Quincy shows me the phone. He’s texting Beverly.

Found the gun.

In a vent at the Pike building.

Behind the belt table.

Chris and Justin searching for it now.

Get outta there!

“Quincy,” I whisper. “We can’t get caught in here.”

“I know. Come on, let’s go.” He grabs my arm.

I nod in agreement. We gotta bounce.

We creep to the exit door as they are occupied looking under the forklift. I turn the handle slowly, scoot out. Quincy follows. We close the door behind us. My neck tense from straining in one spot, eyes blinded after moving from the darkness to the outside.

“Run on three.” Quincy counts down with his hands. Then whispers, “Run.”

Mama said my biggest weakness is I don’t have self-control. She joked about me being like Lot’s wife from the Bible. That I’d be just like her, turning my back to watch when God said not to. The burning flames of the city too tempting to watch. Then she turned into a pillar of salt. But when Quincy says “run,” I run. Fast, like I’m being swept by the wind. Don’t stop until we’re safely in the car.

There’s a moment of panic when he starts the engine—no way Chris and Justin don’t hear us—but then we’re peeling out and flying ninety miles an hour down the highway, quickly taking an exit when we see a fleet of police cars coming toward us. When they race past us, I gulp.

Then turn to look back.

COMING HOME

After a quick shower, I meet Quincy outside my house. We sit close on my porch; he wears a borrowed shirt of Jamal’s. My leg leans into his as we try to sort out what we know so far. Our fingers dangle next to each other’s. They touch, and a warm zing goes off inside. A soft smile escapes from Quincy, but we don’t speak. Too much at stake right now.

A truck speeds toward my house. It’s Steve.

As Steve parks, I bite my lip. I’m light-headed and dizzy. We can bring Jamal home now.

I text Jamal.

Steve’s here.

We found the gun.

He’s going to help.

Meet us at the house.

Everything’s going to be okay.

I pray I’m right.

Fifteen minutes later, the back door creaks. Jamal’s hands are shoved in his pockets, his thin white hoodie draped over his head. I wrap my arms around him like I haven’t seen him in days.

Home feels normal again. Until he takes his hood off. His face is stormy, as Daddy used to say. All his feelings trapped in his body—wind, rain, heat, thunder—all spinning inside.

Quincy comes down the hallway and jumps on Jamal. They hug. Wide smiles, half hugs before doing their handshake routine.

“Man. It’s good to see you,” Quincy says.