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The lot reeks of wet concrete, garbage, and something metallic drifting from the warehouse. My sneakers splash through shallow puddles as we cross to the dumpsters.
Wade herds me behind a pile of broken wooden pallets. The boards are splintered, nails protruding, and an abandoned tarp flaps in a gutter of rainwater.
He points into a narrow gap. “There.” I hesitate for a second too long. “You afraid of getting dirty?” he mocks.
I shake my head, then slide around the pallets and crouch in the cramped space. The damp wood presses into my shoulder; the stench claws at my throat.
I look back at him. “What if someone comes—”
“They won’t,” he says. “Stay quiet. Don’t move. Don’t come out till I tell you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“See anybody?”
“I won’t stare.”
“Don’t take pictures.”
“I won’t.”
“Don’t call anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“And quit looking like you’re about to cry.”
I wipe at my eyes, though no tears fall.
“Pansy,” he mutters under his breath, shouldering the black backpack and stepping away, leaving me with the literal garbage. “You’ll thank me for this someday, boy,” he tells me. “I’m just trying to help you. You can watch a few of my deals to get a feeling for it, then we’ll work you up ‘til you can start pushing product yourself. From now on, this is what you’ll do to keep your ass in my house. Got it?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
He walks off just as the rain has begun to seep through my jeans.
I should run, find a bus, call for help.
But Wade has my bag, these streets are foreign to me, and if I disappear, he’ll find me and make me regret it.
Twenty minutes later, Wade is leaning against the side of his truck as though he has nowhere else in the world to be.
The backpack hangs from his shoulder. A cigarette burns between his fingers, and every so often he tips his face up to blow out a cloud of smoke.
Super casual; super normal and great and fine.
Like he didn’t just tell me he plans to turn me into a drug dealer.
I shift so I’m not leaning on a rusty nail protruding from the pallets. My brain fixates on tetanus instead of what Wade wants to turn me into. Anything’s easier than facing what’s happening, or what may eventually happen.
Wade takes another drag, the ember glowing orange. More minutes pass, and I briefly wonder if nobody’s coming—if Wade got the time wrong or the buyer chickened out.
But suddenly Wade straightens, and my belly lurches like I’m about to be sick.
A black sedan rolls into the lot, tires whispering on the pavement. It idles for a moment, no one getting out.
Wade drops his cigarette and crushes it under his boot. I sink even lower behind the pallets, pressing my back into the dripping boards, no longer concerned about the nail poking my back.
When the car door finally opens, a man steps out in a dark coat over gray slacks, his hair neat, and his shoes way too expensive for this part of the city. He closes the door gently, then walks toward Wade with calm certainty.
