Image created in collaboration with AI
Trina sits on her front porch steps, watching a stray dog. It’s sitting in the middle of rectangular patch of dirt, gnawing on an old work boot. The lawn has been unattended for years. Not even the slightest hint of grass remains. The dog growls softly as it chews. Its skin hangs loosely from its body, the outline of its entire skeleton is visible. The mutt turns to look at her. Trina stares at its sunken, lifeless face. It is scratched, bruised, and missing patches of hair.
Across the street, the mailman delivers to the odd-numbered buildings. She shifts her weight and the rickety porch creaks underneath her. She wrings her hands, watching the mailman inch along the street.
Two people scurry out of the basement of one of the condemned buildings across the street. A couple of months ago, drug dealers tore the boards from the basement windows and turned it into a communal stash spot. She recognizes the man as he steps out of the window, but the girl is unfamiliar to her. He is Bone, one the block’s many dealers. The woman, although unfamiliar, is obviously a crackhead. Her disheveled appearance and jittery mannerisms telegraph her addiction. Undoubtedly, an exchange of goods and services just took place inside the dark interior of the building. She shakes her head, sighs, and steps carefully down the decaying steps.
She glances up at her third floor window, relieved no one’s watching. She shuffles her feet and looks toward the alley. A drunk is peeing behind an overstuffed dumpster, mumbling incoherently. He takes a long swig from his beer, somehow managing not to spill a drop. Trina sighs again and turns away.
Drake said the package would be here today. It better be in this old man’s bag.
Mercifully, the mailman finally reaches the building next door. Just steps away now. Trina glances up at her window. Butterfly cocoons explode inside her. Still empty.
“Hey there, young lady.” The mailman greets her. The weight of his mailbag burdens him and seems to pull him backwards.
“Hey, what’s up?” she says. Her eyes fixate on his bag, searching for the package that will allow her to escape this poverty-stricken, crime-ridden part of the city.
“How are you doing today? Seems like a…”
“What cha got for me?” Trina cuts him off, no pleasantries today. “You got my package?”
“Umm, okay…uh let’s see here.” The mailman reaches inside his bag, his wrinkled hand shaking as he rearranges various envelopes.
Jesus, how in the hell is this old ass dude still delivering mail?
She exhales sharply, trying to hurry him along. It doesn’t work. If anything, he moves slower. Her patience thins. A breath before she screams, his decrepit fingers finally reveal what she’s been waiting for.
Behind her, a police cruiser turns into the alley, four officers deep. The passenger watches as the mailman hands the suspect a large, nondescript package. Trina hears the car but doesn’t care. She’s locked on the package. The cruiser rolls past and backs into an abandoned garage.
Trina tosses the unwanted mail on the steps and bolts into the gangway. Her foot snags a crack and she stumbles over a jutting piece of concrete. She falls hard, but clutches the package like a newborn. Like the skeleton dog chewing on his boot, Trina is not letting go. She twists mid-fall, her shoulder absorbing the impact. Still holding the package close, she scrambles to her feet and darts around the building. The backyard is a jungle of weeds and overgrowth. She drops onto the fractured concrete stoop, her heartbeat ringing in her ears, confident in her hiding spot.
Trina tears open the package, oblivious to her surroundings. Sweat beads on her forehead as adrenaline pumps through her thin frame. She gasps as ten bundles of one hundred dollar bills spill into her lap. Her body trembles, the shock of actually seeing the money short circuiting her nerves. Her mouth dries out. She’s happily terrified. Her dream of finally leaving this wretched place is now attainable.
The police cruiser pulls out of the dilapidated garage and silently inches forward. It stops at the entrance to the backyard, in clear view of the broken sidewalk leading up to the stoop. The bush hasn’t overtaken the walkway yet, offering the officers a clear enough view of the suspect.
“That’s a lot of money for a young lady to have. You want to tell me where you got it?”
Trina’s heart drops as she watches the four police officers jump out of the vehicle and rush toward her, hands reaching for their weapons.
She looks down at the money spilled in her lap.
I’m never getting out of this place, she whispers.
Jay Owens 