TWO DOORS DOWN (A Westside Story)

Omari was supposed to be in college.

Instead he's in the passenger seat of a dying U-Haul, watching I-20 spit him out onto a block full of hookers, thugs, crackheads, fast boys, fast girls, and police. His parents are divorced because his father cheated with his assistant and got her pregnant. His mama, Denise, is broke and tired. His grandma, Miss Ruby, is 89, sick, and still sharp enough to clock everything from her recliner. They had to move back in with her. Westside Atlanta. No plan B.
Omari is 19. Black. Brown-skinned. Average built - not skinny, not thick, abs from being young and hungry, not from a gym. Light hazel eyes with a little shade of green in them. Full lips. Cute nose. Thick dark hair in a messy man bun because he promised Denise he wouldn't cut it after his daddy left.
The first thing he sees when he steps on that cracked driveway is Dre.
Big. Muscular. Dark-skinned, damn near midnight. Tattoos from his neck to his ankles. Gold grillz. Diamond Cuban chains with no pendant. Fresh twists hanging down his back. Gray sweatpants. Black Air Forces. Counting money. Smoking a blunt. Looking at Omari like he already decided something.
Dre stays two doors down. He helps them unload. He calls Omari by name like he's been practicing it. He tells Denise the block eats people who look lost. Miss Ruby already knows him - he's the one who cuts her grass when she don't ask. Denise don't like how he looks at her son. She likes it even less because some part of her believes Dre could keep Omari alive on a street that don't care.
Omari gets Uncle Ray's old back room. The window faces Dre's driveway.
Night hits the Westside. Music. Arguments. Sirens.

Two doors down, a car door shuts.
Omari don't have to look to know whose it is.
This is a story about a boy who lost the life he was promised, a mama trying not to drown, an old woman who still runs her house, and the man next door who sees Omari too clearly. Heat. Hunger. Danger. Want. Atlanta don't blink.