The night they took Jayden in, the air felt colder than usual — that kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there.
He was fourteen. Old enough to know he was in trouble, young enough to still think maybe someone would come get him.
Nobody did.
It started like every other bad day — an argument at school, words thrown like knives, and then the swing of a fist that hit the wrong kid. This time it wasn't just another fight. The kid fell, cracked his head on the curb. The ambulance came. The cops weren't far behind.
They called it "assault."
Jayden called it another mistake he couldn't take back.
The holding cell smelled like metal and sweat. A steel bench, flickering light, and that heavy silence that comes right after your world shifts for good.
He didn't cry. He just stared at the gray wall and thought about Layla — wondering if she'd even recognize him now.
When they transferred him to the juvenile detention center, it felt more like a warehouse than a place for kids. Concrete walls, cameras in every corner, doors that clanged shut like final decisions. The guards barked orders, the kids barked back, and everyone tried to look tougher than they felt.
"Welcome to Benton Youth Facility," a guard said as Jayden stepped through intake. "Keep your head down and your hands to yourself. You'll be fine."
He didn't feel fine.
The first week was the hardest.
The noise never stopped — shouting, laughter, metal doors slamming. The food came in gray trays that tasted like cardboard. Fights broke out over everything — a look, a word, a stolen dessert.
Jayden learned fast. Stay quiet. Eat quick. Don't stare too long.
But trouble found him anyway.
It happened in the yard — a tall kid with tattoos already crawling up his arms bumped Jayden's shoulder and said, "Watch where you're goin', rookie."
Jayden didn't back down. He never did.
The next thing he knew, fists were flying, and the guards were dragging them both to isolation.
That's when he met Miguel.
Miguel was sixteen, two years older, with sharp eyes and a crooked grin that looked like it had seen too much. He'd been in and out of juvie since he was eleven — petty theft, breaking and entering, fighting. But there was something different about him. He wasn't loud like the others. He watched everything.
When they ended up in isolation cells next to each other, Jayden heard him humming through the vent. It wasn't a song he recognized, but it was calm — too calm for a place like this.
"You always hum like that?" Jayden asked through the wall.
Miguel chuckled. "Only when I'm bored. You new?"
"Yeah."
"You'll get used to it."
Jayden scoffed. "Don't plan on staying long."
"None of us do," Miguel said, his voice soft, almost sad. "But the system's got a long memory."
Over the next few days, they talked through that wall.
About music. About food. About how messed up everything was. Miguel had a way of making the place feel a little less heavy, like he'd figured out how to laugh in the dark.
When they finally got out of isolation, they met face-to-face. Miguel offered his hand. "Guess we ain't just voices now," he said.
Jayden hesitated, then shook it.
That handshake became something more than respect — it became the start of something Jayden didn't think he'd ever have again: a real friend.
Miguel taught him how to survive there without losing himself.
"Don't fight every battle," he said one day in the yard. "Pick the ones that matter."
"Everything matters," Jayden shot back.
Miguel smirked. "Nah, man. Not everything's worth your peace."
They spent months together — eating in the same hall, playing basketball in the yard, watching other kids come and go. Some nights, when the lights went out, they'd talk about the outside world — what they'd do when they got out. Miguel wanted to start a car shop. Jayden didn't know what he wanted. He just knew he didn't want to end up like everyone else in there.
"You got heart, J," Miguel said one night. "Don't let this place take that from you."
But Benton had a way of taking pieces of you anyway.
Jayden saw kids break — crying in the dark, screaming when the guards came too rough, giving up. He promised himself he wouldn't be one of them. But every week that passed chipped away a little more.
When Miguel's release date came, he packed up his things in a small plastic bag. Before he left, he found Jayden in the yard.
"You'll be out soon, too," Miguel said. "When you are, look me up. Southside. Ask for Migs. I'll be around."
Jayden nodded, pretending it didn't hurt to see him go.
After Miguel left, the place felt emptier. But Jayden held onto that friendship — the first one that wasn't based on fear or pity.
A few months later, Jayden got released, too.
New paperwork, new address, another "fresh start." They called it a youth institution — a step-down home for kids coming out of lockup. But it still had locked doors, curfews, and guards who smiled like they'd already given up on you.
Still, Jayden felt different this time.
Miguel's words echoed in his head: Not everything's worth your peace.
He didn't know it yet, but another friendship was waiting for him inside that new institution — one that would stay with him long after the gates opened.