The prison library was a dim cave of warped shelves and yellowed paper, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of mildew. Marcus sat at a scarred table, Ortiz’s latest letter spread before him, three weeks into the six-week wait for the appeal hearing. The words blurred under the flickering light: Kev’s affidavit under scrutiny—prosecution’s pushing his drug history, says he’s unreliable. Need more to lock it down. Marcus’s stomach sank, the hope from Ortiz’s last visit curdling into something sour. Kev—his ticket out—was a shaky peg, and the clock was ticking.

Ray slid into the chair beside him, his bulk creaking the wood, a smuggled pencil tucked behind his ear. “Bad news?” he asked, voice low under the hum of the block filtering through the walls.

“Kev’s cracking,” Marcus said, tapping the letter. “Ortiz says the DA’s tearing into him—junkie, liar, no weight. Three weeks left, and it’s slipping.”

Ray grunted, leaning back. “Always knew that kid was a wild card. Your brother still got him?”

“Darius says yeah,” Marcus muttered, rubbing his jaw, the bruise from solitary faded but tender. “But he’s cagey—won’t let Ortiz near him yet. Says Kev’s ‘cleaning up’ first.”

“Cleaning up,” Ray echoed, skeptical. “Means he’s high as hell or running. You need him in that courtroom, Tate—sober or not.”

Marcus nodded, the weight pressing harder. He’d written Lena two days ago—Kev’s our shot, push Darius—and her reply had come fast, fierce: I’m on it. Hearing’s close—hold on. She was fighting, he felt it, but the silence between her words stretched longer now, a shadow he couldn’t shake. He’d scratched 21 days on his wall this morning—three weeks to freedom or failure—and Kev was the hinge it all turned on.

In Atlanta, Lena stood in the shop’s greasy lot, the neon Tate’s Auto sign buzzing overhead as dusk bled into night. She’d tracked Darius here after his latest dodge—three calls unanswered, a text saying Busy—and now he leaned against his pickup, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, his cap pulled low. She’d come straight from work, her sketchpad tucked under her arm, the appeal hearing a drumbeat in her skull.

“Talk,” she said, arms crossed, her voice cutting through the cicadas’ drone. “Ortiz says Kev’s a mess—high, dodging. You told me he was solid. What’s the truth?”

Darius exhaled smoke, slow, his eyes sliding away. “He’s solid enough. Signed the damn paper, didn’t he?”

“Then why’s Ortiz worried?” She stepped closer, her sneakers crunching gravel. “DA’s calling him a junkie—says he’ll fold. You’re supposed to have him ready, Darius.”

“He’s ready,” he snapped, flicking the cigarette into the dirt. “Just… rough. Been crashing at a buddy’s in Savannah, shaking off the shit. I’ll get him there.”

Her gut twisted, a shadow creeping in. “Crashing where? With who? You’ve been vague since you dragged him back—spill it.”

He hesitated, rubbing his neck, and the pause was a crack she couldn’t ignore. “Some dealer,” he muttered, low. “Old crew. Kev owed him—worked it off.”

“Dealer?” Her voice rose, sharp and cold. “You let him near that again? Marcus is banking on him, Darius—seven years, and you’ve got him holed up with a damn pusher?”

“It’s under control,” he said, defensive, stepping forward. “He’s off the hard stuff—mostly. I’m watching him.”

“Watching him,” she echoed, bitter, her hands balling into fists. “Like you watched him that night? Marcus trusted you, and now this?”

Darius’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes. “I’m fixing it, Lena. He’ll show—swear it.”

She stared at him, the shop’s hum filling the silence, and felt the truth shift—Kev wasn’t just shaky, he was a bomb, and Darius was juggling lit fuses. She turned, stalking back to the Corolla, her mind racing. Ortiz needed this yesterday, and she’d burn every bridge to make it stick. But as she drove off, Darius’s shadow in the rearview, a new doubt gnawed: How much had he hidden then, and how much was he hiding now?

Marcus folded Ortiz’s letter, tucking it under his mattress, and scratched another tally—20 days. Ray watched, silent, and Marcus muttered, “She’ll get him,” more to himself than Ray. But the shadows of Kev’s truth loomed, and the road back felt longer, the light dimmer, with every step.

Lena peeled out of the shop’s lot, the Corolla’s tires kicking gravel as she floored it toward home, Darius’s It’s under control ringing hollow in her ears. The city blurred past—neon signs, horns, the hum of night settling in—but her mind was stuck on his dodge, the dealer, the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. She’d trusted him to hold Kev together, and now the appeal—20 days away—teetered on a junkie’s shaky legs. She fished her phone from her bag, dialing Ortiz one-handed, the wheel slick under her palm.

He picked up on the second ring, voice clipped over traffic noise—he was driving too. “Harper, what’s up?”

“Darius,” she said, her breath sharp. “Kev’s with a dealer in Savannah—old crew, owes him. Darius says he’s ‘mostly’ clean, but it’s a mess. Can the DA kill this?”

Ortiz cursed, low and fast. “Yeah, they can—if Kev shows up high or skips, we’re toast. Affidavit’s only as good as the man behind it. Where’s Darius now?”

“Shop,” she said, merging lanes, the engine groaning. “Says he’ll get Kev to the hearing, but I don’t trust him—not after this.”

“Smart,” Ortiz said, grim. “I’ll call him—lean hard. If Kev’s crashing with a dealer, we need him out, detoxed, yesterday. I’m heading to Savannah tomorrow—see him myself.”

“Do it,” she said, fierce. “Marcus can’t take another hit. Tell me when you’ve got him.”

“Will do,” he said, and the line went dead, leaving her with the roar of the road and a fear she couldn’t shake. She’d write Marcus tonight, tell him the truth—Kev’s a risk, but they’re fighting—and pray it didn’t break him more. The dealer detail gnawed at her, a shadow Darius had let grow, and she wondered how deep his mess ran—then, now, always.

In prison, Marcus paced his cell, Ortiz’s letter a crumpled weight in his pocket, the tally on the wall glaring back—20 days. Ray lounged on the lower bunk, flipping through a dog-eared paperback, his presence a steady hum against Marcus’s churn. The library had lit a fire—Kev’s wobble, the DA’s push—and now it burned, eating at the hope he’d scratched into the concrete.

“Ray,” he said, stopping mid-step, voice rough. “Your guy in Savannah—he still got Kev?”

Ray looked up, marking his page with a finger. “Last I heard—Bay Street, dealer’s flop. Why?”

“Ortiz says the DA’s shredding him—drugs, lies,” Marcus said, leaning on the bars, the metal cold against his palms. “If he’s high, we’re screwed. Can your guy pull him out?”

Ray set the book down, sitting up slow, his gray braid swinging. “Pull him? That’s a tall order—dealer’s not gonna like it. Cost more than a radio, kid.”

“Name it,” Marcus said, fast, his eyes locking on Ray’s. “Ramen, smokes, whatever—I’ll scrape it. Just get him clean, somewhere safe. Three weeks—I need him standing.”

Ray studied him, then nodded, a grudging respect in his grunt. “Alright. I’ll call it in—favor from an old runner. But if Kev bolts, ain’t my ass on the line.”

“Deal,” Marcus said, his chest loosening a fraction. He sank onto the bunk, rubbing his face, the bruise under his eye a dull ache. “Lena’s pushing too—wrote she’s on Darius. We’re close, man.”

“Close don’t mean shit ‘til it’s done,” Ray said, blunt, picking up his book. “Keep your head—hope’s a bitch when it turns.”

Marcus nodded, the warning sinking in, but he couldn’t let it stop him. He pulled out a scrap of paper, the pencil stub shaking as he wrote:

Lena,

Kev’s shaky—DA’s hitting hard. Ortiz’s on it, Ray too. We’re fighting—don’t let up. 20 days. Love you.

M

He folded it, handing it to Ray for the mail run—trusting his contraband network—and lay back, the ceiling’s cracks a map of the road ahead. Kev was a shadow, Darius a question, but Lena was still there, her fight a thread he clung to, even as it thinned.

Lena hit her apartment, Ortiz’s call echoing, and dropped onto the couch, pen in hand. She’d write Marcus, tell him about Darius, the dealer, the push—keep him steady. The shadows of truth stretched long, but she’d chase them down, for him, for the road back, no matter how dark it got.