The hundred-dollar note felt like a live wire in Kyle's pocket, humming with dangerous potential. He stood frozen for a moment outside Biggsy's, the reality of what he'd just done crashing down on him. *Cocaine. A half-pound.* The words echoed, each one a hammer strike on his previous life. He wasn't a delivery boy. He was a drug courier. A *screw*, as they called the lowest runners in the game.
The fear was a cold sweat on his back, but beneath it, something else stirred. A fierce, defiant pride. He had done it. He had walked into the lion's den and come out not just unscathed, but *paid*. He looked at the money in his hand—real, tangible, more than he'd seen in months. It was a weapon against the helplessness that had been choking him.
His first stop was the pharmacy, a slightly more reputable one closer to the tourist strip where the medicines weren't always expired. The air inside was cool, smelling of talcum powder and chemicals. The woman behind the counter, with her crisp white uniform and tired eyes, looked at him with open suspicion. A boy like him, from the lanes, didn't belong here.
"Yes?" she asked, her tone implying he should state his business and leave.
Kyle kept his voice low, rehearsed. He listed the things the public health nurse had mentioned weeks ago—strong painkillers, the specific antibiotic that sometimes fought the infections his mother was prone to now. The woman's eyebrows rose slightly with each item.
"That is… a lot of money, youth," she said, her eyes flicking over his threadbare shirt.
Kyle didn't flinch. He met her gaze, the new, calculated part of him rising to the surface. He slowly pulled the hundred-dollar note from his pocket and laid it on the counter between them. The suspicion in her eyes didn't vanish, but it was joined by a pragmatic understanding. Money was money, regardless of the hand that held it. She took the note, gave him his change—a few coins that felt insignificant now—and bagged his purchases without another word.
The weight of the bag was different from the paper bag he'd delivered. This was a weight of triumph.
Next, he went to the market, the bustling, chaotic heart of Mobay where the air was thick with the smell of ripe fruit, smoked fish, and a thousand bodies crammed together. He moved with a new confidence, his earlier hunger replaced by a sharp, bargaining focus. He bought a fat chicken, its skin a healthy yellow, a bag of rice, callaloo, Scotch bonnet peppers, and a handful of sweet mangoes for Shona. He paid without wincing, without having to put anything back. For the first time, he was the customer the vendors smiled at, not the one they tolerated.
His final purchase was from a man selling electronic goods from a rickety table. A small, battery-powered fan. It was cheap, plastic, and probably wouldn't last the month, but it was a miracle.
When he pushed aside the floral curtain into the shack, the change was immediate. Shona looked up from where she was wiping their mother's forehead with a damp cloth. Her eyes went wide, darting from the bulging market bag to the pharmacy bag to the fan in his hand.
"Kyle?" Her voice was a mixture of hope and fear. "Wha'… how?"
Their mother stirred, her eyes fluttering open. They were clouded with pain, but a faint light of confusion sparked in them. "Kyle? Is wha' dat?"
"A little work, Mama," he said, his voice softer than he felt inside. He busied himself, avoiding their eyes. He set up the fan on an upturned crate, plugging the battery pack in. A whirring sound filled the room, and a blessedly cool breeze began to push the stifling, sickly air around. His mother sighed, a genuine sound of relief, and turned her face toward the gentle current.
Shona was unpacking the food, her hands trembling slightly. "Chicken?" she whispered, as if it were a mythical creature.
"We go eat good tonight," Kyle said, a real smile touching his lips for the first time in weeks. He showed his mother the medicine. "De nurse say dis will help di infection. Mek yuh strong."
Tears welled in his mother's eyes. She was too weak to question him, too grateful. She reached a thin, trembling hand out and squeezed his. "My good boy. My provider. God bless yuh, Kyle."
The words were a dagger. *Provider.* Yes. But at what cost? He pushed the guilt down, smothering it with the image of her less-pained expression, with the sound of Shona humming as she started to prepare the stew. The smell of sickness was still there, but it was now mingled with the rich, life-affirming aroma of food. He had done this. The money from the devil's errand had bought a moment of grace.
That night, with full stomachs and a slightly cooler room, felt almost normal. Almost. The envelope of cash Biggsy had taken, the one that felt so heavy, haunted the edges of Kyle's thoughts. His hundred dollars was a king's ransom to them, but it was just a single note from a stack. A stack earned in an hour. The math was intoxicating and terrifying.
Monday came too quickly. The comfort of the weekend evaporated under the brutal morning sun. The fear returned, colder now, because he knew exactly what he was walking into. He told Shona he had another delivery job—a lie that felt thin and pathetic.
Biggsy was waiting for him, and he wasn't alone. Leaning against the counter was a man Kyle recognized, and the recognition sent a jolt of pure ice through his veins. Dujuan. Not a big man, but a dangerous one. A known enforcer for the Spanglers. He was lean and wiry, with a network of scars on his arms and a cold, deadness in his eyes that made Kyle want to look away. He wore a red bandana tied around his wrist—the Spangler color.
"Him?" Dujuan said, his voice a flat, disinterested rasp. He looked Kyle up and down as if appraising a piece of meat.
"Him smart. And hungry," Biggsy said, not looking up from a racing form. "Kyle, dis is Dujuan. Yuh will be working wid him today. Him show yuh di ropes."
This was not what Kyle had expected. A bigger delivery, yes. A shadowy figure in a car, yes. But not a personal escort from a man who looked like he enjoyed hurting people.
Dujuan pushed himself off the counter. "Come. No time fi waste."
Their first stop was not a gas station. Dujuan led him down a maze of back alleys behind the tourist craft market, to a door so faded and graffitied it was nearly invisible. Dujuan knocked a complex rhythm. A slit opened, eyes appeared, and the door swung inward.
The inside was a shock. It was a small, sweltering hot room that reeked of ammonia and sweat. Two men, shirtless, their skin gleaming, were meticulously weighing white powder on a small scale, packing it into tiny, plastic-wrapped balls. Baggies. The cocaine. It was everywhere. On the table, in bowls, dusting the floor. The air was thick with it. This was no longer an abstract concept in a paper bag; this was the raw, gritty reality of the trade.
A man with a lazy eye and a pistol tucked into the waistband of his shorts nodded at Dujuan. "Di order ready. Forty piece."
Dujuan jerked his head at Kyle. "Pick up di bag. Don't drop it."
The man handed Kyle a black plastic grocery bag. It was heavier than it looked, filled with the little deadly balls. Kyle's palms were sweating. This was forty sales. Forty arrests. Forty reasons for someone to put a bullet in him.
The delivery route was a masterclass in tension. Dujuan didn't say a word, just walked a few paces ahead, his eyes constantly scanning, a predator moving through his territory. Kyle followed, the bag feeling like it was screaming his guilt to the world.
They made stops in barber shops where the music cut off when they entered, in tenement yards where hard-faced women took the baggies with practiced ease, and once, to a waiter from one of the big hotels who met them out back by the dumpsters, his hotel uniform a stark contrast to their grim transaction.
At each stop, Dujuan would take the money, a wad of bills growing thicker in his pocket, and hand the product over. He was efficient, cold, and utterly terrifying. Kyle was just the pack mule, the silent, frightened shadow.
The lesson wasn't in the delivery; it was in the atmosphere. It was in the way people's eyes dropped when Dujuan looked at them. It was in the casual way he rested his hand on the bulge under his shirt—a gun, Kyle was sure of it. It was in the unspoken language of power and fear that Dujuan wielded like a weapon. This was the respect Kyle craved. Not the polite kind, but the kind that made room for you when you walked down the street. The kind that ensured survival.
On their way back, cutting through an alley to avoid a police checkpoint, they saw it. A boy, maybe a year or two older than Kyle, pinned against a wall by two Zionists. One of them had a knife. Kyle froze, his blood turning cold.
"Where it is, star? Yuh tink yuh can sell rubbish inna we territory?" one of them hissed.
The boy was crying, trembling. "A didn't know! A swear! A just mek a delivery!"
"Fi who?!" the Zionist with the knife pressed the blade against the boy's throat.
Dujuan didn't even break stride. He grabbed Kyle's arm, his grip like iron, and yanked him behind a stack of rotting crates.
"Wha'… we can't—" Kyle started, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Dujuan clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes boring into Kyle's. "Shut. Yuh mouth." His whisper was venomous. "Watch. And learn."
They watched from the shadows. The Zionists slapped the boy, took the little money he had, and the product he was carrying. Then, the one with the knife, in a movement so casual it was chilling, sliced a deep cut down the boy's arm. The boy screamed, crumpling to the ground as blood soaked his shirt. The Zionists kicked him once, twice, for good measure, then melted away into the alley.
The boy lay sobbing in the dirt, clutching his bleeding arm.
Dujuan released Kyle and stood up. He looked down at the wounded boy without a shred of pity. "Stupid. Selling fi a small-time crew from Norwood. No protection. No respect." He spat near the boy's head. "Dat is wha' happen when yuh have ambition but no power. Yuh understand?"
Kyle could only nod, his throat tight. He understood. The world wasn't just about making money. It was about having the power to keep it. The power to make others too afraid to take it from you.
Dujuan finally looked at him. "Yuh see di politician dem earlier? Dey see we. Dey know we. But dey no bother we. Why?"
Kyle shook his head, unable to speak.
"Because Biggsy pay dem. Every week. Dey get a taste, so dey look di other way. Power no just 'bout fear. Is 'bout connection. Yuh need both. Remember dat."
They left the boy bleeding in the alley. The lesson was over.
Back at Biggsy's, Dujuan dumped the day's earnings on the counter. Biggsy counted it out swiftly and handed Kyle two hundred-dollar notes. Double yesterday's pay. Blood money. Lesson money.
Kyle took it. His hand didn't shake this time.
He walked home, the images of the day burning behind his eyes: the glint of the knife, the blood on the dirt, the deadness in Dujuan's eyes, the stack of money on Biggsy's counter. The fear was still there, a constant companion. But it was now mixed with a dark, dawning comprehension.
He had provided for his family again. He could buy more medicine, better food. But the hunger in him had shifted. It was no longer just for money. It was for what Dujuan had. For the power that made the police look away and rivals think twice. For the respect that was paid in fear.
He rounded the corner onto his lane, already thinking of what he would buy tomorrow, his mind racing with the brutal calculus of power he'd just been taught.
He stopped dead.
Parked crookedly outside his shack was the unmarked white Toyota. The two policemen from the Hill were there. One was leaning against the car, arms crossed. The other was standing in his doorway, talking to Shona, whose small face was pale with fear.
The cop in the doorway saw Kyle. A slow, unpleasant smile spread across his face.
"Kyle Wilson?" he said, his voice loud enough for the whole lane to hear. "We need to have a little talk. 'Bout yuh new career."