RJ had finished painstakingly collecting every crumb he had laid out for himself on the arm of his lawn chair, rolled the paper, and lit it. Right before he put it to his lips, he gave in obligatory half-nod and a handoff that made it about a quarter of the distance to Jasmine: his way of offering. Of course, he knew she'd decline. She was a good girl, of course. He inhaled deeply, and enjoyed it himself.

"I'mma get you to smoke wit me, one of these days," he declared casually.

"Nuh-uh, you know I don't do stuff like that."

"Yeah, yeah, I know you say that."

"And I mean it. Besides, my dad would absolutely freak out if she saw me doing that," she protested.

"Yeah, well, he ain't here no more is he," he griped, though as soon as the words escaped his lips he quickly wished they hadn't come out like that. He expected her to snap back at him, but she said nothing. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, gazing into the setting sun. They weren't that high up, but the view from the roof was still a sight for her to behold. One could see where the sea and land met, and where the dark blue fingers of the ocean had begun to stretch and crawl over the valley. It left her to contemplate the sadness and the beauty and the glory of it all encapsulated in her tiny window of a view, as if gazing into a transparent marble.

"You're right, he's not," she finally acknowledged. Reluctantly, she extended a wavering arm toward RJ, with her index and thumb positioned to accept the joint from him. But at the last second, he flicked it off the roof. She gazed at him in confusion.

"I guess," he simply replied, rising from his seat. "Well, I got somewhere to be."

"Ron," she called after him. "I mean, RJ." Her eyes had worry in them.

"Yeah?"

"I've been thinking, what if we went to college together?"

"You crazy?"

"I'm serious. I know you're smart. I mean, if you applied yourself at school, I'm sure you could get into a decent school. Even if it's just community college. And I'd be with you. I'd help you."

"You'd 'help' me?" he scoffed. "That's some fairy tale. Look, not everyone is cut out for the square lifestyle. If you thought this is what that could be, then you were mistaken."

"Then why'd you let me stay with you, Ron? Isn't it because you like me?"

"I felt sorry for you," he declared sharply. Each word stabbed her like a needle.

"You? Felt sorry for me?" she shot back incredulously, nearly choking over her own words.

"You don't know how the world works. You're sheltered," he continued. His tone was even. He wasn't being malicious. "And then your daddy died. He didn't teach you nothin.'"

"What is this? A lecture? You sound like you wanna be my dad, not my boyfriend."

"I don't want anything from you, Jasmine. At least, not anymore. You've been going through it, I know. And that's life. But sometimes, I don't think you realize how lucky you've been. Don't spoil that."

He left her there alone on the roof to brood over what he said. RJ cinched his hoodie tight and put his head down as he jammed his hands in his pockets as he hurried down the stairway.

Michael bounded up the porch steps, nearly tripping once or twice as he clutched his palms over his stomach and felt his heart booming through his skin.

He stopped in front of the door. His fist hovered in front of his face as he hesitated to knock. This was the moment. Jasmine was on the other side of the barrier, waiting for him. He didn't even know what he would say. Something witty. Something tough. Something romantic. Maybe at just the sight of her rescuer, she would fall in his arms and he'd carry her away. The fantasy brought him the greatest ecstasy; pushed directly against the fragile, filmy membrane of the uncertain reality, it sparked in him a paralyzing fear that caused his joints to throb and the sweat to pour from his underarms. His insides screamed for him to move his extremities forward, go forward, punch through the fantasy and make his prize a reality. First, he had to vanquish the villain.

He pushed the door open and stepped cautiously inside. A tall, lanky young man in a hoodie was just turning the corner. He barely lifted his head to acknowledge Michael with a half-nod.

"Wussgood," he murmured as he brushed past.

"Wh-what's good witchu?" Michael stammered with every ounce of machismo he could muster in that instant.

"What?" RJ turned around, glaring at Michael's back with his face twisted up in a scowl.

"Stay away from Jasmine," he mumbled.

"Yo where you from, dawg!" growled RJ as he grabbed Michael's shoulder and spun him around. "Who the fuck are—"

A bang echoed throughout the hollow passageway, punctuated by a deathly silence and a numbness that came when the world seemed to whirl at a dizzying speed. RJ felt underneath his drenched hoodie. He lifted his hand out from underneath and saw that his palm was painted red.

His eyes met the eyes of his strange enemy. It wasn't a face he recognized. In his eyes was a peculiar, distrusting, wide-eyed look that made him feel like he might as well have sprouted horns, with a mix of fascination and fear for the strange beast for which he shared no sense of commonality.

RJ tried to say something.His mouth had gone dry. His adrenaline had seeped from his deflated body as he scrambled to attach reason to everything in front of him. He tried to step forward. Michael reluctantly backed away, nearly letting the gun slip from his grasp. He stumbled backward, losing his balance. He felt his stomach. He was mortified that he didn't feel what he thought he should've felt.

"Yo what the fuck was that!" he heard the voice of an older man exclaim from upstairs. Suddenly, one set of footsteps became several.

Michael looked up and saw them coming. His eyes were pleading. It wasn't what it looked like. They had Jasmine. This was for her protection. They wouldn't believe him.

"They shot my little brother, yo! They shot RJ!"

He heard a sharp thud. Suddenly, Michael's back was against the wall. His chin peeled over his chest; his palms were numb beside him. Even still, he could hear more gunshots volleying back and forth above him until it all died down. Finally, a masked man stood above Michael. He raised his gun to Michael's forehead, though he hesitated to deliver the coup de grace. The look in his eyes was perplexing. Michael, as he lay there with the hole in his stomach, his cheeks were burning hot, as they tensed and struggled to hold back the surging tears. Still, he was compelled to muster a dwindling smile as he choked and convulsed.

"It hurts," he whimpered. "It hurts so bad. I can't. I don't wanna die."

The masked man sighed. "Will you quit whining, kid."

He was distracted by the horrified scream of a young girl who had collapsed to her knees at the end of the hall. She covered her face and left a small opening to peek as the specter lifted Michael's lifeless body and dragged him along the ground leaving a trail of blood underneath. Her pupils were desperate and fluttering, bouncing along the walls as the dank aroma of blood and iron overtook her senses. Finally, she looked into the dead eyes of the boy that she knew was Michael.

She mouthed his name once more as she cried.