The parking lot off Elysian Fields shimmered with early heat, dew not yet burned off the cracked blacktop. New Orleans wasn’t fully awake—just the janitor hosing down the front steps and a knot of white boys in khakis at the far end, talking loud about the Saints and sneakers. The city’s humidity sat heavy, the air thick with the residue of last night’s rain, exhaust, a faint thread of bleach from the school bathrooms.
Tyree pulled up slow, windows cracked, trunk rattling with the bass dialed down low out of habit. The Camry rolled to a stop in the shadow of a crepe myrtle, paint faded, passenger door with a bullet graze so old it looked like part of the trim. He yawned, eyes puffy, hoodie pulled over his head, slides slapping against the pedals. Nobody looked his way at first. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t hiding.
He got out, hoodie bunched at the neck, and stretched long—bones popping, arms up until the shirt rode up high enough to flash the bottom edge of ink on his torso. “NOLA” cut across his ribs, the numbers sharp beneath. Another swirl of ink wrapped his forearm, black and raised: a baby crown, three letters, blurred at the edges from jailhouse touchups. Tyree scratched at the faded tattoo above his wrist, then reached into the back seat for a battered mesh duffel.
He popped the trunk, wedging it open with a squeal. Out came his slides, kicked off into the pile of broken subwoofer and bent umbrella handles. He peeled off the hoodie, balling it one-handed, his gold chain clinking against his collarbone. He fished out an Oxford shirt, the cotton starched so stiff it didn’t look like it belonged to the same life as his tattooed arms. He tugged it on, buttons a little tight across the chest, rolling the sleeves just once.
For a second, the whole parking lot could see the patchwork—gang ink, = scar on his shoulder, an old bullet graze slick with cocoa butter. He didn’t care. The air tasted like metal and mop water. He grabbed his “church” shoes from the trunk—brown, leather conditioned, a scuff at the toe—sat on the edge and laced them up with careful knots, ignoring the passing stares from a couple white parents double-checking their SUVs.
Tyree’s eyes drifted across the lot, always scanning—street-learned. When he stood, he moved with purpose, shoulders loose, but his head never dropped. He turned back to the open trunk, checked the lot once more, then reached into his waistband and slipped out a pistol, wrapped in a blue bandana, stashing it quick inside a faded Nike backpack jammed into the empty shell of the busted subwoofer. Zipped, hidden, handled.
He slung the bag over his shoulder. Out came the gold letterman’s jacket—red M, baseball patches for a sport he no longer played, sleeves faded from a hundred late walks home. He shrugged it on, flipped the collar, straightened the front. For a second, he checked his reflection in the back window: black kid in a sea of white faces, smile as sharp as his edges.
The school bell trilled faintly from inside. Tyree walked, slow and deliberate, toward the doors, the click of hard soles echoing on the concrete. He joined the crowd of students—stiff uniforms, Friday haircuts, someone’s cologne biting through the sweat. He was the anomaly. The warning. And he didn’t care.
Inside the doors, the ritual: each kid touching fingers to forehead, chest, shoulders—making the sign of the cross with the ease of muscle memory. Tyree did the same, lips moving just enough to pass, but his eyes never left the halls ahead.
Another Black student, Keyshawn, fell into step beside him, tie already loosened, backpack sagging. They walked in sync, blending in by refusing to shrink.
“What you get for Harahan’s test?” the boy asked, voice pitched low.
Tyree smirked. “Ain’t graded ‘em yet. She said my shit ‘had voice.’” The words slid out, half-mocking, half-proud.
The other kid snorted. “Yeah, voice. Like they know what that sound like. She flagged my essay for ‘colloquial language.’ I just said ‘fixin’ to.’”
Tyree shrugged, the glint of gold chain flashing beneath the shirt. “Long as they give the grade, I ain’t tripping. You got AP stats next?”
The boy nodded. “Ms. Broussard. She already at my neck for missing homework. Ma Dukes be working nights, ain’t nobody helping with that.”
Tyree glanced sideways, expression unreadable. “Gotta get it how you live, lil’ brudda. Ain’t shit in this world handed to a nigga.”
They moved past clusters of freshmen. Tyree’s walk was loose, his accent thickening as he talked, body language at home in the skin, even if the walls tried to scrape it off. For a second, the other boy laughed, real and full—sharp against the morning hush. The sound bounced off lockers, off white faces that didn’t know the language.
As they neared the stairwell, Tyree looked back over his shoulder, eyes scanning—always. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the trophy case glass. Hoodie gone, jacket shining, shirt crooked, tattoos barely hidden.
~~~
The hallway stank of bleach and sweat, A/C sputtering overhead like it was too tired to fight the August heat. It was barely second period and already the humidity pressed in through the seams of the windows, thick enough to stick your shirt to your skin, to make the desks damp and your forearms itch.
Caine walked the corridor with his hood up, a hand trailing the strap of his backpack, head down. His face—still raw where that officer’s knee and the ground had left their signature—was half-shadowed, swollen above the cheekbone and a bruise yellowing under one eye. Each step ached, but he moved like nothing was wrong.
He stopped at the door to Mr. Landry’s room, pausing, then slipped in as quietly as he could. The classroom was nearly empty, just the rattle of an oscillating fan in the corner and the scrape of chalk as Landry finished writing something about “collective memory” on the board.
Landry glanced over, eyes narrowing for half a second before he schooled his expression. He crossed the room, hand out. “Good to see you, Caine.”
Caine took it, squeezing back—more grip than warmth. “What’s up, Mr. Landry?”
Landry didn’t let go right away. “I see you took up boxing this weekend.”
Caine’s mouth curled, half-smirk. “Slipped in the tub, that’s all.”
Landry’s face said he didn’t believe a word, but he just nodded. “Gotta watch out for that porcelain, huh.”
“Yeah, man. Dangerous out here.” Caine let go, flexing his fingers—his knuckles still stiff.
Landry stepped back, reached for his desk. He held out two books: a fat, dog-eared ACT prep booklet, corners bent from years of use, and a thin, black-spined paperback. The title: Black Skin, White Masks.
“Something for the body, something for the brain,” Landry said. “You still planning on taking the ACT? I’m hanging around after school if you need some help with that.”
Caine took both books, weighed them in his palm. “You tryna have me reading for the rest of the year, huh?”
“That’s the idea. Fanon’ll punch harder than that tub.”
Caine’s lip twitched again, genuine this time. “We’ll see.” He slid the books into his backpack, feeling the weight settle in. “Thanks.”
Landry clapped his shoulder, low-voiced: “You know where I’ll be.”
Caine headed for his desk at the back, sliding into the seat. The plastic was sticky with sweat from the last period. He braced his elbows on the desk, ducked his head, running his thumb over the cut near his jaw—testing for tenderness, feeling the memory flare. He tried not to think about Roussel’s voice, the scrape of handcuffs, Mireya’s mother’s face twisted in shame.
He watched Landry move back to the board, writing something about double consciousness. The classroom filled in slowly: bags thumped down, chairs scraped. Someone passed behind him, perfume thick and sweet. The bell shrieked, and then two desks in front of him slid out. Janae and Tasha, as always.
Janae dropped her purse on the desktop with a thud, flicked her braids back, and twisted in her seat just enough to catch Caine’s eye. Her smile was sharp, nothing soft about it. “Hey, big head.”
Caine cocked an eyebrow, leaned back a little, lips quirking. “Now, I’m big head, huh?”
Tasha cut her eyes back at him, laughing. “You see that bruise, though? Damn, Caine. Somebody finally caught you slipping? I thought you could fight.”
Janae grinned, chin propped in her palm, eyes dancing. “That’s what happens when you mess with them spicy girls, huh. You be thinking it’s all cute—then she come out swinging with the chancla.”
Caine snorted, low in his chest. “Yeah. They fight everyone though.”
Janae’s voice dropped, teasing: “Mmm-hmm. That what your baby mama told you? You better not let her head get too big because you let her bat the piss out of you. You not know how to duck or you too tall?”
Caine shrugged, glancing at the window. The morning light turned the room gold, but it felt cold on his skin. “You ask too many questions.”
Tasha grinned, “He always acting mysterious when he hiding something.”
Landry turned, clearing his throat just loud enough to break the banter. “Ladies—notes out. Caine, you can follow along even if you’re tired.”
Janae winked at Caine, voice pitched so only he could hear: “He ain’t tired, he just bruised. That Latina energy catching up, for real.”
Caine bit back a laugh, head shaking. “You wild.”
She turned forward, but her leg kicked back under her chair—boot tapping his sneaker, light and intentional. “Don’t be shy now.”
Tasha elbowed her, grinning, flipping open her spiral. “Y’all need to get a room.”
Landry’s chalk tapped the board. “Let’s bring it back, y’all. This week we’re working through Baldwin, but for those who want extra credit, check the Fanon. ‘The oppressed will always believe the worst about themselves.’ Any of that sound familiar?”
The room went quiet, shuffling papers. Caine sat back, thumb pressed to his jaw, feeling every line of his face, every ache. He looked at Janae’s back—her braids tight, her laughter lingering in the air. He thought about Mireya, the way her hand trembled when she took the last bill from his pocket, the way Camila curled into him at night.
Landry’s voice filled the room, calm but steady. “Some of us wear masks to survive. Sometimes the mask slips. That don’t mean you’re broken.”
Caine’s pencil hovered above the page, not moving. His fingers twitched. For a second, he almost wrote Mireya’s name. Then, quietly, he wrote: I ain’t broke. Just trying to make it look easy.
Janae looked back once more, eyes softening for a split second. “You straight?” she mouthed.
Caine nodded. Didn’t smile.
The lesson began. Outside, the city noise crept in—sirens, car horns, someone yelling on the street. Inside, the air was heavy with sweat and bleach and the ache of kids who’d learned how to hide.
Caine kept his head down, the bruise throbbing beneath his skin, Janae’s teasing still warm on his tongue. The world kept moving, loud and unforgiving. But for a moment, in the space between her joke and Landry’s lesson, he let himself breathe.
~~~
The classroom smelled like old paper, pencil shavings, and a little mildew where the A/C always leaked down the wall. The overhead fan spun lazy circles, pushing humid air around but not doing a thing to cut the heat.
She had her head bent over the sheet her counselor had handed her—“Graduation Trajectory,” bold at the top—her finger tracing the bar graph with her name printed below. On track, but barely. A dip in her junior year grades stood out in red. Next to “College Readiness,” the box was checked, but underneath, in the notes: Low ACT, retake recommended for scholarship eligibility. Her chest squeezed. She could still see the jagged line where Camila’s crayon had streaked the page that morning, right over her last name.
Angela leaned over her desk, bright eyes framed by acrylics biting into her scalp. “What you staring at like it got beef with you?”
Mireya flicked the paper, lips curling. “Just my life falling apart, don’t mind me.”
Paz, half-dozing at her own desk, sat up and yawned. “Same old shit, new semester.”
Angela snorted, elbowing Mireya. “Girl, at least you got a reason for your grades looking busted. I just ain’t show up.”
Mireya forced a smirk, tucking the form under her notebook. She could feel sweat rolling behind her knees. From the window, the city sounded alive—sirens in the distance, a horn blaring, someone selling meat pies out the trunk on the corner.
The classroom filled slow, chatter swelling as kids dropped bags and fought over seats. Renee dropped into the row beside them, curly hair puffed out, binder covered in pastel stickers. “Y’all start your college apps yet?”
Angela made a face. “Who got time for that? I’m tryna make it to fall break, that’s all.”
Renee rolled her eyes. “My sister said books alone at Southern gonna run me three, four hundred easy. And that’s just for the first semester. She said don’t even bother if you ain’t got your FAFSA done and half your rent already stacked.”
Mireya’s ears buzzed. She pressed her palm to her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut, feeling the numbers pile up—ACT prep, new daycare payments since school started, Camila’s sneakers with the sole half gone, the late notice from the gas company, the cost of milk, somebody’s birthday this month she couldn’t remember. Paperwork as violence—each form a bill she owed for a chance at “normal.”
Angela clocked her silence. “Yo, you okay? You look like you ’bout to pass out.”
Paz put a gentle hand on Mireya’s shoulder. “For real, Reya. Your face is pale as hell.”
Mireya forced her mouth to work. “I’m straight. Just…thinking about all this.”
Angela, never one to leave silence hanging, cocked her head. “Don’t tell me Caine done got you knocked up again.” She grinned wicked, voice pitched for the row to hear.
Paz snorted. “He wouldn’t dare.”
Renee’s eyes went wide. “Stop—y’all wrong for that.”
Mireya managed a laugh, dry as the chalk dust she wiped off her skirt. “Nah, I only needed to get pregnant once to learn. IUD’s in, locked down like Fort Knox.”
Angela wagged a finger. “That’s right. Responsible parenting.”
Renee just shook her head. “Girl, I don’t know how you manage. My cousin got a puppy and acts like she needs a day off. You got a whole child, school, work…”
Mireya’s voice went flat. “I don’t manage. I just…don’t stop.”
Paz’s hand lingered on her shoulder a second longer, thumb circling. “You doing better than most. Don’t let that shit get to you.”
Mireya looked away, blinking hard as the ringing behind her eyes swelled—voices fading, everything growing distant for a second, like she was underwater. The fan clattered overhead, the hum loud in her ears. Outside, the sunlight cut sharp through the window, dust motes swirling in the sticky heat.
Renee reached into her bag, pulling out a half-eaten honey bun. “You want this? You look like you ain’t ate.”
Mireya shook her head, swallowing hard. “I’m good. Just…tired.”
Angela propped her chin on her fist. “Ain’t we all.”
The bell shrieked, students groaning, shuffling papers and smacking gum. Their teacher walked in, arms full of folders, a coffee stain blooming down the sleeve.
“Y’all ready?” she called out, fake-bright. “Let’s make sure everyone’s on track this semester—especially you, Ms. Rosas.” Her smile was meant to be reassuring but landed flat.
Mireya nodded, eyes on the desktop. Her fingers traced the crayon scar, the heat prickling along her scalp, her stomach knotting tight. She wished for a second she could be anyone else—just for a day. No numbers, no forms, no Camila’s wail in the night or the stares when she dropped her off at daycare with yesterday’s mascara still smeared under her eyes.
Angela leaned over, whispering, “If you dip out, take me with you.”
Mireya almost laughed. Almost.
She stared out the window, city noise spilling in, her friends’ voices blurring as the lesson started. All she could see was the line of bills waiting at home, the endless forms in her backpack, the gap in her life she didn’t know if she’d ever close.
~~~
Tito sat at the chipped kitchen table, peeling the last piece of fried chicken off the bone, grease slick on his thumb. The TV in the front room was turned down low, voices bleeding through—some court show, somebody shouting about “my baby daddy this, my rent that.” The box fan in the window did nothing for the August heat. On the counter, a half-empty bottle of Crown glinted next to a jar of pickles and a stack of Lotto tickets.
The back door banged open without warning. Tito didn’t look up at first. He heard the scrape of sneakers on linoleum—then the heavy-footed stomp he’d known since the kid was in pull-ups.
Tee Tito walked in, sideways ballcap and a shirt two sizes too big. Two boys followed: one short, broad, eyeing the door like he was casing it; the other, taller, a fresh tattoo still shiny on his wrist. Tito just shook his head, never looking away from his plate.
“You ever heard of knocking, Junior?” Tito muttered, licking grease off his thumb. “My damn door got more bruises than your mama’s knees.”
Tee Tito flopped into the chair across from him, grinning like he owned the place. “Ain’t nobody out here checking for you, old man. It’s too hot for all that.” He slapped the table, made the ketchup bottle jump. “Lemme ask you something, though.”
Tito’s eyes narrowed. “That’s never good.”
“Nah, it’s real. What was them Mexicans’ names? The ones you used to put on them car jobs. You know, back when you was running shit for real.”
Tito side-eyed the other two, who stood off to the side, trying to look hard. “You mean—what—Ricardo? He the only Mexican I ever trusted to boost anything right. All them others was half-assed. Ricardo in prison last I check.”
Tee Tito shook his head, waving his hand. “Nah, not him. You had a Black one, too. Big mouth, tall nigga.”
Tito barked a laugh, pushing his plate aside. “I blame your mama for you being slow, Junior. Ain’t never had but one Mexican. And you ever met a fucking Black Mexican? That’s like a white boy named Tyrone. Use your damn head.”
Tee Tito waved him off, snorting. “Man, whatever. All I know is, Careesha told me some Mexican—except he was Black—was out front her house when we got robbed. Said he was talking Spanish and shit asking about directions.”
Tito’s face darkened just a shade. “That was months ago. And she just telling you now?”
Tee Tito shrugged. “She don’t tell me nothing till she want money.”
Tito leaned back, the chair creaking. “Only Black kid I know who speaks Spanish is Caine. And he don’t kick doors. He’ll steal a car, push a little weight. That’s it. He not affiliated—least he wasn’t.”
The short kid by the door glanced up, interested. “Caine Guerra?”
Tito shot him a look. “Yeah, you know him?”
The boy shrugged. “Yeah, he used to play football at Carver. Knocked up some fine Mexican bitch.”
Tee Tito tapped the table. “So, you saying if it was him?”
Tito’s jaw worked, chewing over the thought. “I ain’t saying it was nobody. I’m saying that he the only Black kid I know who speak Spanish good enough for your dumbass baby mama to think he Mexican. But like I said, he ain’t run with nobody but Ricardo and Dre before. If he around when niggas kicking in doors, he must be deeper in some shit,” He fixed his son with a look, cold and steady. “You gone start something you can’t finish.”
Tee Tito rolled his eyes, mouth twisting in a smirk. “Man, ain’t nobody scared of none of them niggas.”
Tito barked a short, humorless laugh. “You said you think it was 39ers, huh? So, what? You got at them, you know they coming back. These ponk ass Young Melph niggas not about to ride with you against them. They been scared since FBI did that sweep few years back. You gonna go kee-kee with them 10th or 11th ward niggas? They’ll kill you off the strength. Go sit your ass down somewhere and take that loss, Junior.”
Tee Tito fell silent, knuckles drumming on the edge of the table, his bravado slipping just a bit. Tito watched him, old irritation mixing with a flicker of something else—worry, maybe, or just tiredness.
The tall boy jerked his chin toward the door. “Let’s roll, bruh. We wasting time.”
Tee Tito stood, yanking his shorts up, face set hard again. “We out.”
Tito didn’t get up. Just looked his son dead in the eye. “Next time you bust in here, knock. And tell Careesha I said stop running her mouth about shit she don’t understand.”
Tee Tito paused in the doorway, jaw working, but didn’t answer. He signaled the others, and they filed out, the door banging behind them.
Tito let the silence settle, listening to the city hum through the open window—sirens, kids yelling, the steady drone of the fan. He finished his chicken, licked the last of the grease from his fingers, and shook his head.
“Fucking kids,” he muttered, but under his breath, too quiet for anyone to hear, “Don’t know what trouble look like till it got their name on it.”
~~~
The air in the fieldhouse was thick with the smell of sweat and bleach, the kind of heat that clung to your skin even in the A/C. Caine moved through the locker room with his helmet under one arm, jaw set. Every motion was deliberate, practiced. He’d already changed—pads strapped, laces double-tied, hands rough and quick. He passed Jay by the row of battered lockers, felt the eyes on his back.
“Caine!” Coach Joseph’s voice cut through the hallway, low but commanding. “My office.”
Caine hesitated just a beat, every muscle tensing. He turned, walking the narrow hall past framed photos of championships, old sweatshirts hung on pegs, the hum of voices spilling from the showers. He kept his face blank, knocking once before stepping inside.
Coach Joseph sat behind a battered desk, arms crossed over a practice schedule littered with names and arrows. His gaze was sharp, not unkind, but nothing soft about it. A Saints pennant hung above his head, the tip curled, dust motes floating in the overhead sun.
Coach didn’t waste time. “Shut the door.”
Caine clicked it closed, stood waiting, weight shifting to his back foot—already calculating the angles, reading body language like pre-snap defense.
Coach gestured to the folding chair. “Sit.”
Caine did, helmet resting on his knees, hands laced tight.
Coach Joseph studied him a moment. “Where’s your head at, Guerra?”
Caine looked him straight on, voice even. “Just focused on the first game, Coach.”
Joseph’s eyes narrowed, not buying it all the way. “That’s it?”
“Yeah. I mean—I know there’s a lot, but I’m good. Just want to get on the field.”
Coach nodded, fingers drumming once on the desk. “You know Jay’s got a lot of people in his corner. Parents, teachers, some of the team. You feel that?”
Caine gave a half-shrug. “I ain’t worried about none of that. I just play.”
Coach studied him, letting silence stretch. “I want you to listen to me, all right? We’re trying some new stuff this year. We’re liking rotating you and Jay in some of the game packages. Liking Jay out wide, at running back. Maybe it’s situational, maybe it’s by quarter, maybe just to keep folks off balance. You two are different quarterbacks. Different skills, different looks.”
Caine’s jaw twitched, but his voice stayed flat. “Doesn’t make a difference to me. However you want to run it. I just want to win.”
Joseph cocked an eyebrow, pushing. “You sure? Some kids would be pissed. You got a chip on your shoulder, Caine. I like that. But don’t let it get in your way. You want to play at the next level, you gotta show you’re coachable. You get me?”
Caine nodded, eyes locked on the schedule, seeing his name in the rotation—his spot never safe. “I get you.”
Coach leaned back, watching him. “Good. You keep handling your business, keep that focus. We’re not just running Wildcat shit for show. I want both you and Jay ready for whatever. Play calls might come in fast, might not make sense to the other side. It’s about keeping them guessing, not you fighting for snaps.”
Caine just said, “Yes, sir.”
Coach pointed at the door. “Get ready. Practice starts in five.”
Caine stood, helmet pressed hard against his chest. “I’m ready.”
“Yeah,” Coach said, almost soft, “we’ll see.”
Caine left the office, the door thunking behind him. He walked out into the sweat-thick hall, every step echoing. Jay stood by the benches, stretching his arms, watching. A half-smirk on his lips—hard to read, always.
“You good?” Jay called.
Caine nodded. “Yeah.”
Jay glanced away, fidgeting with his wristband. “You know they gone run you at wideout, too?”
Caine snorted, a tight smile. “They run me wherever they want. I’m gone eat regardless.”
Jay rolled his eyes, lips twisting, but there was no comeback. Just that sharp edge—the rivalry never far, never friendly.
…
Practice rolled out into the August afternoon, the field soft under cleats, the air so thick it tasted like iron and grass. Coach blew the whistle—two long bursts. The first team lined up, split down the middle: Jay at quarterback, Caine in the slot; next snap, Caine under center, Jay at receiver. Drills switched fast, coach barking, always shifting the look.
The team moved, but the lines were drawn. Some kids gave Caine nods—Ant, Red, a couple linemen who never picked sides. Others stuck close to Jay, side-eyeing Caine with each snap, every route run a little harder.
Sweat burned his eyes, jersey clinging to his skin. He dropped back, scanned the field—quarterback vision—watching for holes, reading the defense, always waiting for someone to slip.
Jay ran a slant, ball tight to his chest. Caine called the next snap, found his rhythm. The plays blurred: rollout, handoff, scramble, wildcat. Coach yelled, swapping them back and forth, never letting either one get comfortable.
Each time Caine ran off, Jay ran on. Each time Jay missed a throw, Caine caught it in silence.
The sun dipped low, practice dragging, tempers fraying. Someone cursed—Jay, loud, after a tipped ball. Coach just blew the whistle, starting over.
By the end, Caine’s legs shook, heart pounding. He peeled off his helmet, sucking air. Jay slumped beside him, neither speaking. The team split—some laughing, others silent.
Coach Joseph stood at midfield, arms crossed, watching. “Y’all better get used to it,” he called. “We got two quarterbacks. That’s a problem for the other team, not for us.”
Caine stared down the field, feeling the burn in his thighs, the sting in his chest. He didn’t care who else wanted the spot. He just wanted to play.
And if it meant fighting for every snap, every rep, every yard—so be it.
The sky faded, practice ended, the field silent but for the hum of the city beyond.
Caine stayed a moment longer, helmet at his side, sweat dripping off his chin, eyes fixed on the empty uprights—measuring the distance, waiting for his chance.
~~~
The yard felt colder after dark. Light from the security lamps threw long shadows over the gravel and battered trucks. Mireya’s breath misted as she stepped out of the office, the click of her boots echoing sharp in the emptiness. The air smelled like wet concrete, diesel, and fryer grease from the taco truck shutting down across the street.
Her head still throbbed from a day of classes. She’d closed her laptop minutes before, blinking at her bank app and the application pages she’d scrolled through for the hundredth time. Seventy dollars for one school. Fifty-five for another. Her inbox was just reminders to pay: Camila’s daycare, a late notice from Entergy. She’d crunched the numbers until her eyes blurred, still short, always short.
Jamie’s voice came from behind her, the slap of his clipboard against his palm. “Mireya. Leo needs a ride downtown. You’re up. Take the company truck—don’t wait for him to bring it back, he’ll park it wrong.”
Mireya didn’t answer right away. She just nodded, stuffing her phone in her back pocket, glancing once more at the application fee screen before logging off. She could see Leo waiting in the half-light, leaning against the F-150 with a cigarette already half gone. Jamie was already moving on, yelling at a driver about mixing ratios, not looking back.
She walked to the truck, feeling the cold seep into her jeans. Leo tossed his cigarette, ground it out with his boot, grinned. “Glad you driving me tonight, mamacita. I got places to be, people to see.”
She opened the driver’s door, slid in, hands stiff from the chill. Leo got in beside her, making a show of shaking out a wad of bills, thumb licking at each one. She started the truck without a word, eyes on the cracked windshield, the dash’s green glow lighting the cab.
“Where to?” she said, keeping her voice flat.
Leo leaned back, smirking. “Poydras. Uptown. Don’t get lost.”
The yard gate rattled as she pulled out, headlights sweeping over piles of gravel and rusted equipment. The city at night was a different animal—siren wails echoing off the low clouds, bus stops crowded with people half-asleep, neon blinking in puddles at every corner. Mireya kept both hands on the wheel, trying not to meet Leo’s gaze when she felt it.
Halfway down Claiborne, he fiddled with the radio, landed on some old-school slow jam. She kept her eyes ahead, the yellow line sliding beneath them, counting the minutes until it was over. He tapped his foot, wallet bulging in his pocket, humming tunelessly.
At the office building, he got out quick—“five minutes, tops.” She waited in the dark, engine idling, her own reflection ghosted in the side mirror. It felt like an hour. Mireya ran through her mental math, checked her phone for missed calls, saw another from the daycare.
Leo slid back in, the scent of cologne and fried fish trailing with him. “You hungry?” he said, shaking a bag at her. She shook her head, started the drive back, wishing for silence. He talked about nothing: a bet he’d won, a girl who ghosted him, how easy it was to get paid if you knew how to hustle.
Back at the yard, the lot was emptier. One truck idled near the gate, Jamie nowhere in sight, the office dark behind glass.
Leo counted out bills, slow. “Seventy-five tonight, for the drive.” He held it out, just past her reach.
She reached for it; he pulled it back, smile mean. “You want to make more?.”
Mireya stared at him, her jaw clenching. “Seventy-five is fine.”
Leo’s grin faded a little. He peeled off a twenty and a five, slid them back in his wallet, then offered the remaining fifty, just fingertips.
For a second, Mireya thought about shoving his hand away, about saying something sharp, but her mouth wouldn’t open. She took the fifty, fingers cold, and got out, boots crunching on the gravel. The air bit at her skin as she walked toward the office, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.
Inside, she leaned against the desk, staring at the bills crumpled in her palm, the application fee screen still glowing on the monitor. She could still smell Leo’s cologne, taste the humiliation on her tongue. She wanted to scream, to cry, but nothing came.
She just slid the fifty into her purse, shut the laptop, and turned out the lights. Outside, Leo’s truck pulled away, tail lights bleeding into the dark.
The yard was silent except for the hum of the city and the ache in her chest.
