The rec center smelled like fresh paint and purpose.
Rico blasted old-school hip-hop from a dusty speaker as kids rolled on fresh coats of blue and green, arguing over which walls should be brighter. Jamal stood back, watching them with pride that made his chest ache.
"Don't get too soft on us," Rico teased, handing him a roller.
Jamal smirked. "Soft don't build walls."
By noon, the sun beat down hard. Miss Claudine from the church next door arrived with sandwiches and lemonade. She prayed over the food—and over the work.
"Lord, bless these hands and this house. Let it be a place where pain is healed, not passed on."
Everyone bowed their heads. Even Rico, who normally rolled his eyes at anything spiritual, kept still.
That afternoon, a group of girls asked to turn one of the old classrooms into a dance studio. "We just want a place to practice," one said. "Somewhere safe."
"You got it," Jamal said.
Later, a couple of the boys set up makeshift hoops out back. No backboard, just a rim nailed to plywood. Still, the laughter echoed across the block.
But as evening fell, Jamal noticed a figure leaning against the fence. Hoodie up. Watching.
Jamal walked over. "You looking to help?"
The figure pulled back the hood—it was Devon, Jamal's old running partner, the one who vanished after that last job years ago.
"You really flipped it," Devon muttered.
"Tried to," Jamal said.
"I got nowhere else."
Jamal studied his eyes—still sharp, but tired.
"Then come inside. We've got paint, prayer, and promises... but we'll add a bed if you need it."
Devon didn't speak, just followed him through the doors.