The notary’s office was too bright for how early it was. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, washing the room in a thin white light that made every scuff on the floor look deeper. A small fan clicked behind the counter, pushing cool air that never quite reached the waiting chairs. The notary herself—a middle-aged woman with a lilac cardigan and hair pinned with a pen—flipped through the title papers with care, as if precision might make the tension at her counter less visible.
Mireya stood closest to the desk, posture straight, one hip pressed into the counter’s edge. The envelope of cash sat under her palm, the fold creased neat. Maria sat back in a cracked plastic chair, purse in her lap, eyes fixed on the no-smoking sign near the door. She hadn’t spoken since they walked in. The air conditioner rattled through its cycle, then went quiet, leaving a faint hum from the fluorescent lights.
“Alright,” the notary said, too bright, too careful. “Seller signs here, buyer here, date each line.”
Maria leaned forward first. Her name came out in slanted, quick loops, each stroke pressed harder than necessary. She pushed the page toward Mireya and reached for her purse again. Mireya stepped forward and took the pen. Her signature was neat, small, and even. She paused before capping the pen, then set it down with deliberate quiet.
The notary gathered the forms, adjusted them, and compared the VIN numbers twice. “Okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to either of them. “Everything matches.” She reached for her stamp and pressed it down once, then again, the sound sharp in the small room. “There. That’s official.”
Maria exhaled, long and through her nose.
Mireya opened the envelope, unfolded the bills, and laid them on the counter in clean stacks. “Count it,” she said. “It’s all there.”
Maria’s eyes flicked up, then down again. She counted anyway, fingers moving quick, each snap of paper louder than the fan. The notary tried to keep her attention on her clipboard, her mouth tight with politeness. The silence between mother and daughter filled the room thick as humidity.
When Maria finished, she folded the money once and tucked it into her purse. “Mm,” she said, the sound flat. Her gaze didn’t rise.
The notary clipped the packet of forms, squared the corners, and slid the title across the counter toward Mireya. “This one’s yours now,” she said quietly. “You’ll want to keep that somewhere safe. You’ll have to take it to the DMV.”
“Thank you,” Mireya said. Her tone was smooth, but the words had an edge. She took the title, folded it into her envelope, and zipped her tote closed. Maria shifted in her chair but didn’t move to stand.
The notary’s smile flickered and vanished. “Y’all have a nice morning.”
Mireya gave a small nod. “Sure.”
She turned toward the door, the bell jangling when she pushed it open. Hot air rolled in off the sidewalk, thick with exhaust and the faint smell from the café next door. Sunlight hit her face hard enough to sting. She adjusted the envelope under her arm and started toward the lot.
“Mireya,” Maria called behind her. Heels clipped against the tile, then the bell again as she stepped outside. “Mija, espera.”
Mireya stopped but didn’t turn right away. Her reflection caught in the notary’s window—jaw set, eyes steady. When she faced her mother, Maria stood halfway down the walk, one hand shading her eyes against the glare.
“You’ll understand one day,” Maria said, voice even. “When Camila’s older. When you find yourself in the same place I was. You’ll see why I did what I did raising you.”
Mireya walked back toward her until they stood close enough that the air between them felt shared. “I’ll never treat my daughter the way you’ve treated me,” she said. “The way you’re treating me.”
Maria gave her a slow look, head tilting just enough to make it cutting. “That’s easy to say now,” she said. “But look at you. Look at how your behavior’s changed since that boy made you a single mother. Give it a year or two—ya verás lo difícil que es.”
“Nada ha cambiado,” Mireya said, voice sharp and low. “Other than me realizing you’re a cunt.”
A passing couple glanced over and kept walking. The heat pressed down on them both. Maria’s lips tightened.
“Look at how you’re dressed, mija,” she said. “Are you out looking for an old gringo? Getting some sugar daddies?”
Mireya stepped closer, finger raised to Maria’s face, steady. “You kicked me out,” she said. “You did. You don’t get to mock how I survive, regardless of what you think I’m doing, when you’re the one who was ready to put me on the street.”
Maria gave a small, humorless scoff. “You’re headed for a world of hurt, Mireya. I’ll be there when you’re ready to admit you’ve been handling this wrong.”
“Fuck you,” Mireya said. “I gotta get to class.”
She turned and walked off, shoulders square, eyes fixed forward. Behind her, Maria didn’t move.
~~~
By midmorning the church yard already held the heat. Caine worked inside the open shed where the shade helped, lining every piece the way he wanted it. He slid the folding tables tight to the back wall, edges squared, then nested the metal chairs by tens so the feet matched and wouldn’t snag later. He stepped back, checked the lines, and nudged one stack a half inch until the picture settled in his head.
Mr. Charlie stood beside him with his arms folded and his hat pulled low. He let Caine move and only talked.
“You need to hand the ball off more to that running back. That boy Mahbadoonga,” Mr. Charlie said. “Ain’t no reason to be throwing it fifty, sixty times a game.”
Caine lifted the last down marker and hooked it beside the broom, ignoring the mispronunciation of David’s last name. “I ain’t out there calling the plays, OG. Kaleo Fatu is the man you want to file your complaints with.”
“That’s why you out there throwing all them interceptions,” Mr. Charlie said. “Because y’all throwing the damn ball too much.”
Caine closed the shed door halfway so the glare would not hit the stacked chairs. “Come on, man. I’ve only thrown two picks. Eight touchdowns, though.”
Mr. Charlie sucked his teeth. “I don’t think football ought to be played like that. What you got them big boys in front of you for if you throwing it instead of running it?”
Caine shrugged, palms brushing dust off his shorts. “That was the old days.”
“Old days got rings,” Mr. Charlie said. He shifted his weight and gave the shed a final inspect. “New days got excuses.”
Caine wiped his hands on a rag and set it on the lip of the mower so he could find it later. The shed smelled of cut grass and hot plastic. Outside, a delivery truck rumbled past the church sign and the gravel popped under its tires. From the daycare wing came the thin sound of kids and the steady whir of AC units working too hard.
He reached to straighten a bucket on the floor, then changed his mind and put it next to the mop sink where it would live out of the way.
The side door opened and Laney stepped out into the light, lifting her hand to shade her eyes. “Caine,” she called, the syllables stretched soft with Statesboro. “You mind helpin’ me in the fellowship hall a minute?”
Caine crossed the yard and followed Laney inside.
He leaned his shoulder to the painted cinderblock and kept his hands loose. “What’s up?”
“I think we need to slow down,” she said. “With Blake around, we gonna get caught.”
Caine studied her face without pushing. “Why you think Blake would see anything more than anybody else would?”
“I don’t think he’s gon’ notice anythin’ anyone else would,” she said. “I know he’ll be up all night.”
He raised a brow. She caught it and lifted a hand quick.
“Not like that, Caine,” she said. “He’s got some… issues.”
Caine nodded. He let the lights hum above them and did not fill the space too fast. “If he on drugs, why would anybody believe what he said then? Motherfuckers doing that shit see shit all the time. Assuming you ain’t talking about him smoking a lil weed.”
“No, not weed,” she said. “But even the suggestion would be enough for Tommy to watch closer.”
The words left a wake that settled across the tables. Caine shifted his stance and kept his voice even.
“Laney, I live alone,” he said. “Just down the road.”
“I know, Caine… I just…” She ran her hand through her hair and then down her sleeve, thumb worrying a loose thread. “I cain’t have it right now.”
He nodded once. “I get it. That what you want then?”
She opened her mouth. Whatever sentence tried to come did not. She nodded.
“Alright,” he said. “Pumping the brakes then.”
He let his eyes move over the room until he found a stray bucket tipped near the mop sink. He picked it up and palmed the rim so it would read as the reason she had asked him in here. He turned to go.
“Not stoppin’,” she said, catching him before he took a step. “Just slowin’ down.”
Caine came back to her. He closed the space and set his hand against the side of her neck, thumb brushing once under her ear. His touch was steady. His voice stayed low.
“You calling the shots, boss lady,” he said.
He let his hand fall. Then he walked out of the hall.
~~~
Trell sat with his ankle parked over his knee, hands folded on the top leg, the chair pushed back just far enough that he could see everyone who mattered without moving his head. The table between them carried weight: a sealed brick sweating through its plastic and a duffel bag whose mouth gaped, straps twisted, filled with cash. The air held old cigarette fog and the slow whir of a tired box fan. Somewhere, a compressor kicked and went quiet.
Across from him, Reezy leaned in and jabbed the table with his forefinger hard enough to make the brick thud and settle. “That’s the problem with you niggas from New Orleans and Baton Rouge,” he said. “Y’all come over here and act like we ain’t with the shits just like y’all.”
Ant and Dez stood behind Trell, flanking him in the pocket of still air between the fan’s passes. Ant didn’t look bored or ready. He just looked. On Reezy’s side, three men spread along the wall kept their hands near belts and pockets. One scratched the inside of his elbow and stared at the duffel like it might tell him something.
Trell’s voice didn’t lift. “You done?”
Reezy squinted and showed teeth. “The fuck you mean am I done, nigga?”
“The issue here,” Trell said, “is you thinking that y’all matter. Y’all are insignificant. Just a convenient spot on I-10 to stop.” He shifted forward an inch and let his hands rest again. “I get it, though. Someone got in your ear, told you to try to shake shit up, get a little power. But I’m gonna tell you what we’re going to do.”
Reezy leaned back and laughed, head turned so his boys could catch it. He pointed across the table at Trell. “He gonna tell us what we’re going to do?”
“Yeah,” Trell said, easy. “Because it’s the principle of it, right? We’re both businessmen. Let’s negotiate.”
Reezy’s chin jerked toward the far corner and back. “What leverage you think you got, nigga? You in my city.”
Trell nodded once. “You right.” He leaned forward, slow, and palmed the brick back across the table so the plastic whispered against the wood. “I’ll take this back then.” His other hand found the duffel strap. “And I’ll take this for the trouble. Gas costing what it does and all that.”
Reezy’s hand shot out for the strap. “The fuck you are—”
The gunshot cut words into scraps and threw them on the floor. Reezy’s chair snapped back on one leg and then gave. He slid half out of it, a surprised breath stuck in his mouth. Ant’s arm stayed extended, gun steady in the air for a second that lasted long enough for everyone to hear how quiet the room had become. Then he lowered the muzzle and aimed it across the line at the wall of men.
Nobody moved. The box fan clacked on its turn and pushed a weak breath across the table. Dez didn’t blink. Trell didn’t either.
Trell lifted his chin at the middle one on Reezy’s side. “You.”
The man’s throat flexed. His eyes went to Ant’s gun and back to Trell. “Wh-what?” His voice broke and he dragged in air. “Look I-I don’t want no trouble, man.”
“What’s your name?” Trell asked.
“Slick,” he said, and had to swallow after it.
Trell slid the brick forward. The block bumped once against the edge of the empty space where Reezy had been and stopped. “Slick, you want to do business?”
Slick’s eyes flitted to Dez. Dez only looked at him. Slick looked to Ant and found the gun pointed at his chest. He nodded too fast. “Y-yeah.”
“Then sit down,” Trell said.
Slick hesitated a breath and then stepped around the chair legs, toe clipping one of Reezy’s shoes. Reezy’s feet were in the way, ankles splayed. Slick pushed them aside with his shin and dropped into the chair without turning his back on the gun.
