Anthony blinked,. his hands shook. “Nah,” he muttered. “Nah, you don’t get to say that…not to me…not like this.”
He yanked off his security jacket and stuffed it under Malik’s head, yelling toward the porch. “MY! MAMA! COME OUT HERE! IT’S MALIK!”
The screen door slammed open a second later.
His mama came flying out with her bonnet half-off and house shoes flopping against the concrete. Gran Betty was behind her in a big sleep shirt that read “Blessed and Petty,” already sobbing.
“OH LORD, CALL THE AMBULANCE!” Myesa screamed, dropping down beside Anthony. “WHAT HAPPENED TO MY BABY?!”
“Mama…” Malik coughed again, his lips barely moving. “I ain’t got no more left in me.”
“Stop sayin’ that!” she cried, clutching his face. “Don’t you say that, Malik! You stronger than this. You done made it through worse. Just hold on, baby.”
Gran Betty stood over them with her phone, shaking as she dialed. “Why’s it ringin’ three damn times?! Where the fuck they at? We live down the street from the damn fire station!”
“Tell ‘em he got jumped,” Anthony barked. “Tell ‘em it ain’t gunshots but he bleedin’, and I don’t care if he Black and from the Crescent—get somebody out here now!”
The operator gave her the usual scripted response: “We’re dispatching a unit. Please remain calm.”
Calm?
There wasn’t nocalmon Crescent.
Not when your son was laid out in your arms leaking, lookin’ like death brushed past him and was double-checkin’ his name.
The ambulance took twenty-seven minutes.
Twenty-seven…fucking…minutes.
Anthony paced the driveway like a caged dog, fists clenched, eyes wild. He’d already made two calls to his old crew—boys he used to run with before Myesa gave him an ultimatum—the streets or his family. He was trying not to slip back, but watching Malik cough up blood had him two thoughts away from putting the uniform back in the closet and strapping up.
Malik drifted in and out. Felt like his soul was floating above him, watching his Mama cry and his Pops lose his composure in ways he ain’t never seen.
Then he thought about the beautiful life he wanted to give Aku…prayed that God gave her a real one. One who knew when to get out and how to be hard, dirty, and her safety.
When the ambulance finally pulled up, it wasn’t no urgency…no sirens. Just two EMTs with clipboards and tired eyes like they’d already decided he’d live—or die—and that it wasn’t their problem either way.
“Took y’all long enough!” Myesa snapped.
“Ma’am, we had a four-car pile-up on Figueroa?—”
“Fuck a pile-up, cuh!” Anthony barked, that Crip shit coming out of him. “My son been dyin’ in my driveway!”
They loaded him in slowly. Malik winced as they strapped him down, pain licking every inch of his body like fire.
Myesa climbed in with him, refusing to sit still. She held his hand the whole ride, whispering prayers and promises.
Anthony stood in the driveway with blood on his knees.
Gran Betty wiped at her cheeks, whispering something aboutthey always tryin’ to take the good ones.
Inside the ambulance, Malik blinked up at the ceiling. Sirens were howling now. The pain was alive, but so was he…for now. He was tired…so tired.
And all he could think, through the noise and the hurt and the weight on his chest, washow the fuck do I tell Aku?
The backyard was lit up like a private summer festival—fairy lights strung through tall palms, old school rap humming low through surround speakers, and the smell of grilled jerk chicken and honey cornbread floating in the air like a family tradition. The pool glowed blue behind them, untouched because nobody had brought swimwear, but everybody kept threatening to jump in.
Aku stood barefoot in the grass, a glass of mango lemonade in her hand, her gold toe rings catching the sunset. The night had started with her family planning a “welcome home” dinner, but like everything with them—it turned into a block party dressed up in Black excellence. Her people didn’t do small. They were loud. They were rooted. They were everything.
