The bus wheezed to a stop three blocks from where it all began.Meekey stepped off into a neighborhood she barely recognized. The corner store was still there—different name, brighter lights—but the rest had changed. The liquor store where she used to hang out was now a yoga studio. The barbershop where Drew ran numbers had fresh paint and a “Now Hiring” sign in the window.She crossed the street slow, the way you do when you’re not sure if the ground beneath your feet is still yours.Her old apartment building loomed like a ghost at the end of the block. Five floors of faded brick and boarded-up windows. The place looked gutted. Hollow. Like it, too, had been doing time in its own way.She didn’t go inside.Instead, she turned the corner and walked toward the one place she still hoped would open its door.A narrow row house with chipping paint and flowerpots that had seen better days. Meekey climbed the stoop and knocked. Twice. Then waited.Footsteps. The door cracked.“Meekey?”Van
It had been three days since Meekey walked out of prison, and already the walls of Vanessa’s place felt too tight. The silence between diaper changes and cartoon reruns was too loud in her head. She needed out—not just for space, but for control. She hadn't had any in fourteen years, and now, even breathing felt like an act of rebellion.She told Vanessa she was going for a walk. Vanessa just nodded, no questions asked. That was love—or maybe caution. Either way, Meekey did not press it.She walked with her hood up, hands in her pockets, head low. The city had changed, but the bones were the same. She still recognized the cracks in the sidewalks, the lean of certain streetlamps, the way the sun hit the pavement at that late-morning angle.She turned corners without thinking, until she found herself at Lexington and Porter—the heart of old territory. And there it was. Steele’s Gym, red sign still chipped and barely hanging, but alive. The sound of fists meeting canvas and bags thudding
The next morning, Meekey sat in the corner of a greasy diner on 112th, nursing a black coffee that had long gone cold. A cracked window let in the steady hum of traffic, and from her booth she had a clear view of the boxing gym. Steele’s.Drew was in there.He came and went like clockwork now—clean cut, polished, punctual. A man who used to live in the shadows but now walked like he owned the damn sun. She watched him for two days. No crew. No muscle tailing him. Just a steady flow of young guys coming in and out of the gym, laughing, sweating, training.Too clean. Too easy.She wasn’t buying it.Drew didn’t leave the game. People like them didn’t get a graceful exit not without burying bodies or burning bridges. And Drew? He was the kind who left others to carry the torch while he lit cigars with hundred dollar bills.Meekey knew the look of someone hiding something in plain sight. The gym was a front. It always had been. The question was, what was he running now?She left the diner
Meekey had learned a lot behind bars. How to wait, how to watch and how to play dumb while plotting ten steps ahead. And how to pull a thread without the whole sweater unraveling around you. She spent the next two days building her plan. The van returned again Wednesday night—same alley, same crates, same rushed hand-off. Meekey stayed out of sight, perched in the shadows on the fire escape of the building next door. She watched every move: who drove, who opened the back door, where the crates went. She couldn’t risk getting too close yet. But she needed eyes on what was inside those boxes. That meant one thing: setting bait. Thursday morning, she slipped into the gym again. No one stopped her this time. She wore her hoodie low, her steps easy. A few of the guys nodded at her now. She was becoming familiar—and that made people careless. In the back hallway near the equipment closet, she found what she was looking for: a weak spot. An old security camera, slightly tilted, barel
Meekey did not sleep that night.She sat in Vanessa’s small kitchen with the lights off, staring out the window at nothing. The phone call looped in her mind—Natalie’s voice, cool and controlled, cutting through her like glass.“You don’t get to be sorry now.”She wasn’t wrong.Meekey had disappeared when Natalie was eight. Arrested in the middle of the night, dragged from their apartment in handcuffs while Natalie cried and begged the officers to stop. No warnings. No goodbyes. Just gone.And now, she wanted back in?That wasn’t how the world worked.But still, Meekey wasn’t giving up.Not again.The next morning, she called the outreach center again, this time from a different payphone. A woman named Tasha answered. She had a warm, easy tone—kind, the way people sound when they work with too many broken kids and still believe in hope.“Hi, Tasha,” Maya said, adjusting her voice. “I’m trying to get in touch with Natalie Cole. I’m... a family friend.”“Are you calling about the comm
The shelter on 9th and Crenshaw looked smaller than Meekey expected. Just a square of brick and peeling paint, wedged between an auto shop and a boarded-up deli. But when she stepped inside, warmth radiated from every corner—blankets stacked neatly in bins, laughter drifting from the kitchen, volunteers handing out hot bowls of soup to people who hadn’t eaten since yesterday.It was the kind of place Meekey never would’ve stepped foot in before prison. Back then, her pride was too sharp. She used to think places like this were for the weak.Now, she understood better.At the far end of the room, near the back door, stood Natalie.Meekey saw her before Natalie saw her.Her daughter was taller than she remembered. Thinner, hair pulled into a neat bun. No makeup, no frills—just a hoodie, jeans, and purpose. She moved with focus, her arms full of folded blankets, nodding to the others as she passed them out. She smiled too. The kind of smile Meekey had lost the right to claim.Meekey wait
Drew stood in the middle of Steele’s Gym, still wrapped in the stale heat of a sparring session, his gloves half-off, sweat dripping down his back. But his eyes were locked on the man in front of him—Javon.“She what?” Drew asked, voice dangerously quiet.Javon shifted. He wasn’t afraid, exactly—but he respected the line Drew walked when his voice dropped like that.“She was inside, Drew. The back room. She got pictures.”“When?”“Couple nights ago. Maintenance door in the alley—she wedged it open. Smart, clean. She didn’t take anything, but she was in deep enough to know what’s moving.”Drew yanked his gloves off completely, tossing them onto the bench. “And you’re just telling me now?”“I didn’t want to blow this up before I knew what she was doing with it. Besides, she talked to me first. Asked about you. She wasn’t trying to sell the info—at least, not yet.”Drew ran a hand over his face, jaw clenched.“I knew she’d come looking,” he muttered. “But I thought she’d be tired. Broken
Drew stood in the middle of Steele’s Gym, still wrapped in the stale heat of a sparring session, his gloves half-off, sweat dripping down his back. But his eyes were locked on the man in front of him—Javon.“She what?” Drew asked, voice dangerously quiet.Javon shifted. He wasn’t afraid, exactly—but he respected the line Drew walked when his voice dropped like that.“She was inside, Drew. The back room. She got pictures.”“When?”“Couple nights ago. Maintenance door in the alley—she wedged it open. Smart, clean. She didn’t take anything, but she was in deep enough to know what’s moving.”Drew yanked his gloves off completely, tossing them onto the bench. “And you’re just telling me now?”“I didn’t want to blow this up before I knew what she was doing with it. Besides, she talked to me first. Asked about you. She wasn’t trying to sell the info—at least, not yet.”Drew ran a hand over his face, jaw clenched.“I knew she’d come looking,” he muttered. “But I thought she’d be tired. Broken
The shelter on 9th and Crenshaw looked smaller than Meekey expected. Just a square of brick and peeling paint, wedged between an auto shop and a boarded-up deli. But when she stepped inside, warmth radiated from every corner—blankets stacked neatly in bins, laughter drifting from the kitchen, volunteers handing out hot bowls of soup to people who hadn’t eaten since yesterday.It was the kind of place Meekey never would’ve stepped foot in before prison. Back then, her pride was too sharp. She used to think places like this were for the weak.Now, she understood better.At the far end of the room, near the back door, stood Natalie.Meekey saw her before Natalie saw her.Her daughter was taller than she remembered. Thinner, hair pulled into a neat bun. No makeup, no frills—just a hoodie, jeans, and purpose. She moved with focus, her arms full of folded blankets, nodding to the others as she passed them out. She smiled too. The kind of smile Meekey had lost the right to claim.Meekey wait
Meekey did not sleep that night.She sat in Vanessa’s small kitchen with the lights off, staring out the window at nothing. The phone call looped in her mind—Natalie’s voice, cool and controlled, cutting through her like glass.“You don’t get to be sorry now.”She wasn’t wrong.Meekey had disappeared when Natalie was eight. Arrested in the middle of the night, dragged from their apartment in handcuffs while Natalie cried and begged the officers to stop. No warnings. No goodbyes. Just gone.And now, she wanted back in?That wasn’t how the world worked.But still, Meekey wasn’t giving up.Not again.The next morning, she called the outreach center again, this time from a different payphone. A woman named Tasha answered. She had a warm, easy tone—kind, the way people sound when they work with too many broken kids and still believe in hope.“Hi, Tasha,” Maya said, adjusting her voice. “I’m trying to get in touch with Natalie Cole. I’m... a family friend.”“Are you calling about the comm
Meekey had learned a lot behind bars. How to wait, how to watch and how to play dumb while plotting ten steps ahead. And how to pull a thread without the whole sweater unraveling around you. She spent the next two days building her plan. The van returned again Wednesday night—same alley, same crates, same rushed hand-off. Meekey stayed out of sight, perched in the shadows on the fire escape of the building next door. She watched every move: who drove, who opened the back door, where the crates went. She couldn’t risk getting too close yet. But she needed eyes on what was inside those boxes. That meant one thing: setting bait. Thursday morning, she slipped into the gym again. No one stopped her this time. She wore her hoodie low, her steps easy. A few of the guys nodded at her now. She was becoming familiar—and that made people careless. In the back hallway near the equipment closet, she found what she was looking for: a weak spot. An old security camera, slightly tilted, barel
The next morning, Meekey sat in the corner of a greasy diner on 112th, nursing a black coffee that had long gone cold. A cracked window let in the steady hum of traffic, and from her booth she had a clear view of the boxing gym. Steele’s.Drew was in there.He came and went like clockwork now—clean cut, polished, punctual. A man who used to live in the shadows but now walked like he owned the damn sun. She watched him for two days. No crew. No muscle tailing him. Just a steady flow of young guys coming in and out of the gym, laughing, sweating, training.Too clean. Too easy.She wasn’t buying it.Drew didn’t leave the game. People like them didn’t get a graceful exit not without burying bodies or burning bridges. And Drew? He was the kind who left others to carry the torch while he lit cigars with hundred dollar bills.Meekey knew the look of someone hiding something in plain sight. The gym was a front. It always had been. The question was, what was he running now?She left the diner
It had been three days since Meekey walked out of prison, and already the walls of Vanessa’s place felt too tight. The silence between diaper changes and cartoon reruns was too loud in her head. She needed out—not just for space, but for control. She hadn't had any in fourteen years, and now, even breathing felt like an act of rebellion.She told Vanessa she was going for a walk. Vanessa just nodded, no questions asked. That was love—or maybe caution. Either way, Meekey did not press it.She walked with her hood up, hands in her pockets, head low. The city had changed, but the bones were the same. She still recognized the cracks in the sidewalks, the lean of certain streetlamps, the way the sun hit the pavement at that late-morning angle.She turned corners without thinking, until she found herself at Lexington and Porter—the heart of old territory. And there it was. Steele’s Gym, red sign still chipped and barely hanging, but alive. The sound of fists meeting canvas and bags thudding
The bus wheezed to a stop three blocks from where it all began.Meekey stepped off into a neighborhood she barely recognized. The corner store was still there—different name, brighter lights—but the rest had changed. The liquor store where she used to hang out was now a yoga studio. The barbershop where Drew ran numbers had fresh paint and a “Now Hiring” sign in the window.She crossed the street slow, the way you do when you’re not sure if the ground beneath your feet is still yours.Her old apartment building loomed like a ghost at the end of the block. Five floors of faded brick and boarded-up windows. The place looked gutted. Hollow. Like it, too, had been doing time in its own way.She didn’t go inside.Instead, she turned the corner and walked toward the one place she still hoped would open its door.A narrow row house with chipping paint and flowerpots that had seen better days. Meekey climbed the stoop and knocked. Twice. Then waited.Footsteps. The door cracked.“Meekey?”Van
The gate clanged shut behind her with a metallic finality that echoed across the empty concrete. After fourteen years inside, the silence beyond the prison walls felt just as heavy as the noise within. Freedom was supposed to feel like lightness—like breath—but to Meekey, it settled on her shoulders like another sentence.A CO handed her a plastic bag with her name scrawled in black marker. Inside: one pair of jeans, a faded hoodie, a bus pass, seventy-six dollars in cash, and a letter from her daughter—crumpled, worn, read too many times.She changed in the bathroom by the visitor entrance, staring into the scratched mirror. The woman who looked back wasn’t the same woman who walked in here at twenty-seven. Her eyes had hardened. Hair shot through with strands of gray. A scar on her wrist from a fight in the yard. She'd survived prison. But what was waiting for her out there?The sun hit her face for the first time without a schedule. She blinked against the light, shielding her eyes