The couch springs groaned when Caine shifted, the blanket sliding off one shoulder into the dim light from the streetlamp outside. The front blinds cut it into strips across the room, laying bars of dull gold over the coffee table and the worn carpet. The TV was off, but the blue light from the cable box blinked in a steady rhythm, matching the tick of the wall clock. Somewhere down the hall, the pipes creaked—the house settling in the August heat.
He was half in a dream when the phone buzzed against his chest. The vibration rattled against the zipper of his hoodie, dragging him awake. His hand fumbled under the blanket, thumb smearing the screen before his eyes focused on the words:
Ramon: outside, need you to take a ride with me
No “good morning,” no explanation. Caine sat up, rubbing the grit of sleep from his eyes, heart already settling into the rhythm that came with Ramon’s texts—no hesitation, just movement. The couch cushion stuck to his back in the humidity as he swung his legs down, feet finding the cool spot on the floor.
He pulled on his sneakers without untying them, head low out of habit. The quiet in the house wasn’t full silence—he could hear Hector’s faint snore from the back room, His grandmother’s old box fan buzzing behind her closed door. The air smelled faintly of bleach from the kitchen and the fried chicken Hector had brought home in a greasy paper sack.
He slipped his phone into his pocket, flipping it on to airplane mode before he stepped out of the house.
Outside, the night air was thick, wrapping around him like damp cloth. The front steps held the day’s heat, and the streetlamp buzzed faintly, throwing pale light across the cracked sidewalk. Ramon’s car idled at the curb, headlights off, bass low enough to rattle but not scream.
Caine jogged the last few steps, sliding into the passenger seat. The smell hit him first—cologne over cigarette smoke, and something metallic underneath. Ramon was leaned back, one hand on the wheel, the other draped over the shifter.
“Where Tyree at?” Caine asked, voice still rough from sleep.
Ramon shook his head, pulling away from the curb. “Couldn’t find that nigga. E.J.’s in Belle Chasse. It’s just us.”
Caine gave a short nod, settling into the seat. “What we doing?”
“Nothing dangerous,” Ramon said, eyes on the empty stretch ahead. “Just running something to Gallier. Got something for them G-Strip niggas.”
That was enough explanation for Caine. The car’s A/C blew lukewarm air, and he let the hum of the tires and the low beat from the speakers fill the space.
They cut through the Ninth Ward, the streets mostly empty this time of night. Sodium streetlights threw pools of orange onto wet pavement, catching the slick of oil near the curbs. Houses sat low and close, porches sagging, chain-link fences leaning toward the street. A couple of corner stores still glowed, the open signs buzzing, a handful of figures posted outside under the haze of cigarette smoke.
Ramon’s voice broke the quiet. “You ever think about how this shit ends?”
Caine glanced at him. “What you mean?”
“I get tired sometimes,” Ramon said, rolling his shoulders like they carried more than muscle. “Waiting for somebody to put a bullet in my back. I know it’s coming. Only question’s when.”
Caine didn’t answer. Ramon wasn’t looking for one.
“Thing is,” Ramon continued, “once you in this deep, there ain’t no clean way out. You know that. Sometimes, Nin…” He trailed off, smirking faintly like he’d caught himself saying too much. “Sometimes I almost believe I could quit. Almost.”
Caine kept his eyes on the passing houses. He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t ask who or what made Ramon “almost” believe it.
They rolled up on a corner where five young men stood under a busted streetlight. Hoodies up despite the heat, ballcaps low, their laughter sharp in the night air. Ramon slowed, then cut the engine, nodding toward the trunk.
“Come on,” he said.
Caine followed him out. The night pressed close, heavy with the smell of rain still trapped in the cracked pavement. Ramon popped the trunk with a squeal of old hinges, reaching in to pull out a black duffel bag and two shotguns. The metal glinted briefly before he passed the bag to Caine, the weight sagging the straps in his hands.
One of the group stepped forward, tall and wiry, a thin chain glinting at his throat. “What’s good, Ramon?”
“Deezy,” Ramon said, dapping him up. “This my lil’ potna. He with us.”
Deezy’s eyes flicked over Caine, sharp but not unfriendly. “A’ight.”
The exchange was quick—Ramon handing over the shotguns, Caine passing off the duffel. Another of the group unzipped it just enough to peek inside, then gave a short nod. Bills folded fat changed hands, the slap of money against palm loud in the stillness.
Ramon counted without hurry, tucking a couple of hundreds into his pocket. He peeled off two more and held them out to Caine before sliding the rest under the center console when they got back in the car.
“For your trouble,” he said.
Caine took the money without looking at it, the bills soft from handling. Ramon started the engine, pulling away slow before pressing on the gas.
The ride back was quieter. The city looked different in reverse—the same corners and shuttered houses, but the shadows felt heavier. Caine sat back, the cash in his pocket a solid weight, and let the rhythm of the tires fill the silence Ramon didn’t break again.
~~~
Percy sat across from the probation officer, Hollis, the hum of the old wall unit filling the silence between them. The man’s desk was crowded—stacked folders, a Styrofoam coffee cup with a brown tide mark near the rim, a jar of peppermints pushed toward the edge. He leaned back in his chair, creaking, thumbs hooked in the front of his belt.
“You turnin’ eighteen come December, right?” the officer said, his voice slow and warm in a way that didn’t match the cold gray of the cinderblock walls. The drawl in it sounded more Texas than Louisiana—long vowels stretched out like he was in no rush.
“Yes, sir,” Percy said.
Hollis nodded like he’d already known the answer. “So you’re wonderin’ if we can go ahead and wrap this up early, so you can head off to Uncle Sam?”
Percy’s knee bounced once under the table before he caught himself. “Yes, sir. I’ve been lookin’ at enlistin’. Figured if I’m gonna do it, better to go in clean. No sense carryin’ this probation with me.”
The old man scratched his chin, the sound of his nails rasping over stubble. “Well, I’ll tell you what. Military could do you some good. Lotta boys your age, they get out there, it gives ‘em structure. Gives ‘em somethin’ to wake up for besides trouble.”
Percy kept his gaze steady, even when the man’s eyes flicked down to the little ankle monitor peeking from under his jeans.
“But,” Hollis went on, “you still got time left on paper. You keep workin’, keep your nose clean, I don’t see why we couldn’t look at cuttin’ you loose a little early. Don’t make me regret that. And watch yourself out there in the parish. Don’t get tangled up with them girls—they’ll have you in more mess than you can crawl out of.”
Percy’s mouth twitched like he might smile, but it didn’t land. “Yes, sir.”
He reached for a folder, flipped it open, and scribbled something with a ballpoint pen that skipped over the paper. “All right then. Keep doin’ what you’re doin’. We’ll talk again in a couple months.”
Percy stood, shook the man’s hand—it was warm and dry—and walked out into the narrow hallway. The air changed the second he stepped outside: thick, bright, and buzzing with heat. The sun was barely past mid-morning, but it already felt like it had teeth.
He pulled his phone from his pocket, the screen lighting up with a new message.
You around?
The number wasn’t saved, but he didn’t need it to be. He could see the Anacoco house in his mind—the mismatched curtains, the framed print of the Confederate flag in the hall, the way she’d shrugged when he asked about it, like the stars and bars were just wallpaper. The memory of her face pressed into a pillow right under it.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard. A breeze moved through the parking lot, hot and damp, carrying the smell of exhaust from the highway. Across the street, a man in a feed store cap leaned against his truck bed, talking into a flip phone.
Percy typed back: Yeah. What’s up?
Three dots blinked.
Come by later. Parents gone till Sunday.
The corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, more like recognition. He could hear the probation officer’s voice in his head, telling him not to get caught up. But the truth was, the ride out there would be easy enough, and she wouldn’t ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
He pocketed the phone and headed for the street, heat pressing against him like a hand on his back.
Traffic moved slow on the two-lane, sunlight flashing off windshields. A diesel truck roared past, rattling the windows of the probation office behind him. Percy kept walking, his mind already sliding ahead to the rest of the day—the hours between now and later, the way the light would look through her bedroom blinds when the sun went down.
The air smelled like cut grass somewhere close, mixed with the distant tang of something frying. He didn’t think about the flag on her wall, not right now. Out here, people’s truths were fixed to their houses same as their mailboxes, and he’d learned a long time ago that calling it out didn’t change much.
He stepped off the curb, phone buzzing once more in his pocket.
Don’t be late.
~~~
The storeroom smelled faintly of cardboard and whatever cheap floral cleaner Paz used on the floor that morning. Mireya sat perched on two stacked boxes, one sneaker braced against the wall, the other foot dangling. The light was dim here, just a single buzzing strip overhead, but it was quiet, a pocket carved out of the day where she didn’t have to talk to anyone or keep her face set just so.
Her phone was warm in her hand from the constant scrolling. She’d started with nail tutorials — coffin tips, ombré fades, glitter dust — then slid into makeup transitions, girls blending foundation under soft ring-light halos. Somewhere along the way, the algorithm dropped her into a different current: “striptok.”
Now it was women in heels moving around poles, thighs gripping, hair catching the light like spun glass. The videos looped quick — a spin, a drop to the floor, a slow climb — always cut before the end. The comment sections were a whole other show. Women boosting each other, hyping the skill. Men turning it into numbers, into ownership. Mireya flicked through them without stopping, but the words stuck anyway, clinging to her like cigarette smoke.
One video — a girl with waist-length braids arching back, legs split wide — made her pause. There was a grace in it. Control. She tapped the heart before she could think better of it.
The storeroom door eased open.
“Your break up yet?” Paz leaned into the doorway, foil-wrapped sandwich in one hand, the smell of fried shrimp and hot sauce cutting through the dusty air.
Mireya glanced at her phone. “Couple minutes.”
Paz stepped inside, letting the door shut behind her. The overhead buzz deepened, muffling the low music bleeding in from the sales floor. “You better come on before Trina decides she’s the only one working.”
Mireya smirked. “She’s still on the phone?”
“Uh-huh.” Paz’s voice held that same mix of amusement and annoyance they always got when talking about Trina’s on-the-clock habits.
Mireya slid her phone into her back pocket and pushed off the boxes. “Alright.”
They stepped out together. The sales floor hit her with its mix of scents — fabric sizing, perfume samples from the display up front, and the faint vanilla burn from the candle someone lit earlier. The air was cooler than outside but not by much, the AC unit rattling against the steady weight of August humidity.
Trina was by the front display table, hip cocked, phone angled toward her face. Her baby daddy’s laugh leaked tinnily from the speaker, followed by the kind of soft, easy voice Trina never used with customers. She looked up just long enough to see Mireya.
“Hey, when you get a sec, check the dressing rooms,” she said, then tipped her gaze back to the screen, smile curling again at whatever was said on the other end.
“Got it,” Mireya answered, already moving.
The dressing room hallway was narrow, lined with tall mirrors that threw her reflection back at her in quick, sharp flashes. She tugged open the first curtain — empty. The second had a single hanger left swinging on the hook, faint perfume clinging to the air.
The third was a mess. A floral dress puddled on the floor, a white tank top draped half over the bench, sandals kicked to one side with the security tag still looped through the strap. Mireya bent to scoop up the dress and that’s when she saw it — a pink faux-leather wallet tucked under the hem, scuffed at the corners, soft from use.
She picked it up, the weight of it telling her it wasn’t empty. The zipper pulled smooth under her fingers, revealing an ID window. Blonde girl, late teens or maybe twenty, smiling like she’d practiced in the mirror, teeth perfect even in DMV light. Behind the ID, a folded edge of twenties poked out.
Her fingers moved without hesitation. Bills slid into her pocket, warm against her thigh. She zipped the wallet shut again, neat and quiet, then gathered the clothes over her arm.
Back on the sales floor, Trina held out her free hand without looking up. “Lost and found?”
“Mm-hmm.” Mireya placed the wallet in her palm.
Trina dropped it onto the counter beside the register, phone still in her other hand, her laugh spilling out again a moment later.
Mireya turned toward the racks, the crumpled dress cool and silky in her grip. She slipped hangers through straps, smoothing fabric like she’d been trained, the motion automatic. Each piece found its place on the rail without thought.
The weight of the twenties stayed with her, not in her hands but in the quiet pulse of knowing they were hers now. She didn’t reach for them, didn’t check how much. That could wait.
A customer walked in, bell chiming overhead, and Mireya kept her face neutral, smoothing the dress on the rack one last time before moving to straighten the display table.
~~~
The waiting area of Markus Shaw’s law office smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and paper — the dry, dusty kind that comes from overworked files stacked too long in one place. Sara pushed the door shut behind her and scanned the room, expecting to see Markus’s tall frame behind the desk. Instead, Nicole looked up from her computer, slim glasses low on her nose, fingers still on the keyboard.“Markus in?” Sara asked, stepping up to the counter.
Nicole shook her head. “Court all day. You wanna leave a message?”
Sara exhaled, her shoulders shifting like the weight she carried had just gotten heavier. “Was hoping to talk to him about something that happened. It’s about Caine.”
Nicole’s fingers stopped moving. She leaned back in her chair, studying Sara. “What happened?”
Sara glanced toward the glass front door, like she needed to make sure no one outside could hear. Then she stepped closer to the counter, lowering her voice. “Roussel showed up to Mireya’s place during Camila’s birthday party. Not just him — had officers with him. They tore through the apartment, went through Camila’s room, Mireya’s things. In front of everybody. Even put hands on Caine, slammed him to the ground, claimed he was resisting.”
Nicole’s expression didn’t change much, but her eyes sharpened. “They didn’t arrest him?”
“No. Just humiliated him. Humiliated all of us.” Sara crossed her arms, jaw tight. “I’ve been around long enough to know that wasn’t about looking for anything. It felt like they were… trying to send a message.”
Nicole’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “They probably were. My guess? They think if they stir up enough chaos at that address, either Mireya… Maria, is it? will give them something — anything — they can use to violate him. That way he’s not their problem out in the street anymore.”
Sara shook her head before Nicole even finished. “Mireya wouldn’t do that. Not in a million years.”
Nicole nodded slowly. “Unfortunately, they probably know that too. Which means they’re hoping her mother will. Pressure’s ugly like that — it doesn’t always hit the person it’s aimed at. Sometimes it works through whoever’s easiest to break.”
Sara leaned her forearms on the counter now, closer to Nicole. “How do you keep doing this? Day after day. You see how stacked this is against people, how dirty it gets… how do you not burn out?”
Nicole was quiet for a moment. She slid her glasses up onto her head, eyes going somewhere else entirely. “I decided to go into law because of my brother,” she said finally.
Sara tilted her head. “Your brother?”
“Grew up in Bogalusa,” Nicole went on. “You know how small towns are. Everybody knows everybody. My brother, Jason, used to hang out with these guys who’d strip copper wiring from abandoned buildings, sell it for scrap. They were feeding addictions; he wasn’t — but being around them was enough. One day the parish sheriff’s office needed to make an example out of someone, and they picked him. Didn’t matter there wasn’t proof he’d taken anything himself. They railroaded him. Full weight of the system, just because he was there.”
Sara’s gaze softened a little. “What happened to him?”
“He did eighteen months,” Nicole said. “Came out a different person. Not better.” She leaned back in her chair, the leather creaking. “That’s when I knew — if they could do that to him, they could do it to anybody. And nobody was coming to save us. So, I decided to learn the rules, play the game, and fight from the inside.”
Sara absorbed that, her own anger tempered for a moment by the weight of the story. “Still sounds exhausting.”
Nicole’s mouth curved — not quite a smile, but something close. “It is. But here’s the thing: even if someone’s guilty, that doesn’t mean you treat them like they’re less than human. That’s the line I won’t cross. Ever.”
Sara nodded slowly. The office around them was quiet except for the hum of the ceiling vent, the distant muffled slam of a door somewhere deeper in the building.
Nicole picked up a pen, rolling it between her fingers. “Markus will be back tomorrow morning. You want me to tell him you came by?”
“Yeah,” Sara said. “And tell him it’s urgent.” She straightened, pulling her bag higher on her shoulder. “Thanks, Nicole.”
“Anytime,” Nicole replied. And she meant it.
Sara stepped out into the heat, the office door clicking shut behind her, carrying both the sour taste of Roussel’s tactics and the unexpected gravity of Nicole’s story.
~~~
The front door stuck for a second before Saul shoved it open with his shoulder. Zoe followed him in, the two of them sliding past the narrow hallway into the living room. The air was thick — leftover fried shrimp from earlier, faint bleach from someone mopping, the smell of too many people in one space.The TV was up loud in the corner, some game show shouting over a chorus of voices from the kitchen. Kids’ feet thudded across the worn carpet, and someone slammed a bedroom door down the hall. Saul glanced toward the couch where Caine’s stuff sat — folded clothes stacked in a milk crate, duffel bag tucked just underneath, sneakers lined up like they’d been measured. He felt that familiar pinch of guilt. He hadn’t said anything to Caine since that night.
Zoe’s eyes flicked around the room, pausing on the cluster of shoes by the door, the laundry basket balanced on top of a chair. “Damn,” she said over the noise, leaning closer so he could hear. “How many people live here?”
Saul gave a quick shrug, mouth pulling into a crooked smile. “A lot.” It came out more defensive than he’d meant.
She grinned, brushing it off. “It’s cool, just… loud as hell in here.” She tilted her head toward the back. “Y’all got somewhere quieter?”
He nodded, relieved for the excuse to move. “Yeah. C’mon.”
They cut through the kitchen, past the open back door where the evening heat slid in, heavy and damp. The yard smelled of cut grass and the faint mildew of the old fence. At the far end sat the shed — squat, faded red paint curling at the edges. Saul dug in his pocket for the key, the small padlock rattling before it popped open.
Inside, the air was stale, dust hanging in the single beam of light from the high, grimy window. Boxes leaned against one wall, a couple of fishing poles balanced in the corner. Saul reached past an old lawnmower to grab two folding chairs, their metal legs groaning as he set them up in the middle of the floor.
He dropped into one, letting it rock back slightly. “Nobody comes out here. Not since my abuelo died,” he said, his voice flattening a little. “Five years now.”
Zoe sat, crossing her legs, her gold hoops glinting when she tilted her head. “You should turn it into a bedroom,” she said. “Then you wouldn’t have to share.”
That made him laugh, short and sharp. “I’d need a whole new shed for that.”
She smirked, leaning back, her gaze steady on him. “You got condoms?”
His ears warmed, but he nodded. “Yeah.” Standing, he reached into his pocket, pulled the small box free. He slid one foil packet out, the rest flipping from his hand in a lazy toss that landed them with a hollow clunk in his grandpa’s old metal toolbox. He didn’t look to see where they landed.
For a second, the sound of the toolbox lid settling was the only noise between them. Somewhere outside, a car passed on the street, bass rattling faintly through the wood walls. Saul sat back down, the chair’s frame creaking under him. Zoe’s eyes stayed on him, calm, expectant. He felt the air shift, heavier now, his heartbeat thudding in his ears.
The shed smelled of dust and motor oil, the faint ghost of his grandpa’s cologne still clinging to the wood. Saul thought about how quiet it was compared to the house, how no one could just barge in here without him knowing. He looked at Zoe again, trying to read her expression, and felt that same mix he’d had since she first said yes to coming over — nerves wrapped tight with the pull to act like he wasn’t nervous at all.
She got a lot on the plate, for sure.
Glad you enjoy that little subplot.