Mind your own or we put you on the ground next to him. The old biker on the pavement turned his head. His voice cracked.
Help me. Please. That broke something in Brandon’s chest.
Trent stepped between them, rusted wrench in his fist, tapped it against the motor. Get back to your kennel or cough up the money. I’ll spare this old man.
He asked for help. I’m helping him. Trent laughed, sharp through his nose.
The five behind him spread out wide. Six bullies, one Black young man, one Hells Angel bleeding on the ground.
The man begging for help was on every news channel by Monday. The hardest part of Brandon’s life wasn’t the work. It was being looked at like he was about to take something.
5:00 in the morning, the kitchen light was already on. Grandma Maylene was at the counter checking her blood sugar with the same kit she’d been using for 3 years.
The strip read high. She didn’t say anything, just wrote it in her notebook.
Brandon kissed the top of her head on the way to the stove. The oven door wouldn’t close all the way. He’d been meaning to fix it.
He pulled a screwdriver from his back pocket right next to the small adjustable wrench he always carried and tightened the hinge in under a minute. There. It’ll hold till payday.
Maylene smiled at him without looking up. You don’t have to fix everything around here, baby. Somebody’s got to.
He counted what was in his pocket on the way out. $34. He paused by the rent jar on the counter, looked over his shoulder, slid a folded 20 between the bills already inside.
He was almost out the door when she said his name. Brandon. He froze.
She was leaning in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. She wasn’t angry. She was something worse than angry. She was sad.
Bring that back. Grandma, bring it back, baby. He walked over, took the 20 out of the jar, held it in his palm.
