Brooklyn was already awake.
Not the polite kind of awake either.
Not the kind where people stretched, yawned, and greeted the morning with a smile.
Brooklyn woke up arguing.
By seven-thirty in the morning, somebody was already leaning halfway out of a second-floor apartment window yelling down at the street. A delivery truck sat double-parked outside a laundromat while three impatient drivers leaned on their horns as if noise alone might move it. Music drifted from somewhere unseen, mixing with the rumble of traffic and the distant growl of a train crossing elevated tracks.
The city never seemed to begin.
It simply continued.
Jermaine Connors stepped out of the brownstone and pulled the front door shut behind him.
The morning air carried the faint smell of rain from the night before. The sidewalks still glistened in places where puddles had gathered beside the curb. Sunlight reflected off windows and windshields, bouncing between buildings until the whole block seemed brighter than it had any right to be.
Maine adjusted the strap of his backpack and started walking.
Three houses later, Mrs. Alvarez called his name.
She was standing on her stoop with a watering can in one hand and a look on her face that suggested she had already been awake for several hours.
"Jermaine."
He stopped.
There were certain people in the neighborhood you didn't ignore.
Mrs. Alvarez was one of them.
"Morning."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You tell your father I said thank you."
Maine sighed.
"Morning to you too."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
She pointed the watering can at him.
"Tell him."
"For what?"
"He's smart. He'll know."
There it was again.
The answer everyone gave.
Your father knows.
Tell Nas thank you.
Nas handled it.
Nas took care of it.
Maine had heard variations of it his entire life.
Sometimes he wondered if there was a second version of his father wandering around Brooklyn doing things nobody bothered explaining to him.
"I'll tell him."
"You better."
A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"And congratulations."
Maine immediately groaned.
"You too?"
"What?"
"Everybody keeps saying congratulations."
"You got accepted into Sovereign State."
"How does everybody know already?"
Mrs. Alvarez looked genuinely offended.
"Jermaine."
"What?"
"This is Brooklyn."
That somehow answered the question.
Maine laughed despite himself and continued down the block.
Fort Greene was changing.
Everybody knew it.
The old men playing dominoes outside the recreation center knew it.
The families who had lived there for generations knew it.
The young professionals jogging through the neighborhood with expensive headphones knew it too, even if they pretended not to.
Every year there seemed to be another luxury apartment building.
Another coffee shop.
Another storefront with prices that made absolutely no sense.
But some things remained.
Leo's Bodega was one of them.
The green awning had faded years ago.
The windows carried stickers from businesses that no longer existed.
The bell above the entrance rang with a tired metallic sound whenever someone walked through the door.
Maine pushed inside.
Immediately he heard Rome.
Not saw.
Heard.
Rome Neal possessed a special talent for being the loudest person in any room regardless of size.
"You late."
Maine hadn't even fully entered the store.
"You say that every day."
"Because every day you late."
Rome stood near the counter holding half a breakfast sandwich.
Half of it was hanging out of his mouth while he talked.
Nobody seemed surprised.
Not even Leo.
"You don't even work here," Maine said.
Rome swallowed.
"I provide atmosphere."
"You provide headaches," Leo corrected.
The older man emerged from behind a shelf carrying a crate of bottled water.
His silver hair was cropped short. Reading glasses sat low on his nose.
Leo had owned the bodega longer than Maine had been alive.
Some people joked that the store had been there before Brooklyn itself.
The joke wasn't entirely unbelievable.
Rome pointed dramatically.
"See? Hate."
Leo rolled his eyes.
The bell above the door rang again.
Monique Harris entered without looking up from her phone.
"Morning, Niq."
"No."
Rome blinked.
"No?"
"No morning."
"It's eight o'clock."
"Exactly."
Maine laughed.
Niq slipped her phone into her pocket and approached the counter.
Unlike Rome, she always looked put together.
Like she had someplace important to be.
Even when she didn't.
She glanced between them.
"You finish the housing forms?"
Rome groaned loud enough to attract attention from two customers.
"Here we go."
"I'm serious."
"We got months."
"You have months."
She pointed at him.
"You also procrastinate."
"I plan strategically."
"You forget things."
"Same difference."
"It is literally not."
Maine grabbed a juice from the cooler and leaned against the counter.
Listening.
Watching.
The way he always did.
For years, this had been normal.
Him.
Rome.
Niq.
Talking about the future like it couldn't possibly arrive.
Now it had.
All three of them had been accepted into Sovereign State University.
All three planned to attend.
For most of high school, that dream had felt distant enough to joke about.
Now orientation emails were arriving.
Housing assignments were coming.
The future had stopped being a concept.
It had become a date on the calendar.
And somehow that was far more terrifying.
Outside, another train rumbled across the city.
Inside, Rome launched into an argument about dorm assignments.
Niq immediately started correcting him.
Leo shook his head.
Maine smiled.
For a moment, everything felt exactly the way it always had.
Years later, he would remember that feeling.
Not because anything extraordinary happened.
Because nothing did.
And that would make all the difference.
The conversation drifted naturally after that.
It always did.
One minute they were talking about housing assignments, the next Rome was explaining why freshmen should be legally required to have meal plans because, according to him, most eighteen-year-olds couldn't be trusted to feed themselves.
"You saying that like you know how to cook," Niq said.
"I do know how to cook."
"No, you don't."
"I absolutely do."
Maine took a sip of his juice.
"You almost burned water."
Rome pointed immediately.
"First of all, that's not scientifically possible."
"Yet somehow you found a way."
Leo laughed so hard he had to grab the counter.
Two customers looked over.
Rome looked betrayed.
"This is what I deal with every day."
Niq folded her arms.
"Victim mentality."
"See?"
"Still doing it."
Maine shook his head, smiling.
Some friendships were built through shared experiences.
Theirs seemed to survive entirely through mutual disrespect.
The bell above the door rang again.
A pair of younger students from Du Bois Prep walked inside.
They noticed Maine immediately.
One nudged the other.
Maine pretended not to see it.
The second kid finally approached.
"Yo, Maine."
"What's up?"
The kid looked nervous.
Not scared.
Just young.
The way freshmen always looked around seniors.
"You going to SSU for real?"
"That's the plan."
The kid grinned.
"That's tough."
His friend nodded.
"Coach been talking about it all week."
Rome immediately leaned forward.
"Notice nobody asked where I'm going."
The freshman blinked.
"Where you going?"
"SSU."
"Oh."
Rome pointed dramatically.
"See? No excitement."
Niq laughed.
The freshmen escaped before Rome could continue complaining.
As soon as they were gone, Leo shook his head.
"You know what's funny?"
"What?" Maine asked.
"You three don't realize it yet."
"Realize what?"
Leo leaned against the counter.
"When I met your fathers, they sat right where y'all sitting."
The store became slightly quieter.
Not because anyone stopped talking.
Because everybody listened.
Even Rome.
Which was rare.
"They used to come in here every day after school."
Maine raised an eyebrow.
"My father?"
"Your father."
Leo nodded.
"Him. Melo. Tylil. Darius."
The names settled over the room.
Some familiar.
Some heavier than others.
"You serious?" Rome asked.
Leo laughed.
"I've been serious longer than you've been alive."
"What were they like?"
The question came from Niq.
Of course it did.
Future journalist.
Always asking the right question.
Leo smiled.
For a moment, his eyes seemed focused somewhere beyond the store.
Somewhere years away.
"Different."
"That's not an answer," Niq said.
"It's the only answer."
Leo pointed toward Maine.
"Your father was quiet."
Maine blinked.
"Nobody ever says that."
"Because nobody knew him then."
Leo shrugged.
"Nas listened more than he talked."
He pointed toward Rome.
"Melo talked enough for everybody."
"Sounds accurate."
"Very."
Then Leo pointed toward Niq.
"Tylil asked questions."
The smile faded slightly.
"Always asking questions."
Something in the way he said it lingered.
Briefly.
Then it was gone.
"What about Darius?" Maine asked.
Leo looked away.
Just for a second.
Long enough to notice.
Not long enough to question.
"Darius wanted more."
The answer felt unfinished.
Like there was something behind it.
Before anyone could ask another question, Leo checked the time.
"Don't y'all got school?"
Everybody groaned.
"That's a yes."
A few minutes later they were back outside.
Brooklyn had become louder.
Buses rolled through intersections.
People hurried toward work.
Construction crews shouted across the street.
The city was fully awake now.
Du Bois Prep stood several blocks away.
A familiar building.
One they had walked into thousands of times.
Yet somehow it looked different.
Maybe because graduation was close.
Maybe because everybody knew this was the last stretch.
The hallways felt smaller than they used to.
The classrooms too.
The future made everything behind it seem temporary.
Students crowded around lockers.
Teachers greeted one another.
Somewhere somebody was already arguing over basketball.
Normal.
The kind of normal nobody appreciates while living through it.
As they entered the hallway, several students called out to Maine.
A few nodded.
Others stopped him briefly.
Questions about summer leagues.
College.
Basketball.
Life after graduation.
He answered politely.
The way he always did.
Then he saw her.
Lia.
Standing near her locker.
A notebook tucked under one arm.
Talking to another student.
The hallway moved around them.
People passed.
Conversations continued.
Nothing dramatic happened.
No music.
No grand realization.
Just a glance.
She looked up.
Their eyes met.
A nod.
Simple.
Respectful.
Familiar.
Then both continued on their way.
Neither slowing down.
Neither speaking.
Neither needing to.
Rome looked forward.
Niq adjusted her backpack.
Neither acknowledged it.
Which somehow made it feel even more real.
Life didn't stop because two people used to mean something to one another.
Life kept moving.
Classes started.
Teachers lectured.
Students pretended to pay attention.
The day passed the way school days often did.
Slowly while you lived them.
Quickly once they were over.
And before anybody realized it, the final bell rang.
Freedom.
At least until tomorrow.
Outside, Rome spun a basketball on one finger.
Badly.
The ball immediately fell.
Niq sighed.
"You've been doing that same trick for six years."
"And one day I'm gonna master it."
"Sure."
Maine laughed.
The three of them headed toward Brooklyn Bridge Park.
Toward the courts.
Toward one more evening of basketball.
One more evening of being kids.
Even if none of them realized it yet.
Brooklyn Bridge Park was alive.
Not busy.
Alive.
There was a difference.
The courts sat beneath a sky slowly turning gold, framed by the Manhattan skyline across the river. Ferries moved through the water. Tourists stopped every few minutes to take pictures. Children ran across the walkways chasing one another while parents pretended they weren't exhausted.
And at the center of it all—
Basketball.
The familiar rhythm of bouncing balls echoed across the courts.
Sneakers squeaked.
Players shouted.
Arguments started and ended in the span of thirty seconds.
The game continued regardless.
"This court got worse."
Rome said it immediately after arriving.
Maine looked around.
The same rims.
The same fences.
The same benches.
The same old heads sitting courtside judging everybody under the age of twenty-five.
"Nothing changed."
"Everything changed."
Rome pointed dramatically.
"That dude got on jeans."
Maine followed his finger.
A man was indeed playing basketball in jeans.
Niq shook her head.
"I hate that y'all notice things like this."
"It's important."
"It is not."
"It absolutely is."
One of the old heads looked over.
"No jeans slander."
Rome pointed again.
"See?"
The old man pointed right back.
"Some of us got jobs."
The entire sideline laughed.
Rome immediately raised both hands.
"My fault, OG."
The courts had their own ecosystem.
Their own language.
Their own rules.
Everybody understood them.
Nobody explained them.
The team with next waited near the fence.
The team that lost argued about why they shouldn't have lost.
The team that won acted like they had never lost a basketball game in their lives.
Normal.
Maine dropped his backpack beside a bench.
A basketball bounced toward him.
Without thinking, he caught it.
The player who threw it nodded.
"You running?"
Maine tossed it back.
"Yeah."
"Bet."
That was enough.
No introductions.
No explanations.
Just basketball.
A few minutes later he was on the court.
The game started immediately.
No warmups.
No speeches.
No strategy.
Just hoop.
The defender picked him up near half-court.
"You ain't getting left today."
Maine smiled.
"Who said I wanted left?"
The defender frowned.
A second later Maine drove right.
The help defense rotated.
Maine kicked the ball to the corner.
Open three.
Bucket.
Rome immediately pointed.
"See that?"
Nobody responded.
"Elite vision."
Still nobody responded.
"I be making people better."
"Shut up and play defense," Maine said.
The next possession ended with Rome getting scored on.
Naturally.
"Help!"
Rome yelled.
"You got cooked."
"I got screened."
"There wasn't a screen."
"There was spiritually."
The game continued.
Basketball had a funny way of simplifying life.
The future disappeared.
Problems disappeared.
Everything became:
Score.
Defend.
Compete.
Repeat.
Simple.
Maine loved that.
Not because he wanted basketball to be his future.
Because basketball had always been honest.
You couldn't fake preparation.
You couldn't fake effort.
The court exposed everything eventually.
Good habits.
Bad habits.
Confidence.
Fear.
The game always told the truth.
The score tightened.
Buckets traded back and forth.
A younger player hit a tough jumper and celebrated like he'd won a championship.
An older player immediately reminded him the score was still tied.
The celebration ended.
The laughter didn't.
By the time the next game started, the sun had dropped lower.
Orange light stretched across the court.
Long shadows followed players up and down the blacktop.
Maine caught himself looking toward Manhattan.
The skyline looked different every year.
New buildings.
New cranes.
New construction.
Something always rising.
Something always replacing what came before.
Brooklyn wasn't much different.
He thought about SSU.
About graduation.
About everything waiting ahead.
The thought disappeared when somebody nearly dunked on Rome.
"OH!"
The sideline exploded.
Rome stumbled backward.
The ball rattled out.
Everybody started laughing.
Including Maine.
Especially Maine.
Rome pointed.
"Don't laugh."
"You almost died."
"I recovered."
"You absolutely did not."
The old heads were laughing now too.
One nearly dropped his coffee.
Rome looked genuinely offended.
"I need better friends."
"No you don't."
"Yes I do."
"No you don't."
The final game started as the lights flickered on.
Nobody wanted to leave.
That was always how it worked.
One more game.
Then another.
Then another.
Until darkness finally made the decision for you.
Game point.
Winner stays.
The ball found Maine near the wing.
His defender crowded him.
The help defense cheated over.
Rome immediately started yelling.
"I'M OPEN."
"You always open."
"Exactly."
Maine shook his head.
Then passed anyway.
Rome caught it.
Laid it in.
Game.
The court erupted.
Rome immediately spread his arms.
"There it is."
Maine laughed.
"You made a layup."
"A game-winning layup."
"A layup."
"A legendary layup."
The argument continued all the way to the sideline.
Niq looked up from her phone.
"Who won?"
Maine pointed at Rome.
"He thinks he did."
"I know I did."
Niq nodded.
"Delusion is a serious condition."
The walk home began shortly after.
The city felt different at dusk.
Softer somehow.
Not quieter.
Brooklyn was never quiet.
Just softer.
Streetlights flickered on.
Storefronts glowed.
Restaurants filled with people grabbing dinner.
Cars moved steadily through intersections.
Life continuing.
The three of them walked side by side.
Rome dribbling a basketball despite having absolutely no reason to.
Niq scrolling through her phone.
Maine looking toward the skyline.
Nobody spoke for a while.
The comfortable kind of silence.
The kind that only exists between people who have known one another long enough.
Eventually Rome broke it.
"We really leaving."
Niq glanced over.
"Leaving what?"
"This."
He gestured around them.
"The neighborhood."
"The school."
"The routine."
Nobody answered immediately.
Because everybody understood.
For years life had been predictable.
School.
Basketball.
Leo's.
Home.
Repeat.
Now things were changing.
Not someday.
Now.
"You'll be five train stops away."
Niq said it without looking up.
Rome pointed.
"That's not the point."
"It's exactly the point."
"No it ain't."
"Then what's the point?"
Rome opened his mouth.
Paused.
Then shrugged.
"I don't know."
That surprised everybody.
Including him.
Maine laughed softly.
For once—
Rome didn't have an answer.
And for the first time all day, that felt strangely important.
They reached the corner where they always split.
Not officially.
Nobody had ever declared it their corner.
It had simply become one over the years.
A thousand conversations had ended there.
A thousand afternoons had scattered in different directions from that exact stretch of sidewalk.
Rome bounced the basketball one final time.
"Tomorrow?"
Maine nodded.
"Tomorrow."
Niq adjusted her backpack.
"Try not to do anything stupid."
Rome looked personally offended.
"Why everybody assume it's me?"
"Because it's you."
Maine and Niq answered at the same time.
Rome stared at them.
"You know what? I support neither of you."
"You'll survive."
"Maybe."
"You will."
"Probably."
The three exchanged quick daps and head nods before separating.
Rome headed west.
Niq turned north.
Maine continued toward Fort Greene.
Alone.
The city felt different when you walked by yourself.
The noise became louder.
The details became clearer.
The thoughts became harder to ignore.
His phone vibrated.
Dad: Where you at?
Maine smiled immediately.
Maine: Walking.
Dad: Bring drinks.
Maine: You got a whole refrigerator.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Dad: Bring drinks.
Maine laughed.
Some arguments weren't worth having.
He stopped at Leo's one more time.
The old man looked up from behind the register.
"Forgot something?"
"My father."
Leo nodded knowingly.
"That'll happen."
Maine grabbed a couple bottles from the cooler.
As he approached the counter, Leo glanced outside through the storefront window.
For a moment something thoughtful crossed his face.
Something distant.
Then it disappeared.
"Tell Nas I called."
"I will."
Leo nodded.
"Good."
The exchange felt normal.
Ordinary.
Just another neighborhood conversation.
Years later, Maine would remember it anyway.
The brownstone stood exactly where it always had.
Three stories.
Red brick.
Black iron railings.
History carved into every inch of it.
The house had belonged to the Connors family longer than Maine had been alive.
Long enough for generations of stories to settle into the walls.
Long enough to become more than a building.
Home.
Warm light spilled through the front windows.
Music drifted faintly from inside.
Old-school soul.
The same records his father played every week.
Maine climbed the steps.
Unlocked the door.
Stepped inside.
Immediately the smell hit him.
Garlic.
Seasoning.
Something frying.
Something roasting.
Dinner.
Home.
The familiar warmth wrapped around him.
His backpack landed near the staircase.
"Dad?"
"In here."
Maine followed the voice toward the kitchen.
And there he was.
Nasir Connors stood over the stove wearing a black T-shirt and sweatpants.
Reading glasses balanced low on his nose.
One hand stirred a pan.
The other flipped through something on a tablet resting near the counter.
Most of Brooklyn knew Nasir Connors as something else.
A leader.
A businessman.
A community figure.
Depending on who you asked, something much larger.
Maine knew him as the man who somehow managed to burn toast three times in one week.
"You got old people glasses on."
Nasir didn't look up.
"You got old people knees."
"I'm eighteen."
"Your jumper disagree."
Maine laughed.
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The hating."
"Truth isn't hate."
"It is when you say it."
Nasir smiled.
A small one.
The kind that rarely appeared in public.
"Wash your hands."
"There it is again."
"Wash your hands."
"Yes, sir."
Maine headed for the sink.
Some things in life simply happened.
The sun rose.
The Knicks disappointed people.
Nasir Connors told him to wash his hands.
A few minutes later they sat across from one another at the kitchen table.
Music played softly from a nearby speaker.
A smooth voice from another era drifted through the room.
Outside, Brooklyn continued moving.
Inside, time seemed slower.
The way it always did during dinner.
For a while the conversation stayed simple.
Basketball.
School.
Rome.
Neighborhood gossip.
Nothing important.
Everything important.
The small things that eventually become memories.
Nasir listened more than he talked.
That always surprised people.
The version of Nasir most of the city knew was confident.
Articulate.
Commanding.
At home he listened.
Observed.
Asked questions.
Maine finished telling a story about Rome arguing with an old man at the courts.
Nasir shook his head.
"Rome gonna talk himself into trouble one day."
"He already do."
"Fair."
Silence settled briefly.
Comfortable.
Then Nasir spoke again.
"You hear from Sovereign?"
There it was.
The question.
Maine leaned back in his chair.
"Yeah."
"And?"
"I got in."
Nasir nodded once.
"Good."
Maine stared.
Waited.
Nothing else came.
"That's it?"
Nasir looked up.
"What?"
"That's all I get?"
"What else you want?"
"I don't know."
Maine laughed.
"A reaction."
Nasir looked genuinely confused.
"Why would I react?"
"Because I got into college."
"You were supposed to."
The answer landed harder than expected.
Not because it was mean.
Because it wasn't.
Nasir returned to eating.
Completely serious.
Completely sincere.
Maine sat there staring.
"You really know how to ruin moments."
Nasir chuckled.
"Jermaine."
"What?"
"You maintained your grades."
"Okay."
"You stayed disciplined."
"Mostly."
"You handled your responsibilities."
"Depends who you ask."
"You worked for something."
Nasir pointed his fork toward him.
"Then you got it."
He shrugged.
"What exactly is surprising?"
Maine opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
Because annoyingly—
The logic made sense.
Nasir leaned back.
"The result wasn't the achievement."
Now he had Maine's attention.
"The achievement happened every morning you got up and did what you were supposed to do."
Silence.
The music continued playing softly.
Outside a siren passed somewhere in the distance.
Inside, the lesson settled between them.
"You always do that."
Nasir raised an eyebrow.
"Do what?"
"Talk like stuff already happened."
A smile touched the corner of his father's mouth.
"Most things do."
"That don't even make sense."
"It does if you pay attention."
Maine groaned.
"There you go."
"There I go what?"
"You start talking in riddles."
Nasir laughed.
"Those aren't riddles."
"They definitely are."
The smile lingered.
Then gradually faded.
Not into sadness.
Into focus.
The version of Nasir people followed.
The version that somehow carried expectations without speaking them aloud.
"You know what your problem is?"
"Here we go."
"You think success is an event."
Maine rolled his eyes.
"And what is it really?"
"Repetition."
The answer arrived instantly.
Like he'd carried it for years.
Maybe he had.
Nasir tapped the table.
"People don't become something overnight."
He pointed toward Maine.
"They become it every day."
The room grew quiet.
Not uncomfortable.
Reflective.
Maine looked down at his plate.
Then back up.
"You always talk like I'm supposed to be somebody."
For the first time, Nasir didn't answer immediately.
He simply studied his son.
Long enough that the question mattered.
Then—
"You are somebody."
Maine groaned.
"There it is."
"What?"
"That."
Nasir smiled faintly.
"You think I'm talking about status."
"What else would you be talking about?"
The answer came softly.
"I'm not asking you to be me."
The room seemed to pause.
Not because the words were loud.
Because they weren't.
They were honest.
And honesty always carried weight.
Nasir held his gaze.
"I'm asking you to become exactly who you are."
The words settled between them.
Heavy.
Simple.
Dangerous.
Because Maine wasn't entirely sure who that person was yet.
The phone rang.
Both of them looked toward the kitchen counter.
The screen illuminated.
A name appeared.
Something changed.
Barely.
A shift in posture.
A shift in expression.
A shift so small most people would've missed it.
Maine didn't.
Because he had spent seventeen years watching his father.
And he knew the difference between Nasir the father…
And the man everyone else saw.
Nasir looked at the screen.
Then stood.
"Excuse me."
And for the first time all evening—
The warmth of dinner began to cool.
Nasir stepped into the adjoining room with the phone pressed against his ear.
The conversation was quiet.
Not secretive.
Not intentionally hidden.
Just quiet.
The way adults spoke when they didn't want every word turning into a discussion.
Maine remained at the table.
Fork in hand.
Dinner half-finished.
The music still played.
Some old soul record his father had probably listened to a thousand times.
For a few moments all he heard was the singer's voice and the occasional creak of the old brownstone settling into itself.
Then—
"When?"
Nasir's voice.
Short.
Sharp.
Focused.
A pause followed.
Long enough that Maine couldn't hear the response.
Another sentence.
Even quieter.
Then:
"Who knows?"
More silence.
Maine frowned slightly.
The conversation sounded different than the business calls he occasionally overheard.
Different than community meetings.
Different than politicians asking favors.
Something about it felt heavier.
A minute later he heard:
"No."
Pause.
"No. Leave it alone."
Another pause.
Then:
"Don't move until I get there."
The call ended.
The house became quiet again.
For a moment Maine simply sat there.
Listening.
Waiting.
The kitchen suddenly felt larger.
The empty chair across from him looked strange.
Like it wasn't supposed to be empty.
A few seconds later Nasir returned.
Calm.
Collected.
Exactly as he had been before.
At least on the surface.
He walked past the table and picked up his coat from the back of a chair.
The same coat he wore whenever he was heading somewhere important.
Maine noticed immediately.
"You leaving?"
"Looks that way."
"You always answer questions with questions?"
"Only when they're easy."
Maine shook his head.
"Everything good?"
Nasir slid one arm into the coat.
"Yeah."
The answer came too quickly.
Not suspiciously.
Automatically.
Like he'd answered that question a thousand times before.
Maine leaned back in his chair.
"That's a lie."
Nasir laughed.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Definitely."
Nasir pointed toward him.
"Experience."
"That's not an answer."
"It's a better answer."
"How?"
"Because sometimes everything isn't good."
The statement landed unexpectedly.
Simple.
Honest.
The kind of honesty most people avoided.
Nasir adjusted his sleeve.
"But everything being good isn't the requirement."
Maine looked at him.
"What is?"
Nasir grabbed his keys from the counter.
"Handling it."
The answer came without hesitation.
As if it were obvious.
As if everybody knew that already.
For a second neither spoke.
Then Maine shook his head.
"There you go again."
"There I go what?"
"Talking like a fortune cookie."
Nasir laughed.
A real laugh.
The tension disappeared for a moment.
The house felt normal again.
Almost.
"You get that from Melo?"
"Melo got it from me."
"Absolutely not."
"Absolutely."
"You making that up."
Nasir smiled.
"Maybe."
The word surprised them both.
Maine pointed immediately.
"There."
"There what?"
"You admitted it."
Nasir narrowed his eyes.
"I admitted nothing."
"You literally just said maybe."
"I said maybe."
"Exactly."
"Maybe isn't yes."
Maine laughed.
For a moment he was eight years old again.
Sitting at the same table.
Having the same pointless argument.
The realization arrived unexpectedly.
He couldn't remember a time when this hadn't existed.
This kitchen.
This table.
This routine.
His father.
The thought disappeared as quickly as it came.
Nasir checked his watch.
The movement seemed small.
Yet something about it bothered Maine.
Not fear.
Not concern.
Just awareness.
Like suddenly he was noticing details he normally ignored.
The way his father stood.
The way he checked the time.
The way his eyes briefly drifted toward the front window.
Toward the street outside.
Toward something unseen.
Then the moment passed.
Gone.
Nasir walked toward the front door.
"Don't stay up."
"There it is."
"There what is?"
"The old man speech."
Nasir stopped.
Turned.
Looked genuinely offended.
"Old man?"
"You got reading glasses now."
"I've always had reading glasses."
"You wear them like an old man."
"You're seventeen."
"I'm basically grown."
Nasir stared.
Just stared.
The kind of stare only fathers possessed.
The universal look that translated across generations.
Maine immediately laughed.
"Alright. Relax."
"Basically grown."
"I am."
"Jermaine."
"What?"
"Your brain still got instructions downloading."
Maine almost choked laughing.
"That's crazy."
"It's biology."
"You just made that up."
"I absolutely didn't."
"That's not how brains work."
"You don't know how brains work."
"Neither do you."
Nasir pointed toward him.
"I know enough."
The smile returned.
Small.
Familiar.
The kind that lived mostly in private moments.
Then it faded.
Not completely.
Just enough.
He reached for the door.
Paused.
And looked back.
Not at the room.
Not at the house.
At Maine.
The pause lasted only a second.
Maybe two.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing emotional.
Just a father looking at his son.
Then:
"Lock the door."
Maine rolled his eyes.
"I always lock the door."
Nasir raised an eyebrow.
The expression said enough.
Maine sighed.
"Fine."
"Good."
The door opened.
Cool evening air drifted inside.
Streetlights glowed outside the windows.
The neighborhood hummed with life.
People walking home.
Cars passing.
Music somewhere down the block.
Brooklyn.
Alive as ever.
Before stepping outside, Nasir glanced down the street.
Then the opposite direction.
Quick.
Instinctive.
Almost unconscious.
The kind of thing most people wouldn't notice.
Maine did.
"Everything really okay?"
The question slipped out before he realized he was asking it.
Nasir looked back.
A small smile appeared.
Warm.
Steady.
Fatherly.
The same smile that had reassured him his entire life.
"Yeah."
The answer sounded believable.
Almost.
Then Nasir stepped outside.
The door closed behind him.
And suddenly—
The house felt different.
Not empty.
Not yet.
Just quieter.
Maine stood there for a moment staring at the front door.
Listening.
The music continued playing softly from the kitchen.
The dishes remained on the table.
His father's glass still sat half-full.
Everything looked exactly the same.
Yet somehow nothing felt exactly the same anymore.
Outside, a car engine started somewhere down the block.
A dog barked.
Someone laughed.
The city continued moving.
Unaware.
Maine locked the door.
The deadbolt clicked into place.
For reasons he couldn't explain—
The sound lingered longer than usual.
And somewhere across Brooklyn…
A storm had already begun moving toward them.
Jermaine Connors simply hadn't seen the clouds yet.