The ambulance doors flew open.
Cold air rushed in, sharp and unforgiving. Voices stacked over each other. Rome was already moving—lifted, strapped, pushed—his body surrendered to speed and purpose. Jermaine jumped down hard, knees buckling for half a beat before he caught himself and ran.
"Coming through."
"Watch the line."
"Pressure's dropping."
The gurney rattled across pavement, then tile, then disappeared into fluorescent light. Jermaine stayed close enough to see Rome's face, too close to look anywhere else. Niq was beside him, breath hitching, hands shaking.
Inside, the hospital swallowed them whole.
Automatic doors opened and closed like mouths. Shoes slapped the floor in every direction. A voice crackled over the intercom—codes, names, destinations Jermaine didn't understand. Somewhere nearby, a monitor beeped in a steady, unforgiving rhythm.
They passed a desk.
Monique's mother looked up without meaning to.
Her eyes landed on the gurney first.
Then Rome.
Then Monique.
She stood so fast her chair slid back.
"Niq?" she said.
Monique didn't make it another step.
Her mother caught her by the arm and pulled her in, and whatever Niq had been holding together collapsed. Sobs tore out of her chest, messy and uncontained, hands clutching at her mother's scrubs like they were the only solid thing left in the building.
"I—I—" Niq tried. Couldn't finish.
Her mother didn't ask again. She wrapped one arm around Niq, grounding her, while her eyes stayed on Rome as the gurney rushed past. She took in the wound, the blood, the way the EMTs moved too fast to be comfortable.
Her gaze shifted to Jermaine.
Blood on his hands. Blood on his clothes.
She didn't ask questions.
The gurney disappeared through the emergency ward doors.
They closed hard.
That was it.
The noise didn't stop—but it changed. It dulled. It moved farther away. Jermaine stood there staring at the doors like they might open again if he waited long enough.
They didn't.
Time started doing strange things after that.
Jermaine sat. Stood. Sat again. He couldn't find a position that fit inside his body. The chair felt too small. Standing felt wrong. His knee bounced without permission.
The intercom crackled.
A cart rolled by, wheels squeaking.
Footsteps echoed, faded, returned.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Jermaine looked down at his hands.
The blood had dried dark against his skin, settled into the lines of his knuckles. More of it streaked his shorts, clung stiffly to the back of his shirt. He scrubbed at his palms with his thumbs.
It didn't come off.
Across from him, Niq sat quiet now. Too quiet. Her face was blotchy, eyes swollen, hands folded tight in her lap like if she let go something else would fall apart. Her mother sat beside her, one hand resting on Niq's knee.
Minutes passed. Maybe more.
Every time a set of doors opened, Jermaine's head snapped up. Every time they closed without Rome, something in his chest tightened further.
A doctor appeared.
Words came next—measured, careful. Bullet wound. Shoulder. Blood loss. Surgery went well. Stable.
Stable didn't sound like relief. It sounded like a pause.
Rome's family arrived soon after. His mother moved fast but steady, flanked by his oldest brother. They didn't ask what happened. They asked where he was.
They were pointed down the hall and went without hesitation.
Before Rome's mother followed them, she stopped in front of Jermaine.
She took him in fully this time—the blood, the eyes, the weight he was carrying like it belonged to him.
"You're not to blame," she said.
Jermaine swallowed. Didn't answer.
"Rome chooses who he protects," she continued. "Always has. Always will." She tilted her head slightly. "Remember seventh grade? Those boys by the deli. Who was there?"
Jermaine's throat tightened.
"You were," she said. "Every time."
She placed a hand briefly on his shoulder. Solid. Certain.
"Don't blame yourself for your brother being a protector."
Then she turned and walked away.
Jermaine stayed where he was.
The hospital kept breathing around him—intercoms, footsteps, machines doing what they were built to do.
Melo arrived without ceremony.
No rush. No noise. Just presence.
He saw Jermaine immediately and crossed the room. Crouched. Turned Jermaine's wrists over, careful.
"You hurt?" Melo asked.
Jermaine shook his head. "Nah."
Melo searched his face. "What happened?"
"Basketball," Jermaine said. "Talking. Fight. Somebody pulled a gun."
Melo nodded once. "Rome?"
"He pushed me," Jermaine said. "He took it."
Melo closed his eyes for a blink. "That sound like him."
He stood and handed Jermaine a pack of wipes. "Clean up a little. For yourself."
Jermaine wiped his hands. The blood smeared, lightened. Didn't disappear.
A phone buzzed.
Melo glanced down. Let it ring once. Twice. Then stepped away and answered.
"Yeah," he said. "I know."
He listened, posture changing.
"Hospital," he continued. "He alive."
A pause.
"No," Melo said. "Not here."
Another pause.
"I'll pull up."
He ended the call and returned.
"I gotta step out," he said. "You wanna ride? Or you staying?"
"I'm staying," Jermaine said.
Melo squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be back."
The doors swallowed him.
---
The city felt louder outside the hospital.
Melo drove without music. Pulled up to a quiet front—clean, forgettable. Inside, Nasir waited, jacket off, tie loosened, eyes sharp.
"They shot at my son," Nasir said.
Melo nodded. "Fort Greene courts. Pickup."
"Who?"
"Prophet affiliate. Kash. One of his boys had the piece."
Nasir's jaw flexed.
The door opened.
Darius Knox walked in like the air belonged to him. "Say less," he said. "They crossed lines."
"They shot a kid," Nasir replied. "That's stupidity."
"They shot at your kid," Darius said. "That's a declaration."
Melo stayed quiet.
"If you don't answer that," Darius continued, "you telling the borough we soft."
Nasir stepped closer. Calm. Dangerous.
"You don't move on my son," Nasir said. "Ever."
Darius bristled. Then looked away. "So what—let it rock?"
"No," Nasir said. He looked at Melo. "We find who pulled the trigger. Quiet. No noise."
Melo nodded.
Darius muttered something and left.
Nasir stared at the door after him. "My son stepped into something today."
Melo didn't argue.
---
Back at the hospital, Jermaine sat alone under fluorescent lights. Niq slept against the wall, her mother's hand still on her knee.
Jermaine stared at his hands.
Rome had stepped in front of a bullet meant for him.
And now Jermaine understood—some consequences don't wait for permission.