The job wasn’t finished—still needed to realign a jammed elevator hinge and sign off on the maintenance log. Nothing mission-critical. Just the kind of thing I usually cared about doing right. But today, I couldn’t bring myself to give a damn. The heat was too thick. The air too still. And something else had already started gnawing at the back of my skull.
I told myself I’d head back later.
But I knew I wouldn’t.
Because I wasn’t in town just to turn wrenches.
Not really.
I turned the truck away from the airstrip and pointed it downtown. Not the Charleston from the magazines—no cobblestones or boutique hotels. I was headed for the underbelly. The forgotten parts. The parts the city tried to scrub from its brochures. Where windows were cracked, corners burned, and history lingered in the walls like mold.
I cracked the window as I drove. Let the smell hit me—fried grease, hot pavement, old AC units fighting for their lives. Placeslike this had their own scent. Their own rhythm. You just had to be quiet enough to hear it.
I didn’t wear anything that stood out. Faded jeans, boots, and a nondescript tee. I kept my profile low and my eyes moving. It didn’t matter that I could buy this whole block twice over—I wasn’t here to flex. I was here for the pull.
It always started the same. A twitch. A knot in the gut. Sometimes I tried to ignore it. Pretend I didn’t feel it. But it always came back stronger the next time.
So, I followed it.
Today it took me three blocks past a junkyard, two corners into gang territory, and down a stretch of broken sidewalk where weeds pushed up through the cracks like they were staging a rebellion. I rolled slow. Real slow.
Then I saw him.
Kid. Couldn’t have been older than ten. Limping hard on his right leg, like it hadn’t healed right from something serious. He was small. Thin. Wore an oversized basketball jersey and shoes that looked like they used to belong to two different people.
He moved like someone who didn’t want to be noticed. Which meant I noticed him immediately.
I coasted the truck forward and parked two houses down. Killed the engine. Watched him for a beat.
He kept glancing over his shoulder. Smart. Wary.
I stepped out of the cab.
“Hey,” I called.
He didn’t stop.
“I’m not a cop.”
Still walking. Faster now.
“You hurt?”
That one got him. He paused. Barely. Then kept going.
I followed at a casual distance. Hands in pockets. Voice low.
“You break that leg?”
He didn’t answer.
I picked up the pace, but not enough to spook him. He started to veer off the sidewalk and cut through a narrow alley between two rundown duplexes.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Bike accident. Hit a pothole. Flipped. Landed hard. Couldn’t afford the hospital.”
That stopped him cold.
He turned slowly. Looked me over from head to toe.
