Part II – Sparks on Concrete
The courtyard was cracked concrete framed by rusted fences and sagging laundry lines. From above, it looked like a cage. From the ground, though, it was a stage where life played out every day. Mothers leaned out of windows, shouting at kids to behave. Radios blasted Parliament-Funkadelic from one side, Vicente Fernández from another, beats and ballads colliding in the air. A basketball thudded against the pavement, its rhythm broken by laughter and shouts.
Isaiah sat on the steps, knees dusty, a stub of red crayon clutched in his hand like a sword. He was three years old, but inside, he carried seventy-eight years of memory: cities he had built, enemies he had crushed, lives he had shaped and lost. The concrete before him was both canvas and battlefield.
With slow, deliberate strokes, he expanded on yesterday's drawing. Goku now stood tall, spiky hair jagged, fists clenched. The lines were clumsy—his tiny hand could not yet obey the sharp commands of his mind—but the intention shone through. Energy radiated from the figure, jagged arcs that seemed to vibrate in the afternoon heat, a projection of the power Isaiah had once wielded across empires.
"Hey," a voice piped up.
Isaiah looked up. A boy of six or seven stood nearby, shirt two sizes too big, sneakers scuffed to the bone, eyes restless and searching for stories hidden in every corner.
"What's he do?" the boy asked, pointing at the figure.
Isaiah hesitated. Words mattered. He could call it a cartoon fighter, or he could reveal the larger truth. "He's a protector," he said. "He fights against the bad men."
The boy's eyes widened. "Like the cops?"
Isaiah smirked, already seeing the pattern of the world from this ground-up perspective. "Sometimes. Or the hustlers who hurt kids. Or anyone who tries to take what's ours."
The boy crouched to study the drawing. "What's his name?"
Isaiah paused, recalling lifetimes of identities, victories, and mistakes. Finally, he said, "Goku."
The boy grinned. "I'm Rico," he said, holding out a hand.
Isaiah shook it, small fingers wrapping around Rico's. Something clicked—a partnership born not of chance, but of shared understanding.
Other children wandered over. A girl with braids and scraped knees leaned in. "He looks like he got lightning coming out of him."
"He does," Isaiah said. "He fights with his spirit. The stronger his heart, the stronger his power."
The kids gasped, nodding. In a world that often offered nothing but scarcity, belief was gold.
Above them, Abuela shuffled out, her shawl draped across her shoulders. She carried a folding chair, which she set down slowly. Her knees cracked as she sat, eyes gleaming with stories from another world. She peered at the drawing, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
"Mira, niños," she said. "This reminds me of the stories my abuela told me. About Huitzilopochtli, the warrior god who fought off darkness with fire."
"Who's that?" Rico asked, eyes wide.
"A hero," Abuela said simply. "A hero from long before your time, but maybe not so different from this one." She tapped her cane gently against Isaiah's chalk lines.
The children leaned closer, hungry for the story. Isaiah realized his crude sketch was a doorway, and Abuela's voice was the key. Together, they were weaving a mythology rooted in both past and present, ancient and imagined.
He drew villains next, towering shadows with twisted faces. In them, he poured fragments of memory: executives who had betrayed him, politicians who had ignored his community, hustlers preying on the weak. The children booed instinctively.
"That one looks like Mr. Vasquez from the liquor store!" one boy shouted, and the group laughed.
"That's the point," Isaiah muttered under his breath.
Hours passed. The courtyard had transformed into a theater of creation. Children shouted out plotlines: "Goku should fight them in space!" "No, right here in the hood!" "Make him have fire fists!" Each suggestion poured into Isaiah's small hand, shaping his strokes.
A police cruiser rolled up, slow and deliberate. The hum of its engine cut through the courtyard noise. Conversations hushed. Isaiah felt the old bitterness rise—authority watching, waiting for a misstep. In his past life, he had thought himself shielded by wealth and status. Now, reborn in South Central, he saw the fear from the other side.
The cruiser idled a long minute before moving on, leaving a residue of tension.
"They are always watching," Rico muttered.
Isaiah etched another line, harder this time. "That's why we make protectors," he said.
As the sun dipped low, mothers called their children in. Isaiah sat back, hands stained with crayon and chalk dust. His warrior stood tall on the steps, surrounded by villains, alive with struggle and hope.
Abuela leaned on her cane, eyes lingering on the scene. "Remember, niños," she said. "Stories can keep you alive. Sometimes longer than food, longer than shelter. Hold on to them."
Isaiah listened, and something inside him shifted. This wasn't just play. This was survival. He was planting seeds—of resistance, imagination, and power.
When Maria returned, weary from folding clothes for strangers, she saw the chalk battlefield sprawled across the courtyard. She sighed at the mess but smiled nonetheless. Her son, barely three, was already pulling the neighborhood together with nothing but scraps of color and fierce will.
Isaiah met her eyes. He couldn't tell her yet what he knew, what he planned, but he could promise himself: this was only the beginning.