It was Saturday afternoon, and Jayla texted the group chat like she always do: “Y’all tryna go out or nah? I’m bored.”
Five minutes later, everybody hittin’ her back with “bet,” “say less,” “on my way.”
Jayla smiled. She already knew—soon as folks got bored, they looked at her to make something happen.
They all met up at the little food truck park down on Maple, the one always smellin’ like fried somethin’ and somebody’s grandma’s kitchen. Soon as Jayla stepped out the car, that BBQ smoke hit her like a hug.