By the second week of slinging burgers and tacos at Grillz on Wheels, Ty had started to move like he was born for the job. His hands weren't clumsy anymore. He flipped patties with one hand while calling out orders with the other, and he was even starting to catch the rhythm of Tina's voice whenever she barked, "Two tacos, extra salsa! Who's on fries?!"
"Yo, Ty, you got my fries burned last time," a lanky sophomore named Devon Carver said from the front of the line, smirking like he was the funniest dude on campus. His baseball cap was tilted, backpack dangling off one shoulder.
Ty squinted, flipped a basket of fries up onto the counter with a little flair, and smirked right back. "Man, if I burned 'em, that was love. That's called extra flavor."
The line chuckled. Devon shook his head but slid cash into the register anyway.
The thing about working the truck was… it wasn't just about food. It was about community. The students waiting in line weren't just customers—they were regulars, personalities, people who Ty was starting to recognize like the faces on old neighborhood blocks.
There was Tasha Wright, the arts major with paint smudges always on her sleeves who ordered veggie tacos every single day. Marcus "Big Mac" Daniels, a defensive lineman who swore he could down five double burgers in one sitting and actually proved it one Tuesday night. And Nia Patel, who didn't even eat here—she just came by to sip her mango smoothie and sit close to the music the truck speakers blasted out.
Ty felt himself slipping into this new world slowly, like breaking in a pair of sneakers. It wasn't home yet, but it was fitting.
Still, it wasn't smooth sailing all the way.
On Thursday, the first sign of real trouble showed up.
A shiny black Charger pulled up across the street while Ty was on his lunch break, wiping sweat from his forehead with a napkin. He didn't notice at first, but Rash nudged him with his elbow.
"Aye, peep that," Rash said low.
From the Charger, Dante "D-Money" Morris climbed out like he was stepping into a music video. Gold chain gleaming, crisp polo shirt, that cocky smirk plastered on his face. Behind him was his right-hand man Flip Johnson, chewing gum so loud it was disrespectful.
They leaned on the car, looking at the truck. Looking at Ty.
Ty felt his stomach tighten. It wasn't like they rushed up or anything—they didn't need to. Their presence alone was a message: We see you.
Tina didn't notice at first, busy yelling at Marky for almost dropping a tray of burritos. But Ty noticed. Oh, he noticed.
"You think they just hungry?" Rash asked, cracking a grin, though his eyes stayed sharp.
"Nah," Ty muttered, still watching Dante's smile widen. "They circlin'. That's all."
That night, after closing up, Ty helped Tina count the day's cashbox. The warm yellow glow from the truck's little overhead light made the bills and coins shine. Tina caught the look on Ty's face as he stared out the window, half-distracted.
"You good?" she asked.
"Yeah… just tired," Ty lied.
Truth was, he felt the past and the future tugging at him at the same time. Westside wasn't some place you escaped clean. Dante was proof of that. You left the block, but the block never left you. And now, just when Ty was finding a rhythm, building something steady, the shadows of that old life started creeping back.
He thought about his mom's last words before she passed. "Don't let this place eat you alive, baby. Find somethin' better."
Was this job better? Was slinging fries and burgers really a step up—or just another version of survival?
Friday was chaos on campus.
A DJ set up across the quad blasting music. Students had a pop-up thrift market. The food truck line stretched halfway to the arts building, and Ty was in the middle of it all, sweat dripping down his temple as he tried to keep pace.
"Ty, we out of buns!" Marky shouted, panicking like it was the end of the world.
"What you mean we out of buns? Check the bottom shelf!"
"I checked!"
"Then check again!"
While Marky scrambled, Devon Carver came strolling back up, waving his receipt. "Yo, my fries cold, bruh."
Ty snatched the basket from his hand, threw it back into the fryer with a hiss, and grinned. "There. Hot now."
The whole crowd around the truck laughed, and Devon actually cracked up too.
For a moment, Ty felt light again. Like maybe this was where he belonged.
But then—he spotted Dante's Charger cruising by, slow, windows down, bass thumping. Dante didn't even stop this time. He just smirked, nodded once at Ty, and drove on.
The message was clear as day.
Ty wiped his hands on his apron, heartbeat in his ears. He wasn't sure if it was fear, anger, or determination rising inside him. Maybe all three.
That night, when Ty collapsed into his dorm bed, Rash and Marky already snoring on their bunks, Ty stayed wide awake staring at the ceiling.
"From fries to fights, huh?" he muttered to himself, rubbing his eyes. "Ain't never simple."
He turned on his side, staring at his sketchbook on the desk. Tomorrow he had his first real art project due, and somehow he had to balance that with a twelve-hour shift at the truck.
The grind wasn't slowing down. It was speeding up.
And now… Dante was in the picture.
Ty clenched his fist around the blanket and whispered to himself:
"They gon' see. I ain't goin' back down. Not this time."