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The temp agency sat on the corner of Hollis and 19th, its faded blue awning sagging, struggling to hold onto its last bit of dignity. The front window was fogged over, covered in dust and half-torn job postings from months ago. Inside, the place smelled like cheap coffee, burnt plastic, and desperation.

Kenyatta Hayes had been in plenty of buildings over the course of his life; courtrooms, holding cells, the federal penitentiary where he had just spent the last seven years.

But this was something different. This was a place where men like him came to beg for scraps.

He stepped up to the front desk, his six-three frame casting a shadow over the cluttered counter. The receptionist, a worn out woman in her mid-fifties with short red curls and chipped acrylic nails, barely looked up from her phone screen.

“Help you?” she asked, tone already laced with indifference.

Kenyatta inhaled slowly, steadying himself. Patience. Control.

“I’m here about a job,” he said, voice deep and smooth. “I called yesterday; y’all said to come in.”

She chewed her gum slowly, scrolling her phone with one lazy finger. “What’s your name?”

“Kenyatta Hayes.”

Her fingers clacked against the keyboard, slow, deliberate, unbothered. The system loaded with the kind of lethargy that let him know his fate before she even spoke.

She squinted at the screen, then smacked her lips. Not a good sign.

“Yeah, no,” she said flatly.

Kenyatta’s jaw tensed. “What you mean ‘ yeah, no ’?”

She finally lifted her eyes to him, chewing extra slow like this was the most exhausting part of her day.

“I mean we don’t hire felons.”

Silence stretched between them.

Kenyatta exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling against the counter. This was the fourth time this week.

His voice stayed even, but there was a weight behind it. “I was told y’all help people get back on their feet. That’s why I came.”

She shrugged, not an ounce of sympathy on her face. “Maybe five, six years ago we did. New policies now. Company don’t wanna take the risk.”

Risk .

Like he was some wild animal who might tear the place apart if given a timecard and a uniform.

His jaw flexed. He let his eyes drift past her, taking in the room full of waiting bodies; men and women with tired faces, slumped in the stained plastic chairs, hoping for a chance.

A chance he wasn’t even allowed to hope for.

He sucked his teeth, shaking his head. “You should’ve told me that shit over the phone before I came down here.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even apologize. “Sorry.” Except she wasn’t. Not even a little.

Kenyatta pushed off the counter, pulling his hoodie back over his head. “Yeah. I’m sure you are.”

He turned to leave, mumbling more words of discontentment under his breath as his steps heavy on the scratched tile floor.

“Next!”

He clenched his jaw, but he didn’t turn back. Didn’t say a word.

Didn’t matter.

Another door had just slammed shut in his face.

He stepped out onto the sidewalk, the soft drizzle of scattered showers landing on his hoodie. His current surroundings as bleak as his circumstances.

Southside Haven: the part of Trinity Bay that people pretended didn’t exist. The streets were cracked, uneven, littered with faded fast food wrappers and cigarette butts. Storefronts were either shuttered or hanging on by a thread. The few businesses still alive were either liquor stores, pawn shops, or beauty supply stores selling $5 lashes and cheap synthetic wigs.

Scattered everywhere were people just trying to make it. The old heads posted up on the corner, sharing a single Black Traci knew it.

She sighed, shaking her head as she wiped her hands on a dish towel before prepping her dinner. “I done worked too hard to keep a roof over my head for you to be sittin’ around here with no job, Kenyatta. You better figure something out before that pride of yours gets you in trouble again. And if your ass go that route…you gon’ need to figure out somewhere else to be. ‘Cause I don’t want that mess around here.”

Kenyatta didn’t say anything because part of him knew she was right. And that pissed him off even more. He just needed someone to give him a chance.

But every job lead: rejected. Every apartment application: denied. Every person from his past: either avoiding him or expecting him to fall back in line.

At this point he didn’t know which one was worse.

**********

Kenyatta sat on the lumpy, sunken couch in the living room, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head down. The cushions had long lost their shape, just like everything else in this damn apartment.

The place was cramped, outdated, and carried the scent of old carpet, cheap incense, and whatever Traci had fried throughout the week. A single oscillating fan stood in the corner, whining as it turned, barely offering relief from the heat. The walls were that off-yellow shade from years of cigarette smoke and struggle.

A small wooden kitchen table sat just past the living room, covered in old mail, bills, and a candle that hadn’t been burned in years. The refrigerator hummed loudly, its top covered in medicine bottles, cereal boxes, and an old church program from last Easter.

This was his reality now: A grown-ass man, sleeping on his mama’s couch, with nothing to his name but a duffel bag and a record.

His mind drifted to Kaliyah, his eight-year-old daughter. She was the only thing that mattered. The only thing worth suffering through all this bullshit for.

He pulled out his phone, staring at her contact for a long moment before calling. It wasn’t even two rings before Brooke answered.

“What you want, Kenyatta?”

No “ hello .” Or “ how you been .” Just immediate attitude.

Brooke was the white girl that grew up in the suburbs but spent most of her time in the hood, learning the culture, the slang, and how to carry herself as if she belonged. Thick and curvy, long honey blonde hair, green eyes and plump lips that was always moving, talking shit.

She knew how to weaponize her looks and her words which was how Kenyatta had fallen for her years ago. At one point, he had been crazy about her until he started seeing straight through her. Manipulative, mouthy, and self-serving. Always looking for a come-up. All she ever did when they were together was argue, hang up on him and block his number, and call him right back because she needed something.

Kenyatta clenched his jaw. He wasn’t in the mood for her mouth today. “I’m tryna see what’s up with spending time with my daughter this weekend.”

Brooke exhaled loud as hell, like he just asked her for a kidney.

“And do what with her, Kenyatta? Huh?” She let out a bitter laugh. “You got money now? ‘Cause last time I checked, you barely got a place to sleep, so what exactly do you think you finna do with her?”

Kenyatta sucked his teeth. His patience was wearing thin already. “Man, stop playing. I just wanna see my lil girl.”

“Yeah, and I want a Benz truck.” Her tone was sharp, dismissive. “But we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

Kenyatta sat back on the couch, rubbing his temples.

“Brooke—”

“Nah,” she cut him off, clearly enjoying this shit. “You out here acting like you got options. Like you too good to get back to it. All these dudes out here making money and you out here what? Filling out applications? Come on, Yatta. You sound stupid.”

His grip on his phone tightened. Same old Brooke.

She never gave a damn about him; just what he could provide. And now that he didn’t have it, she had no use for him.

“I already told you, I’m not going back to that,” he said, voice low. “I did my time, Brooke. I ain’t tryna go back.”

She snorted. “Yeah, okay. Meanwhile, my nigga just copped a brand new Charger; fully loaded. Took Kaliyah shopping the other day, got her all types of new shit. You can’t even afford to take her for ice cream.”

Kenyatta’s chest tightened. He knew what came with the game and what type of men played it. He didn’t like the idea of some fast-talking, wannabe boss-ass nigga who always acted like he was bigger than he really was being around his daughter.

Kenyatta rolled his tongue along the inside of his cheek, biting back every insult running through his head.

“Man, fuck that nigga—whoever the fuck he is,” he muttered.

Brooke laughed. Loud and fake.

“Mad, huh?” she taunted. “Mad ‘cause somebody else doing what you can’t?”

Kenyatta’s jaw clenched. “Who is this nigga anyway?”

Brooke hesitated for a split second; just long enough for Kenyatta to catch it.

“Somebody who actually handles his business,” she said, but her tone had shifted.

Kenyatta sat up. “Nah, say the name.”

Brooke clicked her tongue. “Trell.”

The second she said it, Kenyatta’s whole demeanor changed.

“Trell?” His voice dropped, laced with something darker. “Trell who ?”

Brooke exhaled dramatically. “You acting like you don’t know.”

Kenyatta stood up, pacing now. “You mean Trell, the same Trell used to run with me and my brother?”

Brooke stayed quiet.

Kenyatta laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You serious, Brooke? That’s who you got around my daughter?”

Brooke scoffed. “Oh, so now you care?”

“I always cared! You just love acting like it’s about me when it’s really about what a nigga can do for you.”

“You mad ‘cause Trell making shit happen? Mad ‘cause he not out here lost like you?”

“Nah, I’m mad ‘cause you don’t think about shit except your damn self. You don’t care who’s around Kaliyah as long as they spending on you.”

She sucked her teeth. “Boy, please. Ain’t nobody thinking about you.”

Kenyatta shook his head, running a hand down his face. “I don’t want my daughter around that nigga.”

“She’s fine.”

“She won’t be if shit goes left, and you know it.”

Trell . Of all niggas.

Patience. Control.

He wasn’t about to let her pull him into another screaming match. “I just wanna see my daughter, Brooke. That’s it.”

Silence.

Then, she exhaled dramatically. “I’ll think about it.”

Voice deadly calm, he said, “Ain’t shit to think about.”

Brooke relented halfway. “If she comes over there, your mama gotta be around.”

He exhaled hard. “Man, what?”

“You heard me.”

He sucked his teeth. “You don’t even like my mama.”

“She don’t like me either, but we do what we gotta do for Kaliyah.”

“Whatever, Brooke. Just let me see my daughter.”

He could hear the sneer in her voice. “I’ll let you know.”

The line went dead before he could say another word.

Kenyatta felt his temper bubbling, but he swallowed it down. He was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of proving himself to people who didn’t give a damn about him.

He sat there, staring at the phone in his hand. His daughter, the only thing keeping him sane was being dangled over his head like some damn prize. And there wasn’t shit he could do about it.

He tossed the phone on the coffee table, leaning back, exhaling slowly.

Through the thin walls, he could hear the neighbors arguing, a baby crying somewhere in the distance, and the faint sound of police sirens in the background.

Fuck!

His mama’s apartment wasn’t home. Hell, nowhere felt like home anymore. And now his baby mama was fucking with the opps. Shit was fucked up.

But he had to figure something out because one way or another, he was going to be a constant in his daughter’s life. He had failed her enough. It was time to make shit right.

**********

Kenyatta sat slumped on the couch, one hand rubbing at his temple while his other rested on his knee. The conversation with Brooke had drained whatever was left of his patience for the day.

The buzz of his phone on the coffee table pulled him out of his thoughts. He glanced at the screen.

Jay-1 .

A deep exhale left his chest as he grabbed the phone and answered. “Yo.”

Jay-1’s voice came through the line, laid-back but laced with amusement. “Damn, nigga, you sound like you just lost your last meal. What’s up with you?”

Kenyatta leaned forward, rubbing his face. “Man, just been out all day on some job shit. Ain’t nothing shaking. These people act like I’m tryna rob the place when I walk in the door.”

Jay-1 chuckled. “Shit, I’d be scared of you too, big ass ex-convict looking like you break kneecaps for a living.”

Kenyatta smirked, but there wasn’t much humor behind it. “I’m serious, nigga. I went to that temp spot over on Hollis. Soon as they pulled my name up, it was a wrap. Same old ‘We don’t hire felons’ bullshit.”

Jay-1 sucked his teeth. “Man, fuck them jobs. That’s why I keep telling you, you making shit harder than it gotta be. You know the money out here, Yatta.”

Here we go .

Kenyatta leaned back against the couch, shaking his head. “Nah, man. I ain’t even on that type of time.”

“But you on broke time?” Jay-1 countered. “Come on, nigga, that shit don’t even make sense. You out here filling out apps, getting curved left and right when you could be getting to a bag.”

Kenyatta rolled his tongue over his teeth, holding back the first thing he wanted to say. Jay-1 wasn’t wrong about the money being out there. It was. But he’d spent seven years inside because of that money. Yet, the thought lingered though: if these job leads kept turning up empty, then what?

Jay-1 must’ve heard the silence because he let out a loud laugh. “See, I can hear you thinking too hard. Your ass gonna be back outside before the year up.”

Kenyatta shook his head, but he was already standing up, pacing the small space between the couch and the TV.

“Man, I just needed a break today. Shit’s frustrating, that’s all.”

“Say less, then. I’m outside in a minute. We hitting Velvet Room tonight; couple bad ones already sliding through.”

Kenyatta sighed, debating. He wasn’t in the mood for bottles and bullshit, but sitting in this damn apartment, stewing in his problems, wasn’t any better.

“Yeah, a’ight. Come get me.”

Jay-1 snickered. “See? You just needed some motivation, nigga. Get fresh. I’ll be there in twenty.”

The call ended.

Kenyatta stared at the phone for a second before tucking it in his hoodie pocket. Not that he was a child and needed permission to leave; but he was staying in her house, so the least he could do was make Traci aware he was stepping out for a second.

Traci was in her favorite part of the apartment; the kitchen, washing dishes, when he stepped in.

The sink was running, drowning out the sound of the small TV on the counter playing one of her favorite court tv shows. A half-burned Black he just needed to breathe.