Joey woke to his phone skittering across the milk-crate desk like a trapped bug. He fumbled it to his ear, eyes still halfway shut.

Ronnie’s first voice message cracked through, too loud for morning. “Up. Now. I need you in forty. Don’t make me come pound on Ma’s door.”

The second one followed immediately, smug and sharp. “Bring your car. Gas in it this time. Hat on your head. Move.”

The third came seconds later, just to twist the knife: “Clock’s ticking, kid. Be useful.”

Joey blinked at the screen, grateful for once that Ronnie had remembered the voice messages. When people texted him, he had to make Siri read them out, and she always mangled names and asked him to confirm dumb words like she was quizzing him. This—this was easier. Just a voice in his ear telling him what to do.

He thumbed the mic and sent one back, rough with sleep. “Y-yeah. O-on my w-way.”

He lay there another beat, staring at the thin stripe of morning sliding across the checkered brick. Then he sat up, hair everywhere, a soft blond storm that made him look younger than twenty. Out in the hall, Capone’s nails tapped the floor; Scooby’s tail thumped heavily against the wall; Kush gave a single huff like a question.

“I’m c-coming,” Joey told them, smiling despite himself. “J-just g-gimme a m-minute.”

He stood and pulled the room around him. Jeans from the chair. Fresh socks. The soft gray hoodie he liked because the inside felt like a blanket. He tugged it over his head and the hair went wilder, so he grabbed the black beanie off the nightstand and pulled it down, taming the chaos in one go. In the mirror’s cracked sliver, he saw himself: green eyes still puffy, pillow-crease faint on his cheek, a mouth that wanted to smile. Cute, messy, presentable enough.

He did a quick pat-down—wallet, keys on a carabiner, cigarettes, lighter. The little “lucky” socket went into his hoodie pocket because it always did, then he thumped the heel of one boot on the floor and it surrendered; the other followed.

The dogs pushed in when he opened the door and Joey crouched to their level, patting backs, rubbing behind ears. “H-hey, b-boys. I’m g-goin’, I’m g-goin’.” Capone licked his chin; Scooby leaned his whole weight against Joey’s knee; Kush pressed his big head to Joey’s shoulder, deeply serious about it and Joey kissed the top of that blocky head. “B-back soon.”

Upstairs, the kitchen was quiet and bright with thin October light. Linda was at the counter in her robe, her hair up, rubbing her temple with two fingers. She glanced over, saw the beanie, the boots, the determined little set to his jaw, and softened.

“Going to Ronnie’s?” she asked.

“Y-yeah.” He slipped past to the backdoor and let the dogs out, then immediately back in again because the grass was wet and they hated it. “I’ll b-be b-back.”

“Be careful,” she said, not looking at him when she said it, like saying it to the room might work better. “Call me if you need me.”

“O-okay.”

He slipped out the front door and down the steps into the cold air. The Cavalier waited in the drive with that tired patience he loved her for and hopped in, pulled his beanie straight, and tucked the phone into the cup holder where the charger caught if you jiggled it just right. He jiggled. Screen bright. Big icons. He hit the mic.

“C-call R-Ronnie.”

Ronnie picked up fast. “Tell me you’re rolling.”

“I’m rolling,” Joey said, proud of how smooth it came out. “T-twenty minutes.”

“That’s my guy. Easy drop. In and out. You’ll get paid. And hey—no reading today.” Ronnie laughed like he’d made a joke.

“G-great,” Joey said, and meant it. He hung up, lit a cigarette with the bright orange lighter, cracked the window, and watched the smoke ribbon into the morning. Then he tapped the mic again. “N-navigate to R-Ronnie’s.”

The nice lady’s voice took over, calm and sure. Joey let his shoulders drop and put the car in gear. Beanie low, hoodie soft, dogs’ noses still pressed to the front window as he backed out, he felt the day click into a shape he could hold.

But first, he hit Wally’s on the way. When he reached the tired corner store, the Cavalier bumped into the cratered lot like it knew the route by heart. The bell on the door did its tired little clink as he entered, fluorescents stinging his eyes.

“Morning, delinquent,” Brittany said without looking up, lip ring catching the light. “Same?”

“Y-yeah. K-Kools. A-and a R-Red Bull.”

She rang it up, glanced at the total, then at his face as he peeled his last crumpled ten out of his pocket and pushed it over.

“You’re short,” she said, not unkind. Then she sighed, popped her gum. “I’ll float you the Bull. Pay me later, Joey.”

His relief was pure and dorky. “Th-thanks.”

“Don’t make me regret being nice.”

He didn’t, at least not this time. He tucked the pack into his hoodie pocket, the can under his arm, and with one last winning smile, he hustled back out into the light.

Ronnie’s check-cashing place sat at the very edge of town where the street ran out and weeds took over. Rapid Cash hung in crooked neon over barred windows; a sun-faded banner promising LOANS • MONEY ORDERS • WE CASH ANY CHECK just below it. Inside: stale air, old carpet, flyers for prepaid cards, a TV in the corner playing a game show with the sound off. Behind the bulletproof glass, the girl with the nails was playing on her phone. No customers. No chatter. Just that lonely hum places like this have in the morning.

Joey tapped the glass. The girl pressed the buzzer and the side door thunked.

“R-Ronnie here?” he asked as he shuffled inside.

She jerked her chin toward the back. “He’s in his office, king of the castle.”

It always felt like walking into somebody else’s church—the fake-wood desk straining to be mahogany, the leather chair not trying at all. The walls were crowded with Ronnie shaking hands with expensive-looking people, certificates pinned behind glass like butterflies. On the desk, a glass globe paperweight caught the light beside his sleek laptop.

Ronnie looked up slow, grin already on. Smart watch winking, gold chain sitting pretty. “Well, well. The man of the hour. You took your time.”

“I—Wally’s,” Joey said, lifting the Red Bull like proof.

Ronnie stood, smoothed his beard, and enjoyed being tall. “You look like a lost library book,” he said, amused. “Whatever. You ready to be useful?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Good.” Ronnie bent, hauled up a shoebox wrapped in brown paper and a million layers of clear tape. Set it on the desk like it was a centerpiece. “You do not open this. You do not shake it. You do not sniff it. You keep it out of sight. In your trunk, not your lap. Got it?”

“G-got it.”

Ronnie’s phone was already in his hand. “I’m sending an address. Don’t write it down, don’t memorize it—just tap it in your map. You drive there, you hand the package to the guy behind the counter, you say nothing except your name is ‘J.’ He’ll give you an envelope. You bring the envelope back to me. Then you get paid.”

“O-okay.”

“Should take two hours tops,” Ronnie said, checking himself out in the reflection on his monitor. “Don’t be stupid. Don’t be late. And Joey?”

“Y-yeah?”

“Use the voice thing if you need to,” he added, like he’d just remembered Joey’s life. “I don’t want you reading at stoplights like a clown.”

“R-right,” Joey said, small but grateful. He hated when Siri butchered everything, but it beat pretending he could read a street name while driving.

Ronnie’s text buzzed in. Joey didn’t look at the letters, just tapped the blue link so the map would open and become a picture instead of a problem.

“Where am I g-going?” he asked, curious despite himself.

“Blue Heron Self Storage,” Ronnie said, smirking. “Down by the river—big mural with a bird that looks like it’s dying of boredom. Unit C office. You’ll know it.”

Joey nodded. He tucked the box under his arm, felt the weight of it pull at his elbow. It made his stomach flutter. “I-I’ll be b-back.”

“Yeah, you will,” Ronnie said, indulging himself with a little chuckle. “Because if you’re not, I’ll come find you. Go.”

Back through the corridor, past the dead ficus and the flyer for “Tax Prep Year-Round,” out to the bright nothing of the edge-of-town road. He popped the trunk, nestled the taped box between an old jack and a milk crate of tools, then pulled his hoodie sleeve down over his wrist like the gesture could hide how nervous he was.

In the driver’s seat, he cracked the Red Bull. First sip was all metal and sugar and hope. He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the cracked headliner, and hit the mic.

“N-navigate to the p-pin.”

The map voice chimed in, calm as a nurse: “Head north on Elm.” He loved her for not asking questions.

He pulled out, the Cavalier complaining but game. The last of his cash lived in his pocket—small, crumpled—and he rubbed it with his thumb like a prayer bead. If he did this right, he’d get gas, get smokes without begging, maybe even buy something dumb from the dollar aisle just because he could. Maybe he’d shove a little into the coffee can behind his dresser and pretend it was the start of something.

Town peeled back into scrapyards and chain-link and billboards for injury lawyers. Past the old drive-in sign with the missing letters, past the train tracks that always won, into the flat, open part of Ohio where the road stretched and the sky got bigger.

“In 0.6 miles, take the ramp to OH-11 North toward Ashtabula.”

Forty minutes, Joey thought. Not Youngstown. Not Cleveland. Somewhere else, at least.

“E-easy,” he told the wheel, voice small and steady. “J-just e-easy.”

He slid up the on-ramp, the Cavalier shuddering as the highway took him. Semis thundered by; a hawk hung over a field like it was nailed there. He tipped the Red Bull back again for one more swallow, lit a cigarette, and set the cruise just below where the speedometer liked to wobble. The map purred in his ear about exits and miles. Ahead, Ashtabula. A storage office by the river with a bored blue heron painted on cinderblock. A quick handoff. An envelope.

Two hours. In, out, back.

He could do that. He had to.

Fouty-five minutes later, the highway spat him out into a low strip of warehouses and river smell. Blue Heron Self Storage spread along the bank like a faded postcard, the mural bird staring sideways, bored and blue over cinderblock.

The gate stood open, but a keypad blinked anyway, like it wanted to feel important. Joey rolled in slow, gravel popping under the tires, rows of orange roll-up doors marching off in both directions. The office wasn’t obvious; every door had numbers and letters stenciled in half-peeled paint. He circled once, then twice, heart starting to thump stupidly, until he spotted a squat cinderblock cube tucked near the back fence: C OFFICE hand-painted above a metal door, the C almost flaked away.

He parked crooked, killed the engine, and sat a second with the Red Bull can sweating in the cup holder. “E-easy,” he told himself. “J-just h-hand it over.”

He popped the trunk. The taped shoebox was right where he’d wedged it, snug between the jack and the milk crate of tools. He lifted it, closed the lid gently like that made any difference, then shouldered through the door into the office.

Inside, the room felt like an old fish tank. The fluorescents buzzed over a dusty counter with a yellowed plastic bell. Behind the smeared pane of plexiglass sat a guy in his thirties with a tight fade and faded knuckle tattoos, flipping through a dog-eared car magazine. There was a metal door behind him with a keypad and a sign that said EMPLOYEES ONLY like a joke.

The guy didn’t look up. “Help you?”

Joey set the box on the counter and leaned in just enough that the plexi fogged. “I’m… J.”

That got eyes. Quick, flat, weighing. The man pressed a button under the desk and a drawer slid open on Joey’s side with a scratch of metal.

“In,” the man said.

Joey slid the box through. The drawer thunked shut and the man dragged it closer without ceremony, palming it like it was a shoe for real. He didn’t open it. He didn’t sniff it. He just stood, disappeared through the metal door, and left Joey staring at his own soft reflection in plastic.

He swallowed. His fingers wanted a cigarette so bad his skin buzzed, but there was a NO SMOKING sign with a little cartoon heron in a circle and a slash, and the whole thing felt too stupid-serious to break.

The man came back a minute later with an envelope thick enough to make a sound when it hit the drawer. No smile. No words. Just that flat look again, like he was counting Joey’s organs.

Joey slid the envelope out, felt its weight, fought the dumb itch to peek. He tucked it into his hoodie pocket and nodded. “Th-thanks.”

The man had already sat back down. “Door’s behind you.”

Right. Cool. Totally normal.

Outside again, the light felt brighter, the air cooler. He took the few fast steps to the car, stashed the envelope dead center in the glove box, and sat with both hands on the wheel until his heart slowed down. Then he laughed—quiet, breathy, a little surprised at himself.

“J-job c-complete,” he told the dashboard. “L-look at me.”

He lit a cigarette and sent Ronnie a voice message before he could overthink it. “D-drop’s d-done. O-on my w-way b-back.”

The map voice told him to make a U-turn and head for the ramp. He did, the Cavalier shivering like she was proud. Back past the bored blue bird, past the weeds bent in the wind, back onto OH-11 where the semis roared and the sky stretched flat as a promise.

Two hours, Ronnie had said. In, out, back.

Joey checked the time on the dash—right on time. He cracked the window, let the cold rush his cheeks, and smiled a little to himself as he merged into the right lane, the glove box shut tight on something that actually felt like a win.

Right on the two-hour mark, Joey swung back into the Rapid Cash lot. The neon OPEN flickered intermittently like it was lying.

Inside, the TV still mouthed game-show questions to nobody. The girl with the nails buzzed him through without looking up. Back in the “church,” Ronnie was already half-standing, like he’d been waiting just to make a point.

“About time,” he said, checking his watch for show.

Joey pulled the envelope from his hoodie pocket and set it on the desk.

Ronnie slit it with a fingernail and tipped it out—fat stack of cash, neatly rubber-banded. He thumbed through it fast, the sound crisp and smug, then peeled off five twenties and flicked them across the desk like confetti.

“A hundred,” he said. “For gas, food, and whatever dumb thing you’ll buy anyway. Don’t spend it all at Wally’s, genius.”

“Th-thanks,” Joey said, folding the bills small.

“That’s all for today. Keep your phone on. I’ll call when I’ve got something else. Try not to mess up the easy stuff.”

“R-right.”

Joey backed out fast—fake mahogany, glass globe, dead ficus, thunk of the buzzer—and breathed easier the second cold air hit his face.

First stop: the Fuel King two blocks over. He fed the pump cash and watched the numbers climb, tank gulping like it had crossed a desert. Inside, he grabbed a Red Bull from the cooler, a greasy triangle of pizza from under the heat lamps, and a scratch-off because he told himself he was lucky today. At the counter, the total stung a little. He paid anyway.

He stood by the hood, can cracked, pizza folded in half, grease burning his fingers. He scratched the ticket with his thumbnail—stars, numbers, nothing. He laughed at himself, small and stupid. “O-okay. F-figures.”

Back in the car, he counted what was left: fifty tucked small in his palm. Half gone in ten minutes—gas, lotto, sugar, a slice that tasted like salt and victory anyway. He told himself he’d put the rest in the coffee can behind his dresser. For real this time.

He lit a cigarette, blew smoke at the cold sky, and turned the key. The Cavalier coughed, then settled and he pulled out, took a swig from his can of Red Bull, the taste sharp and metallic.

The afternoon light was thinning out by the time he turned onto his street, the houses leaning into the chill, the busted screen door at his place rattling in the wind.

He pulled into the drive and killed the engine. The Cavalier ticked below him. Inside, somewhere, a dog barked twice, and then Linda’s voice—raised, tight—cut through the walls.

Joey pocketed his cash, grabbed his keys, and went inside.

The house hit him with heat and stale coffee. The TV was low; the dogs trotted over, hopeful, then peeled off when they saw Linda on the couch.

She was in her robe, curtains half-drawn, an ice pack pressed to the side of her head. Her eyes were shiny in that way that meant the migraine had her by the throat. A half-empty mug, two orange bottles, and her phone lay on the coffee table like a little altar.

“There you are,” she breathed, not quite a smile. “Baby, I need Shanda.”

He sighed, tugging his beanie lower. “H-how b-bad?”

“Bad.” She winced when the clock ticked. “And before you start—yeah, I know. But I gotta be able to take the kids tonight. Sara’s dropping them around dinner, remember? She’s got a date.” The way she said date made it sound like a plumbing problem. “So I can’t be laid up. And we’re out of pull-ups again for Tay-Tay, and there’s no milk.”

Joey rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “O-of c-course.”

“She said she’ll ‘Venmo me’ later.” Linda did her little finger quotes. “Which means never.”

“C-can’t she bring f-food at least?”

“You know she won’t.” Linda shifted the ice pack, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I been trying to get a little off your dad, but I think he shut his phone off. Josh is blowing him up too. CashApp pings every five minutes.”

“I j-just gave J-Josh t-twenty last night,” Joey said, heat climbing his neck.

Linda shrugged with her eyebrows, guilty and tired. “You know how he is.”

Yeah. He did.

He stood there a second, hands in his hoodie, feeling the fifty like a hot coal. Then he exhaled. “I—I’ll g-give you th-thirty. F-for Sh-Shanda.”

Relief softened Linda’s mouth. Not a hug—never that—but she reached out and patted his hand twice, quick. “You’re a lifesaver, baby. I’ll pay you back when your dad gets home.” A beat. “Or when your sister remembers.”

“R-right.”

Linda pushed herself upright, grimacing at the light. “Lemme get dressed. Five minutes.” She slid the ice pack onto the couch, already shuffling toward the hallway. “Grab my purse, would you? We’ll hit Shanda’s and the discount store—milk, ground beef, pull-ups. I’ll make spaghetti. They can’t complain about spaghetti.”

From the kitchen, Capone yipped at a dust mote; Scooby nosed the empty water bowl; Kush thumped his tail once and watched Joey like he understood the whole play.

Joey dug thirty from his folded bills, slipped it into Linda’s purse, and jangled his keys. “O-okay,” he said to the room, to the dogs, to himself. “I—I’ll wait for y-you o-outside.”

A few minutes later, Joey eased Linda into the passenger seat like she might crack—purse, ice pack, seatbelt snug. The migraines weren’t even the worst of it. Those were loud and mean, sure, but the seizures were the real enemy—random, ugly—stealing whole minutes from her and dropping her where she stood. She’d crashed twice because of them and after the second time, the DMV took her license and didn’t look back. Since then, rides were on the family. Which meant Ronnie Sr. if he wasn’t on shift, and Joey the rest of the time. Mostly Joey.

He pulled out slow. Linda pressed the ice to her temple and shut her eyes. “Shanda first,” she murmured. “Then the discount store. Sara won’t bring a thing.”

“I kn-know,” he said, gentle.

They rolled past the pawn shop, the payday place, the church marquee begging sinners to come home. Joey watched the road and did the math he always did—time, money, gas—and then let it go, because it never added.

He wished his siblings helped more. Any of them. He wished they’d show up for Linda the way she always showed up for them. Hell, he wished they’d show up for him. This “job” from Ronnie was the first time his big brother had tossed him anything that looked like help. Mostly, they were busy—loud lives, private flames—and Joey stood in the draft.

A memory rose and wouldn’t sit down.

Two years back. Josh fresh out of prison after a short bid, sleeping on the couch, restless and thin. Linda in the kitchen, then not—in a breath she was on the floor, arms seizing, heels drumming the linoleum. Joey caught her head, turned her on her side like the nurse had taught him, called Josh because Dad was at work like always.

“J-Josh!” he’d yelled. “H-help!”

Josh came fast, eyes bright and wrong. He dropped to his knees—and instead of a phone, his hands went to Linda’s robe with that quick, practiced pat. He’d found her pain pills by feel, slid the bottle out, palmed it. He looked straight at Joey and smiled with only his mouth. “I’ll call,” he said, already backing toward the porch. He dialed, sure—paramedics came, did their work—but the first thing in his brother’s head had been the rattle of pills.

Even now, Joey’s jaw tightened. That was Josh. That was how Linda met Shanda in the first place—one of Josh’s many girlfriends, sliding into the space he left and staying for the part that mattered to Linda most: access. After that, Shanda was “a friend.” A number in Linda’s phone. A door Joey had to knock on when the pain got mean.

Shanda’s duplex sagged at the far side of town—sunburned siding, overworked wind chimes, plastic flamingo half-swallowed by the yard. A cherry-red Jeep that didn’t belong on this block sat cocky in the drive beside a wheezing Grand Am.

The door swung open before they knocked. Shanda filled it, pretty and tired, eyeliner sharp, hair pinned up like it might bolt. “Hey, Linda,” she sang, eyes already sliding to Joey. They softened on purpose. “And… well, hey Joey.”

Joey tugged his beanie lower. “H-hey.”

“Come in. It’s freezing.”

He would’ve waited in the car, but the steps were steep and the door stuck. He took Linda’s arm and eased her through. Inside smelled like grape candles and smoke. A huge TV muttered daytime drama with captions. Pill bottles and nail polish cluttered the table; an ashtray leaned beside them, defeated.

“Sit,” Shanda said, already going to a drawer in the TV stand. “What you got on you today?”

“Thirty,” Linda said, voice thin. She didn’t look at Joey; she rarely did when the pain was this bad.

“Family discount,” Shanda said, weighing, folding a tiny bag into a tinier square. Money disappeared; the baggie went into Linda’s purse.

Then Shanda drifted back to Joey, closer than he wanted. Grape candle and heat. Fingertips on his sleeve, a slow smile like a test. “You got tall,” she said. “Your brother never told me his baby bro turned out this cute.”

Joey found a spot on the carpet and stared at it. “J-just… grew.”

“Mmm.” She let it hang. “You thirsty? I got Code Red. Something stronger if you want it. You’re legal now, right?” Her hand slid to his forearm, nails cool through cotton. “I could show you a better time than your brother ever did.”

Heat crawled up his neck—embarrassment, not interest. He didn’t get the spark people talked about. With Shanda least of all. To him, attraction felt like a party on the other side of town where he didn’t know the address.

“I—I’m g-good,” he said, small.

“Leave the boy alone,” Linda murmured, eyes on her purse, not on them. Pain made everything narrow; she aimed straight at relief.

Shanda rolled her eyes but stayed smiling. “Offer stands, cutie.” She winked like a sticker. “Anytime.”

Joey nodded at the couch arm because it was safer than meeting her gaze.

“Okay, loves,” Shanda said, clapping once, business bright again. “Beat it before the school bus dumps its army. Text me if you need more, Lin. And tell Josh I said hi. Or don’t.” She laughed at herself and reached like she might fix Joey’s beanie, then thought better of it.

“Th-thanks,” Joey managed.

He got Linda up carefully, arm firm around her elbow, and steered her back through the sticky door. The wind chimes tattled as the cold bit their cheeks. At the car, he buckled her in, set the ice pack back to her temple, and sat a second with his hands on the wheel until they stopped shaking.

“She’s harmless,” Linda said quietly, eyes closed again.

“I kn-know,” he said, and wasn’t sure he did.

“Discount store,” she added. “Milk, ground beef, pull-ups. Then home. I’ll make meatloaf.”

He nodded, turned the key, and pulled away from grape candles and a cherry Jeep and a woman who flirted like a dare. The little bag rustled once in Linda’s purse; he pretended not to hear it. He would get the groceries, make the night easy, carry the weight.

He was good at doing the things that needed doing.

He just wished he wasn’t always the only one who did.

Wednesday, Joey woke to a buzz and a pale square of light on his cheek. Not a voice memo—just a text. He groaned, thumbing the screen closer.

“Siri, r-read it.”

“Message from Josh: call me.”

He stared at the ceiling a second, then hit call before he could talk himself out of it. “H-hey.”

“Yo!” Josh answered too bright. “You up? Can you run me to Niles? Buddy needs help on a job site—kitchen demo, easy cash. I can probably pay you back today.”

Joey rubbed his eyes. Please don’t ask for money. “S-send the a-address. W-what time?”

“Eleven. Girlfriend already took the car. I’m stranded.”

“A-alright. G-gimme a b-bit.”

He rolled out of bed. Beanie. Hoodie. Jeans. Socks that almost matched. He stuffed smokes and the bright orange lighter into his hoodie pocket, did a quick feel for his wallet and keys, then cracked his door. Capone lifted his head from the hall like, we doing something? Scooby thumped his tail once; Kush just blinked slowly, king of mornings.

“B-be good,” Joey whispered, scratching each head on his way past. Linda’s door was closed; he paused long enough to make sure he heard her snore—soft, steady—then slipped out into the cold.

The Cavalier coughed, thought about it, and caught. He backed down the drive, breath fogging, beanie tugged low. Halfway down the street, his phone buzzed again and Ronnie’s voice filled the car:

“Need you for another delivery. Come through.”

Joey blew out a long breath through his nose. “O-of c-course,” he told the empty car, and nudged the gas.

Josh’s girlfriend lived off Belmont—rental with salt-stained steps and a bent railing. A rusted wind chime clacked lazily under the eave. Josh jogged out as Joey rolled up, hoodie up, eyes bright in that wired way Joey knew too well.

“Dude,” Josh said as he slid in, bringing cold air and cheap cologne with him. “This job? I might walk out with a stack. Burritos on me after, swear.”

“G-good,” Joey said, pulling away from the curb. “I—I got a job t-too. F-from R-Ronnie.”

Josh went quiet for a beat, like the road hiccuped. “Since when?”

“Y-yesterday. D-deliveries.”

Josh turned his face to the window. “I used to do runs for him in high school,” he said finally, voice careful. “Just… be smart.”

“I n-need something r-right now,” Joey said, shrugging because it felt safer than admitting anything else. “T-till I f-find s-something r-real.”

“Yeah.” Josh scratched his jaw. “I get it.”

Rapid Cash was on the way. Joey swung in, killed the engine. “B-be right b-back,” he told Josh, and went inside alone.

The place hummed the same tired hum. The girl with the nails buzzed him through. Ronnie was already standing in his “church,” shoebox on the desk, chain flashing.

“Quick turn,” he said, pushing the box forward. “Same drill as last time.”

Joey’s phone buzzed. He didn’t read the letters—just tapped the blue link. The map opened like a friend. Austintown. Ronnie’s mouth quirked.

“Behind the old bowling alley,” he added. “You’ll see a little office door. Knock twice. Say you’re ‘J.’ Envelope back to me.”

“G-got it.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“R-right.”

Box under his arm, Joey slipped out, popped the trunk, nested it between the jack and the milk crate. Back in the driver’s seat, he buckled in, hit the mic. “N-navigate to the p-pin.”

The nice lady obliged: “Niles in 10. Austintown after.”

“Two birds,” Josh said, watching him start the engine like it was a ritual. He hesitated. “Be careful, alright? Ronnie deals with… people you don’t wanna know.”

Joey gave him a look, not mean. “S-says the p-pot.”

Josh huffed a laugh that wasn’t one. “Yeah. I know.”

They hit the main road. Houses thinned to warehouses; warehouses thinned to open, winter-flat fields. The Cavalier rattled in that familiar way over expansion joints. Joey lit a cigarette, cracked the window a finger’s width, let the smoke slide out and vanish.

“W-what’s the job?” he asked, just to fill the car with something else.

“Kitchen tear-out,” Josh said, warming to it. “We’re taking it to studs. Buddy says the owners are loaded but cheap—my favorite combo. I’ll haul and sweep and pretend I know what a soffit is. Boss pays day-of.”

“P-paid is g-good.” Joey glanced at the clock—eleven was a real number now. He nudged the gas, felt the engine complain, and patted the dash. “C’mon, g-girl.”

Josh drummed an anxious rhythm on his knee. “You want in on demo sometimes?” he asked, almost casual. “I could ask around.”

“M-maybe,” Joey said. Truth was, he’d love it—hands on tools, breaking and fixing—but he didn’t want to tie hopes to Josh. Not again.

Signs for Niles appeared. They took the exit, dipped through a strip of fast food and auto parts stores, turned down a side street lined with small, tired houses. Josh pointed. “There.”

A dented pickup sat out front of a one-story with a dumpster in the drive. Two guys in Carhartts smoked on the porch, box of contractor bags at their feet. Josh half-rose in his seat, jitter unlocking his voice again.

“Okay, I’m gonna kill it today,” he said. “Cash in hand, burritos after—I mean it. I’ll text you when I’m done and you can swing back or I’ll walk to the bus. Whatever’s easier.”

“J-just t-text,” Joey said. “I’ll b-be around.”

Josh put a hand on the door handle, paused. “Hey,” he said, softer. “Seriously. Be careful with Ronnie’s thing.”

Joey nodded. “I kn-know.”

Josh escaped the car in a burst of energy, jogging up the walk, calling to the guys like they were already old friends. One of them slapped his palm; the other handed him a dust mask. Josh looked back once, lifted two fingers in a quick salute, then disappeared into the dark of the house.

Joey sat a second, listening to the muffled thud of cabinets giving up the wall. Then he set the route again. The nice lady told him what to do. “Head west toward Austintown.”

He lit a fresh cigarette, tucked it in the corner of his mouth, and eased back into traffic. The taped box thumped softly in the trunk over a pothole, a quiet reminder.

Another turn. Another storage office. Another envelope.

He just drove.

The next day, Joey woke up on his own for once—no buzzing, no Ronnie barking in his ear. The basement was quiet and dim, red string lights sleepy against the brick. He checked his phone: no messages. A tiny, stupid relief loosened his chest.

He stretched, bones popping, then shuffled to the bathroom and cranked the shower. Steam swallowed the mirror. He stripped and stepped in, hissing as hot water hit cold skin.

He was all angles and long lines—slim, boyish, the kind of skinny that made his collarbones sharp and his ribs show when he lifted his arms. His chest was smooth, hairless, and a faint ladder of muscle cut down his stomach, leading to his soft blond pubic hair and sleeping cock. He scrubbed quick, hummed something off-key, tilted his head back and let the heat hammer his neck. When he stepped out, the room smelled clean and he toweled off, liking the way he felt—awake, light, almost new.

Jeans. Soft gray tee. He tugged a comb through his blond mess until it lay in something like order. It still tried to stick up in the back, but he grinned at his cute reflection anyway, choosing to skip the beanie today.

He was in a good mood. His wallet felt fatter than usual—Josh had actually paid him back yesterday, shock of all shocks, and the Austintown run had been easy. He counted quick: something like eighty bucks, then tucked it away like a secret you didn’t show anybody unless you had to.

Upstairs, the kitchen was bright. Linda was already moving, hair up, robe traded for an old Buckeyes sweatshirt and leggings. The dogs orbiting her like small moons.

“Morning, baby,” she said, voice normal, eyes clear. No ice pack, no pinched lines at her forehead. “Pop-Tarts are on the counter. I was thinking… Halloween boxes today?”

Joey’s mouth edged into a smile. “Y-yeah. L-let’s d-do it.”

They ate toaster pastries leaning on the counter, then headed out to the garage. Dust, cold concrete, old paint cans, the bikes no one rode. The Halloween boxes sat wedged high up on a shelf, fat with fake spiderwebs and rubber skeletons. Joey hauled them down easy while Linda directed traffic.

They spent the afternoon stringing orange lights along the eaves and draping gauze ghosts from the tree out front. Joey climbed the ladder; Linda got bossy in the best way. Capone barked at a plastic skull until Scooby sighed and lay on it. Kush supervised like a foreman.

Linda talked while they worked—about Isabel’s witch dress (black tulle, silver stars), about Brian’s request for a ninja costume with “real” swords (no), about Tay-Tay’s absolute determination to be a sparkly purple bat. The way she said “bat” made both of them laugh. Joey taped a cardboard moon to the porch window and thought it looked good, actually.

They took a break and Joey raked leaves into sloppy piles while Linda sorted the giant bin of decorations on the porch, fixing bent gravestones and replacing dead batteries in plastic candles. Tay-Tay would lose her mind when she saw it. That thought warmed him.

Around four, the sun slipped lower and the air picked up teeth. Ronnie Sr.’s car crunched into the drive; he lumbered in with the same grunt as always. Linda followed him to the kitchen, chattering about meatloaf like it was a holiday. Joey stayed out and messed with his car, wiping a smear of grease he’d been meaning to get to off the valve cover, tightening a battery terminal just because.

By the time Linda called him in, the house smelled like onions and mashed potatoes. They ate at the wobbly table—three plates, TV low, dogs hopeful at their knees. It was quiet in a good way. No drama. No phones. Just forks and slurps and “pass the salt.” For a minute, Joey let himself feel the peace: a normal night.

But it didn’t last.

After six, his phone lit up with Ronnie’s name. Joey wiped his hands, braced, and answered. “H-hey.”

“Change of pace,” Ronnie said, voice clipped and electric. “I got an urgent one. Cleveland.”

Joey sat up. “C-Cleveland?”

“Two hundred in it for you,” Ronnie said, casual like he wasn’t throwing steak at a starving dog. “Tonight.”

Joey almost drooled. Two hundred. Gas, bills, coffee can. “O-okay,” he said too fast. “W-what do I—”

“Listen. I’m not at the office. But Mindy, the girl with nails, is. Go to Rapid Cash. She’ll slide you an envelope. You take that straight to the Velvet Room—Vinnie’s spot off East 55th. Side door in the alley. Knock twice, say you’re J, hand it off. That’s it. No pickup on this one.”

Joey’s pulse kicked. Vinnie’s place. He knew the name the way everyone in a fifty-mile radius knew the name. “T-tonight?”

“Now,” Ronnie said. “They’re waiting. Don’t stop. Don’t screw around. Drop it and get out. Next time I see you, I got your two hundred.”

Joey looked at the half-eaten meatloaf on his plate, then at Linda, who was loading dishes with a little hum. “O-okay,” he said into the phone. “I—I’ll l-leave now.”

“That’s my guy.” Ronnie’s smile was audible. “Text me when it’s done.”

The call clicked dead.

Joey stood, heart beating fast in that excited, nervous way. “M-mom,” he said, grabbing his hoodie off the chair. “I g-gotta r-run a th-thing for R-Ronnie.”

Linda glanced over, didn’t ask. “Be careful. Roads’ll be slick.”

“I w-will. B-back l-later.”

He jogged downstairs for his wallet and the orange lighter, then back up to kiss the top of Linda’s head while she pretended not to like it. The dogs swarmed; he gave them quick pats and shouldered into his hoodie.

Outside, the decorations he and Linda had put up glowed soft—orange rope lights, a plastic ghost fluttering on the porch, the stupid cardboard moon shining in the window. It made the house look like it was trying. That helped.

He slid into the Cavalier, turned the key. The engine grumbled awake. He set his phone in the cup holder, hit the mic. “N-navigate to R-Rapid C-Cash.”

The nice lady told him what to do. He put the car in gear, pulled into the blue dusk, and felt that old mix of pride and dread unfurl in his stomach.

Two hundred. Cleveland. Velvet Room. Knock twice. Say you’re J.

“E-easy,” he told the wheel. “P-piece of c-cake.”

He put his head down and drove.

It was after 8 when Joey got to Cleveland. It was dark, and The Velvet Room bled neon onto the wet brick just outside, the light stuttering like it was trying to warn him off. Joey parked two blocks down and walked back with his hood tight, the envelope warm under his hoodie and eve warmer under his palm. Every step made his stomach feel lighter and wrong at the same time.

The side alley smelled like beer and garbage. He found the metal door—scarred, dented—and knocked twice the way Ronnie had said.

A slit of light. An eye. The chain scraped; the door cracked. Big guy. Shaved head. Bored face. Nobody Joey knew.

“I—I’m J,” Joey managed. “F-from R-Ronnie.”

The man glanced at the corner of the envelope peeking from Joey’s hoodie. “That goes to Vinnie. Follow.”

Vinnie. The name was a rumor everywhere, said like a dare or a prayer. Joey swallowed hard and followed.

Inside was heat and haze. Bass thumped through the floor like a second heart, red light smeared the mirrors, and the air tasted like citrus cleaner and cigarettes. Two dancers moved slow on the stage; a handful of men hunched over their drinks as if the world ended at their elbows. A bartender wiped a glass with the same rag, eyes half-lidded. A bouncer pointed Joey toward a dark patch near the end of the bar. “Wait.”

So he waited.

One minute passed. He counted the purple strobe blink four times, fingers finding the edge of the envelope and pressing it flat.

Three minutes. The song changed to something slower; a laugh cut the air and died quick. The floor was sticky under his boots. He tried to stand on one foot, then the other, like that would help him breathe.

Five minutes. The guy didn’t come back. The music felt like it was climbing into his chest. Joey’s tongue went dry. He shifted. Looked at the beaded curtain in the back and away again. He told himself to stay put. He told himself he was being paid to stand still and be nothing.

Ten. The envelope felt damp now where his palm wouldn’t let go. The bass crawled up his spine. A dancer flipped her hair and the red lights made it all look like underwater.

Joey couldn’t take it.

He slid along the wall, head down, and slipped behind the curtain. Beads clicked against his shoulder and spilled him into a narrow corridor with mop-water air and buzzing fluorescents. Scuffed doors lined the hall, each with letters stenciled he didn’t bother trying to make make sense. A gray mat, a mop bucket, a plastic bin of clean towels, a fan half-dead and rattling. Voices seeped from the last door on the left—low at first, then sharpened, like someone nicked a nerve.

Joey knocked once then, because panic made him dumb, pushed it open.

He stopped moving.

On the floor: a plastic sheet, the smear of something dark, and Ethan Chambers sprawled half on, half off it. Ethan—three grades behind Joey at Warren High, bright smile under a helmet, the kind of kid people pointed at and said that one. Football star. Future. Now his shoelace trailed in red and his eyes didn’t see anything.

A younger guy by the sink held a roll of bags like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Another man perched on the corner of a table, slick hair, chain catching light, watching like he loved bad news. And in the middle, rings gleaming, belly pressing his shirt like it was a throne: Vinnie Mancuso, standing the way a man stands when he expects gravity to step aside.

Then there was the tall one—dark skinned, broad shoulders under a long coat, a stillness that didn’t belong in a room like this. Black eyes, unreadable. He looked up slow.

“E—Ethan?” The name ripped out of Joey, small and wrong.

And suddenly, all the heads turned. The room tilted angrily.

“Who the hell is this?” Vinnie asked, voice lazy and sharp at the edges.

Joey lifted the envelope with both hands the way you lift a white flag. “I—I w-was s-sent by R-Ronnie—my b-brother—t-to d-drop—”

The slick-haired man slid off the table and crossed the room like a blade. He plucked the envelope out of Joey’s grip with two fingers, lip bending. “What is this, preschool pick-up?”

Vinnie didn’t look at him. He kept Joey pinned with a mild smile that felt like teeth. “Ronnie,” he said, savoring the name. “Good man.” He tipped his chin at the tall one. “My guy’ll take care of you. Get you what you’re owed.”

The way he said take care made something kick hard under Joey’s ribs. He nodded anyway, because nodding was the only thing he could still do.

The tall man stepped forward. Up close, he was taller than Joey had thought—heat and weight and a kind of quiet that made the noise fall away. His hand closed around Joey’s elbow—firm, not cruel, a grip that said move. “Come on,” he said, voice low enough to feel more than hear.

Joey moved.

Back through the beads—click, click, click against his shoulder—past the red hum and the mirrors and the blank faces at the bar, the bass drumming through his bones. The man’s hand stayed on his elbow, a steady weight that made the floor stop tilting. Joey felt the size of him without looking—saw the flat line of his mouth in the glass, the feather of a jawline, the way the coat fell over his shoulders. He smelled like soap and cold air in a room that smelled like everything else. It hit him in a place he didn’t have words for. A live wire touched something in him that had never sparked before—an electric pull that scared him more than the plastic sheet had, and that made no sense at all.

He swallowed hard and kept moving, because the hand on his arm wasn’t asking.

The side door banged open on cold. The night air bit his cheek and neon stuttered across wet concrete. Out here the bass was a heartbeat behind a wall. The man’s hand stayed where it was, not letting go until the alley’s mouth widened and the dark felt like it might cover them.

Joey didn’t fight it. Not yet. He let himself be steered, breath shaking, thoughts loud as sirens. He told himself it was because the man knew where to go. He told himself it was because his knees felt unreliable. He did not let himself look too long at the hand on his arm or think about the way his skin seemed to know exactly where that touch was.

They crossed to the darker cut of alley across the street, neon thinning to a cold, bluish smear. The man set Joey with his back to the wall, one hand open against his chest—not rough, just immovable—like he was pinning a note where it wouldn’t blow away.

“Name’s D,” he said. His voice wasn’t loud; it didn’t need to be. “You need to listen to me. Vinnie’s not paying you. Vinnie’s not letting you walk. You stepped into a room you don’t survive. He’s already decided you’re a problem. And he doesn’t let problems breathe.”

The words landed heavy and simple. Joey swallowed hard. Ethan’s face flickered behind his eyes; Vinnie’s rings; the plastic sheen on tile.

“I—I’ll g-go h-home,” Joey said, breath fogging. “I’ll l-lay low. I’ll—”

“You go home, you die.” D didn’t blink. “He will put a car on your street and wait for your front light to come on. He’ll knock on your mother’s door and ask for you by name. You won’t hear the second knock.”

Joey’s chest hitched. The alley felt smaller. D felt closer. He couldn’t stop staring: the clean line of his mouth, the steadiness in his eyes, the heat coming off him in the cold. Something wired inside Joey sparked at how sure this man was—how the world seemed to organize itself around him. It made Joey want to lean in and bolt at the same time.

“I c-can’t j-just go,” he said, shaking his head until his hair fell into his eyes. “M-my mom—she n-needs me. The k-kids. The d-dogs. I c-can’t l-leave them.”

D’s hand rose from Joey’s chest to his shoulder, heavier now, steadying. “If you stay, you don’t help them. You make your porch a crime scene.”

“I—n-no.” Joey’s palms pressed the brick behind him like he could push the night away. The pull toward D—toward the certainty in him—scared him stupid. He’d never wanted to be near anyone before. Not like this. Not to a man with a voice like a loaded gun. “I’m g-going h-home.”

D watched him a beat, head tilted like he was measuring time in Joey’s pulse. His thumb pressed once into the seam of Joey’s hoodie, a small, grounding weight.

“I’ve got a car one block down,” he said, softer now. “New phone in the glove box, cash in an envelope. You and I walk to Greyhound. I watch you get on. You don’t come back. That’s how you live.”

“I c-can’t,” Joey whispered, and he meant both things.

D’s jaw flexed. A car door slammed out on the street; voices rose and fell. He looked that way and came back to Joey fast, decision made.

“Then I’m sorry,” he said.

“For wh—”

The strike was quick and precise, a sharp tap at the hinge of Joey’s jaw—enough to flip the switch without breaking anything. The alley lit up white then everything shifted. He felt D catch him before the ground did—an arm under his shoulders, hand at his waist, strong and careful, arranging him like he mattered.

The last thing that reached him was heat and steadiness: D’s coat against his cheek, the clean scent of soap under cold air, a voice near his ear saying, low and intent, “I’ve got you.”

The bass from the club thudded once, distant as a heartbeat in another room. Then it all ran dark as D lifted him and carried him out of the alley, sure-footed and unhurried, like a man who had already decided how the night would go.