My dad had a pretty decent job. For all I know he still has that job, a paralegal with a pretty snazzy law office downtown. Before we moved here there were pictures of my mom and dad from the holiday party. Imagine a law firm so fancy they pay for a photographer, and then they print them out and frame them, right there for you! Okay, so the frames were paper, but still.

  My mom looked beautiful. She’d bought her dress in the garment district, it was green and shimmery and she moved in it like she was dancing. In the photograph she looks so happy.

  My dad looks like he looks in every photo I’ve seen of him with my mom. Hey, I’m with her? How’d I get so lucky? He does. I told that to Ma once and she just snorted.

  It was probably because I was thinking of Dad, and whether he’d call or not, or whether she’d call him, that I did what I did. I don’t feel guilty, but I don’t feel good. I wish I hadn’t listened.

  I heard my mom talking on the phone. Caro was watching TV, I was in the kitchen making us a couple of quesadillas, when I heard her voice. Did she need something? Was she calling me? Was she okay?

  “Ma?” I said, walking down the hallway. Her plates were outside. She’d finished eating the can of soup I’d heated up for her.

  I tapped on the door, “Ma?”

  “Hold on,” I heard her say. “What, Abby?”

  “Did you need something?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Okay.” I stood there a moment and heard her talking to someone. I stepped into the bathroom. From there you can hear practically everything, because of the way the vents work, or the walls are thin or something.

  I could hear her talking. Was it to Dad?

  “No, Sandra, you don’t understand.” Oh, she was talking to Tía. Tía Sandra lives in Rohnert Park, up north past San Francisco, so we don’t see her and her boys very often. The last time Dad drove us, it seemed to take a week, but a good week. We stopped everywhere. We saw the Golden Gate Bridge. We saw otters and elephant seals and regular seals and redwoods and Monterey pines. We ate clam chowder out of bread bowls. We stayed with Tía and did more things with them all. Thinking of that, when we were all there together, all of us going to Foster Freeze’s for ice cream, made my chest hurt. I didn’t want to think about it. So I listened to my ma.

  “Would you let me talk?” She’d stopped coughing. “Hell yes I’m worried. Why would she bring over all that food if she didn’t think I was gonna die?”

  Did she really say that? Did I hear right? Did she really think that?

  She continued: “Yeah, I feel like crap. My head hurts like you can’t believe and sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” She listened to Tía. “No, how’m I gonna check myself into the hospital and leave my girls? No, I haven’t told the girls about him. No, you can’t come down here. What if you get sick too? No, you can’t—”

  I left the bathroom and staggered into the hallway. I went and stood in the kitchen, where I couldn’t hear anything at all. Not my ma, not Caro. I looked at the kitchen sink and began running water. I could wash the dishes, that’s what I could do.

  Later Caro began whining that she was bored. I guess even she has a time limit for crayons and television. I pulled out a book I loved in fifth grade. I sat down and she sat on my lap. By the smell of her it was definitely bath time, probably for me too. I began reading Esperanza Rising but after five minutes Caro began to squirm. I get that. No pictures. Next time I’ll pick another book. I told her if she took a bath I’d play cards with her after dinner.

  With the water running you can’t hear anything from the bedroom, but Ma was off the phone anyway. I tapped on the door and opened it. “How you doin’?”

  She coughed a long time before she answered me, “I don’t want you in here, Mami. Close the door.” I did. She called after me: “You just put the food by the door, okay? I’ll get it. Don’t come in here, I don’t want you getting sick.”

  For dinner I had another quesadilla and Caro ate the leftover canned ravioli. I guess she was hungry enough. We played Fish and I let her win three times, and then I decided it was time for her to go to bed. She argued with me. Of course she argued with me. “If you go to bed when I tell you, you can always have the top bunk.”

  Deal. She tapped at Ma’s door and said, “Mommy? G’night!” I heard Ma’s voice answer her.

  When Caro was in bed I cleaned the kitchen like I’ve watched Ma do dozens and dozens of times. I took a bath; the apartment was quiet. I brushed my teeth, I got a clean set of pajamas, then thought, Great, I’m gonna have to figure out how to get us clean clothes sometime. I tried watching TV but it was all so stupid. I watched the news, I heard about the virus, and my guts started churning. I came in here and tried to sleep. Then I heard the very worst thing: there were no traffic noises. Like everything outside had stopped, everywhere.

  I heard my mom open her door and head down the hallway to use the bathroom, then go back to her room. I waited. I walked to her room, listened, heard her snoring, and opened the door.

  Her phone was next to her.

  I gently picked up her phone, and walked softly all the way to our sofa. I tapped in Dad’s number and held my breath. I could explain, he’d come and help us, things would get better. I was so nervous, I dialed a wrong number. I tapped again.

  What? That didn’t make sense. Again. This time I made sure of every number and still I couldn’t believe it when the recording told me that the number had been disconnected.

  I’ve already tried going to sleep once. Caro was asleep above me, I could hear her breathing. I lay down, hugging the mattress. I could hear my heart pounding and pounding. I tried and tried to go to sleep. Nothing. I got up again. Started to write here.

  I feel like that time when I was ten, when I stayed up late. Something was gonna happen, I could feel it. And it did happen. That night we had an earthquake that woke everyone up except me, because I was already awake.

  I’m just lying here, writing, waiting for the earthquake to arrive.

  WHERE THE SMOKE MEETS THE SKY

  BY NIKOLAS CHARLES

  South Figueroa Street

  Olin’s heart raced as he crouched in the darkness watching the fire. What began as the small flickering flame of a match quickly grew into a furious blaze. A faceless fireman appeared in the doorway, the last one out. Before he could escape, the roof collapsed, crushing him under the weight of a thousand pounds. He let out his last gasp of air in a shrill scream expelling the devil smoke.

  Olin awoke to realize the scream he heard was his own. By the time the morning siren sounded at 06:00 hours and the detention services officer announced rise-and-shine over the loudspeakers, his nightmare went silent. The same dream that played on the screen inside his head each night fell dark once more. He shielded his eyes as the fluorescents lit up the dormitory room where other male juvenile offenders snored and passed gas.

  A delinquent named Linwood Earle eyeballed him every morning. Other boys warned Olin to keep his distance. He had black-on-black tattoos running up his arms and across his back. He had scruffy growth under his lip and around his chin. He had a permanent scowl and a deadeye gaze. Olin did his best to ignore him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When he recalled the dream, he shrugged it off to his night sweats, one more hardship of life in the hot box called Central Juvenile Hall.

  Olin rolled his wiry frame off the low cot and got in line for the latrine. Linwood Earle was still sitting on his bunk giving Olin the stink eye. He wondered how long it would take before the emotionally disturbed youth became combative. As soon as he started sleeping in the group room, this guy zeroed in on him. Honed in like some kind of nuclear missile.

  A big Black DSO named Officer Hawkins approached Olin holding a clipboard. He was tall and thick with massive arms and a stern expression. His job was to maintain order and control of the unit and he took his job seriously. He circled Olin comparing the X number on the back of his wrinkled and sweat-stained uniform to his paperwork. “You’re Roberts, Olin Raymond,” he said. “Your defense attorney, Ms. Klein, is here from the Juvenile Court with some legal documents. She will meet with you in the front office.”

  Olin walked with his head down and his hands behind his back. He remembered the lady attorney as soon as he saw her. She was damn good looking and smelled nice too.

  “I’ve been handling some aspects of your case,” she said. “I brought LA County deputy probation officer Jesus Garcia here today to assist you with your successful transition back into the community. I met with the judge and the prosecutor this morning. The cause has come back as undetermined. Therefore, you’re no longer a suspect and the charge against you has been dismissed. You’ve been granted a release by a court order. Do you have any questions?”

  “Am I really getting out?”

  “You’ll be discharged in the custody of Officer Garcia. He will transport you to your new residence. Fortunately, it’s operated by the same staff as your previous group home. You can stay there until a more permanent revision can be instituted.”

  Olin was glad to be getting out but it wasn’t all good news. He walked out to the lobby of the detention center after the three-minute shower they allowed him. His hair was still damp and unkempt. He was back in the street clothes he hadn’t worn in months. Jeans, a pair of Vans, and a black Public Enemy T-shirt.

  Officer Garcia waited for him. He was an older Mexican man, probably fortysomething, Olin thought. He had a gold badge sewn on his shirt and a thick black mustache. Adults are dangerous. Cops even worse. Olin didn’t have any reason to trust him anymore than anyone else.

  “Okay, amigo. Vamos!” the man said, leading him out of the building.

  Olin kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the ground.

  Garcia read his body language. “It’s all right, my friend. Everything will be better soon. Today is your lucky day.” He led the way to a white older-model fifteen-passenger transit van. “You’re my only VIP in this, our luxury limousine.”

  “This is just a van.”

  “Not just a van. It’s a big, ugly van. Climb in.”

  Olin rode shotgun as Garcia steered over the metal tiger teeth. He waved to the guard and drove onto Eastlake. He passed the food truck selling carne asada to some USC health-care workers. He cursed the road construction. “I drive on surface streets to avoid traffic. Easier for me to supervise my passengers. Some boys fight. Some try to hurt themselves. Best part is you get the nickel tour of South Central just like Huell Howser.”

  With the downtown Los Angeles skyline in his rearview mirror, Garcia drove south on San Pedro. The day was weary and dismal. The officer reminisced about growing up in the hood, the dark days he witnessed, and how he prayed for better ones. Olin looked out the window. He saw a couch on the curb. He saw homeless encampments near and far. He saw shopping carts filled with trash.

  Garcia stopped short and swung the van to the right. One, two, three black-and-whites sped past them. The vehicles came to a quick stop diagonally across the oncoming lanes. The LAFD engines and trucks followed with sirens blaring. “Ay, Dios mío. I hope no one is hurt,” Garcia said.

  With traffic blocked by the LAPD, Olin had a front-row seat to the incident. He leaned out the open window watching the emergency unfold. A fireman stood in front of a single-family residence within earshot of the probation van. He barked anxiously into a handheld radio.

  “Task Force 33 on the scene assuming incident command. Smoke showing at a dwelling on San Pedro and Vernon. Search and rescue in progress.” The swarthy man wore an orange helmet and a yellow jacket that was smoke-stained and worn. He looked grizzled, with a deep scar on the side of his face.

  “Roger, 33,” said a woman’s voice on the other end.

  Olin could see smoke seeping out of the upstairs window and a sudden flash of hungry flames. A crowd of people appeared in front of the burning house with their necks craned upward. “My baby is still in there!” screamed a woman standing on the lawn. A man held her back.

  “Metro, I’ve got fire throughout with people trapped inside, request ALS rescue unit!” the fireman shouted. A blur of yellow and red ran toward the structure under the blackened sky. Uniformed police officers waved the traffic forward. Garcia merged into the lane. Olin looked back to see a fireman handing a crying baby to its thankful mother. In the gray of the day, the silver soot smudged out what was left of the sun.

  The June gloom that hung in the air earlier in the day had turned into precipitation. The light rain mixed with the oil residue on the road created a slick surface. Garcia hit the intermittent wipers and grumbled that Angelenos hate rain, drought or not. He reached behind his seat and propped a clipboard between the console and the dash. It sat on top of an old spiral-bound Thomas Guide. Olin saw his name and the address of the new group home. His heart pounded and his palms got sweaty. He breathed hard and fast.

  “I’m not going back there,” he said.

  “Where, amigo?”

  “I’ll just run away like I did before.”

  “My responsibility is to drive you to the address on this paper.”

  “Let me out,” Olin cried. “Bad shit happened to me there.” When there was no response from Garcia, Olin panicked and yanked the handle of the door. It swung open and ricocheted against its greasy hinges, knocking him off-balance. He fell out and hung by his seat belt. The van began to hydroplane. It skidded and slid across the wet surface. Garcia struggled to control it.

  “Grab my hand!” he yelled.

  “I can’t reach it.”

  Garcia pulled the wheel down hard with his left hand and did his cross with his right. The bulky behemoth lurched into the center lane, cutting off the car behind them. The momentum sent Olin flying back inside the cab as it careened into northbound traffic.

  “Watch out!” he hollered.

  Garcia reacted and the antilock brakes locked. He swerved and smashed into a parked car. The force thrust them forward then dropped them back. They looked at each other, dazed.

  “Don’t make me go back to those people,” Olin said.

  Garcia took a deep breath before he spoke. “Could be un gran problema at my work, but I feel you deserve a second chance. I can’t take you to a place where there’s abuse or neglect. I have an idea.”

  The van was crunched and crippled but still running. The windshield was cracked. And the body and frame damage made it limp and squeal. The unlucky parked car fared even worse. Garcia scrawled a quick note and stuck it under the wiper. It simply began, Lo siento. Beneath it was his name, rank, and main number to County Probation.

  Soon after, he turned into a strip mall in the Vermont-Slauson neighborhood, on the corner of Figueroa and Gage, called Angel’s Plaza. “We’re here,” he announced proudly. Olin followed him to some glass doors. “This might be the solution to your problem.”

  “This is a laundromat.”

  “Sí. Coin Lavandería, an investment for my family’s future.” The officer walked inside and pointed at the rows of stainless-steel front-loading washing machines. “New, expensive, very shiny,” he said as he smirked at his reflection.

  “This is the solution?” Olin asked.

  “Maybe not the real solution, amigo. But possibly a bridge from an old place of sadness to a new place of hope. You can work here.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Night janitor. Sweep and mop. Until you find a real home.”

  “But where will I live?”

  Garcia had another idea. He led Olin outside to a heavy iron security door. They walked upstairs to a dank and dingy attic. It was a neglected, cockroach-infested room with a toilet and tub. The space was cluttered with paint cans, tarps, and ladders. It had a window that looked out at the parking lot.

  “Live here? Where will I sleep? There’s no bed?” Olin frowned at the soiled carpet, the water-stained ceiling, and the dusty window. The air was alternately musty from mildew and sweet from the smell of the bakery below.

  “It’s only temporary. You’re no longer a ward of the court. You have two choices: go back into another group home or make it on your own. Living here means you follow my rules. No cerveza, no Mary Jane, and no happy ladies from Figueroa. Girls like that always want more.”

  “More what?” Olin asked

  “More than you got.”

  Then he grasped Olin by the shoulders and asked him what he wanted to do with his life. “How will you be a better man?”

  Olin wasn’t used to being touched but he didn’t pull away. He already knew the answer. Garcia waited patiently. “I want to be a fireman,” he said as he braced himself for the ridicule.

  But Garcia didn’t laugh. He smiled. “You remind me of another boy I knew. He and his two brothers were in and out of juvenile hall. Always in trouble with the law. But the oldest one found the courage to leave the life of crime behind. He became a fireman.”

  Olin thought that if someone else could do it, so could he.

  That night, Olin swept and mopped the Lavandería. Garcia showed him where to find all the supplies. A closet with brooms, mops, and generic cleaning fluids from the 99 Cents Only Store. He emptied the clumps of lint from all the dryers and shined the metal surfaces of the appliances. He turned off the lights and locked the door.

  All of the stores in the strip mall had closed. Olin noticed that one vehicle remained in the lot. It was an ugly, colorless pickup truck. He wondered who the owner was. He looked through the windows of each store. He saw signs in different languages. From the Korean dry cleaners and the Vietnamese nail salon to the El Salvadorian panadería, there was no one in sight. He shrugged and went back upstairs. He looked out the sullied window. It still sat there like a dead weight.

  Olin examined the set of keys—one was unaccounted for. He walked down to the desolate parking lot and approached the truck. All of the paint had been sanded off. It was bare metal. Olin put the mystery key in the driver’s-side door and it opened. He got in the vehicle and clutched the steering wheel at the ten and two positions. He swiveled it back and forth and made car sounds with his mouth. He put the key in the ignition and turned it. It coughed out a black cloud of burnt oil. It turned over and roared. He hit the gas and howled through the window as he peeled out onto the pavement.