Yusef was sitting on the edge of his bed. Still in his school clothes. Still wearing his jacket like he’d never taken it off.
His hands were in his lap.
And in his hands was my gun.
36
ZAHARA
“Yusef.” My voice came out barely above a whisper. “Baby, put the gun down.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t look at me. Just kept staring at the weapon in his hands like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.
“Yu, please. You’re scaring me. Put it down.”
Slowly, he raised his head.
And I saw it. The emptiness. The pain. The look of a child who’d been carrying something too heavy for far too long.
Then he lifted the gun.
And pressed it to his temple.
“NO!” I lunged forward but froze when his finger tightened on the trigger. “Yusef, don’t! Please, baby, don’t!”
“I couldn’t take it anymore.” Tears streamed down his face, his voice cracking. “He was making my life a living hell. Every single day. I had to make it stop.”
“Who? Who was making your life hell?”
“Nigel.” The name came out like poison. “It was Nigel. This whole time.”
My mind couldn’t process it. Nigel. Sweet, helpful Nigel. The boy who’d boxed cinnamon rolls at my table. The boy I’d trusted.
“I had to kill him,” Yusef sobbed. “And now I don’t wanna live. I don’t wanna be here anymore.”
“Don’t say that.” I was crying now too, my hands shaking, my heart shattering. “Please, baby, don’t say that. Give me the gun. We can figure this out. Just give me the gun.”
“There’s nothing to figure out! I killed him! I’m a murderer! They’re gonna take me away and lock me up and I’ll never see you again!”
“That’s not gonna happen. I won’t let it happen.” I took a small step closer. “But I need you to put the gun down first. Please, Yusef. I can’t lose you. You’re all I have. You’re everything to me.”
“I hate it here,” he whispered, the gun still pressed to his head. “I hate this apartment. I hate this school. I hate this life.”
“I know, baby. I know. And we’re gonna leave. I promise. We’re gonna go somewhere better. Somewhere safe. But I need you alive to do that. I need my son.”
His hand trembled. The gun wavered.
“Please,” I begged. “Give it to me. Let me help you.”
For a long moment, nothing happened. Just the sound of our breathing. The distant wail of sirens outside. The weight of everything pressing down on us.
Then, slowly, Yusef lowered the gun.
I moved fast. Grabbed it from his hands and pushed it across the bed, far from his reach. Then I pulled him into my arms and held on like my life depended on it.
Because it did.
He collapsed against me, sobbing. His whole body shaking. Twelve years old and carrying the weight of a lifetime.
