lingered near the edge, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking from the church sign to the last clusters of people trailing toward the bus stop.
He watched Nina pack up her flyers, slow and deliberate, ignoring the sideways glances from the few gang kids who hadn’t bounced. When she was done, she looked around—half expectant, half bracing for trouble—but her eyes slid past Ramon as if he wasn’t even there. He waited a beat longer, then turned, walking off into the sticky dark, feeling the city press close around him.
He took his time—doubling back through side streets, the old nerves always alive when the night was heavy and sirens cut sharp. He moved through blocks of shuttered corner stores and laundry flapping in backyard breezes, the smell of frying oil and bleach slipping under doors. The world was small at this hour—just footsteps, shadows, and the hum of a television somewhere upstairs.
By the time he ducked into the little shotgun house, sweat had glued his shirt to his back. The inside was cool, still. Plants crowded every ledge, a patch of sunlight left over from the day hanging across the wooden floor. A stack of pamphlets sat by a pile of unopened mail. A faded Saints jersey hung off the back of a chair, the only real mess in the place. From the hallway, the soft hiss of a shower running.
Ramon kicked off his shoes and padded to the bedroom, light spilling from under the door. He peeled off his shirt, muscles twitching with the day’s leftover adrenaline, then slid the pistol from his waistband and placed it, quiet, on top of flyers, memorializing a shooting victim from last year, just out of sight from the window. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows to his knees, watching dust drift in the stripe of late light.
The water cut off. A few moments later, Nina stepped out, wrapped in a towel, hair damp, brow furrowed from whatever she’d been thinking through. She saw him in the mirror and paused, the air between them stretching.
“I told you not after something happens,” she said, voice almost gentle, but sharp at the edge.
Ramon watched her, silent, pulling her closer with just a look. She let herself be drawn in, standing between his knees, the towel slipping an inch as she ran her palm over the ink on his chest, thumb tracing the old 3NG symbol.
He said, “You getting better. Up there tonight—ain’t nothing was gonna stop you.”
She didn’t respond, mouth set, hand resting on his skin like a question. He waited, eyes searching hers, but the answer was somewhere else, somewhere maybe even she couldn’t reach.
She dropped the towel, leaned down, kissed him hard. The city outside was restless, the world pressing on, but in that moment, everything narrowed to this—her hands, his scars, and the hush that came when the night held its breath.
~~~
The evening was thick with heat, heavy even in the low shade of Elena’s porch. Mireya wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand as she turned into the cracked driveway. The yard was dotted with bikes and folding chairs—signs of a house that was always full, always loud. Her stomach grumbled, empty from skipping lunch, and she thought of Camila, probably already tired and sticky, hair wild, wanting to go home.
She killed the engine, rolled her shoulders, and pushed open the car door. The familiar noise of family drifted through the screen door: the hiss of oil, laughter, Spanish overlapping with the shout of a TV from the back. Mireya tugged her purse tight against her body, squared her shoulders, and stepped inside without knocking.
The kitchen was crowded, steamy with the smell of masa and slow-cooked pork. Tía Carmen, Elena’s mother, was at the stove, pressing tamales into neat rows on wax paper. Her hair was pulled back tight, cheeks flushed from heat and work. Camila was perched on a stool at the counter, legs swinging, sticky with juice, already chattering at Elena in Spanish about something on the TV.
“Mira, mija,” Carmen called without looking up. “Tu mamá está aquí.”
Camila turned in her seat, smile splitting her face, and scrambled off the stool. “Mami!” she yelled, darting toward Mireya, arms up. Mireya scooped her up, pressing her face into Camila’s soft curls. The tension in her neck unwound, just a little.
Elena leaned against the counter, hair falling in her face, a faded LSU t-shirt riding up over her stomach. “You look beat, Reya. Long day?”
Mireya shrugged, shifting Camila on her hip. “Just… a day. Thanks for watching her.”
Elena waved her off. “No problem. She helped us make tamales. Ate half the corn, though.”
Carmen clucked her tongue, smiling fondly at Camila. “She has good taste. Smart girl.”
Mireya laughed, but it caught in her throat—she didn’t want to linger, didn’t want to be pitied. She set Camila down, smoothing her daughter’s hair, then turned to Elena. “She give you any trouble?”
“Only when I tried to get her to nap. She said she only naps at home with you.”
Mireya’s heart twisted, soft and guilty. “Yeah. She only wants to sleep when me or Caine is with her.”
Elena shrugged, glancing at her mother, then back at Mireya. “You still thinking about college?”
Mireya stiffened, tried to play it casual. “I mean… yeah. But I haven’t started any apps. Everything costs money. Application fees, test scores, all that shit. We’re barely scraping by.”
Elena nodded, her eyes understanding. “I know. I waited two years because I was scared of the same thing. But you should try. It don’t gotta be forever.”
Carmen, never one to miss a beat, piped up from the stove, “You smart, mija. You go to school. Don’t wait too long.” Mireya could feel their eyes, kind but heavy. She forced a smile and let it drop.
Footsteps thudded in the hall—Tío Luis, Elena’s father, coming in from the backyard with work boots still laced, hands dirty from fixing something on the fence. He nodded at Mireya, gruff but warm. “Buenas tardes, sobrina. You eat yet?”
“Not yet, Tío. We’re gonna head out soon.” She didn’t want to stay for dinner. Not tonight.
A moment later, the screen door banged again and Kike strolled in behind Tío Luis, baseball cap backward, hands in his pockets, slouched, cocky, like an unwanted shadow.
He spotted Mireya, grin sliding lazy across his face. “Oye, güerita. You still mad at me?”
Mireya didn’t even look at him. “Ain’t nothing to be mad about, Kike. I just finally figured out you a dick.”
Elena tried to cut the tension with a quick, “Kike, leave her alone,” but he ignored her, swaggering closer, lowering his voice.
“Nah, for real, Reya. You been looking good lately. Caine must be putting in work. He wearing you out, or what? That pito negro doing the body good, huh?”
She rolled her eyes, jaw tight. “Fuck off.”
He just smirked, stepping in closer, voice slick. “Shouldn’t talk to family like that, nena. All I ever do is look out for you.”
Something in Mireya snapped. She shoved him back, hard enough to rock him on his heels. “Vete a la chingada.”
For a second, the kitchen went silent—Carmen frozen at the stove, Elena’s mouth parted, even Tío Luis pausing in the doorway, eyes dark. Camila pressed herself into Mireya’s side, little hands clutching her shorts.
Kike caught himself, wiped the smirk off his face, but didn’t say anything else. He looked away, muttered something in Spanish under his breath, and slunk toward the back door.
Mireya bent down to scoop up Camila, not trusting herself to speak. She turned to Elena, voice tight but sincere. “Thanks for watching her, Elena. For real.”
Elena nodded, concern clouding her face. “Anytime. You know that.”
Carmen pressed a wrapped tamal into Mireya’s hand, softening. “Take this. Para Camila.”
Mireya murmured her thanks, the weight of it all heavy in her arms—child, food, shame. She squeezed Elena’s hand, shouldered her purse, and headed for the door.
Outside, the air was even thicker, buzzing with cicadas and distant traffic. Mireya didn’t look back. She buckled Camila into her booster, got in, and shut the car door on whatever else waited in that house.
Once in the car, Mireya exhaled, slumped behind the wheel. The engine coughed and rattled before catching, A/C blowing tepid air that barely moved the sweat on her neck. She glanced at Camila in the rearview—big eyes, worried, watching.
“Mommy, enojada?” Camila’s voice was soft.
Mireya forced her face calm. “Not at you, baby. Never at you.”
She pulled away from the curb, tires crunching gravel, the tamal cooling in the passenger seat. As the streets slipped by, Mireya pressed her lips together, knuckles white on the wheel. Her chest ached, anger and shame and something else burning low. But she kept driving, kept her eyes on the road, Camila humming quietly in the back seat, all that mattered in the world.
![[img]https://live.staticflickr.com/65535/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif[/img]](./images/smilies/51066730087_8f014a0403_o.gif "Jonesy")
