Marcus Reed sat on the edge of his twin-sized bed, staring at the framed photo on his nightstand. It was a shot from years ago—him and his dad, Ron, at the old neighborhood boxing gym. Marcus had been around 12 or 13, not old enough to care about footwork or jabs, but old enough to feel the weight of his dad's quiet expectations.
The fan in the corner whirred weakly, pushing around the humid summer air. It was the middle of his first summer after finishing freshman year at community college, and nothing felt different. Not really.
He glanced at the photo again—young Marcus, fists raised in a playful pose, and Ron standing behind him, stoic but proud. His dad never smiled much, but there was always that quiet approval in his eyes. Boxing had always been their thing, but Marcus never took it seriously. It was more about bonding with his dad than becoming the next Ali.
With a sigh, Marcus flipped the photo face down.
His phone buzzed beside him. A message from his mom, Angela.
"You coming to the shop today? Got some stuff you can help with. Be here by 1."
He stared at the text for a moment, then typed back, "Sure. Be there in a bit."
The screen dimmed, leaving Marcus staring at his reflection in the black mirror of the phone. He tossed it onto the bed and stood up, running his hand through his short hair, trying to shake off the familiar weight in his chest.
"Marcus!" his dad's voice boomed from the hallway. "You coming or what?"
Marcus glanced at the clock. Noon already. He grabbed his hoodie off the chair—despite the heat—and headed downstairs.
The kitchen smelled like coffee and motor oil. Ron sat at the small round table, skimming the newspaper. His hands were stained from another morning at the shop, his knuckles rough and scarred. They always reminded Marcus of the countless rounds his dad had put in at the gym, years ago.
"You heading to the gym today?" Ron asked, not looking up from the paper.
Marcus shrugged. "Maybe. Mom needs me at the store."
Ron folded the paper neatly and leaned back, his eyes narrowing just a little as they met Marcus'. "You should train more. You've got potential."
Marcus shifted his weight, feeling the usual pressure in his chest. "I don't know, Dad. Boxing's not really my thing."
"It doesn't have to be," Ron said evenly. "But it's something. Gives you focus."
Focus. Marcus nodded but didn't say anything. His dad wasn't wrong. He'd been drifting lately, in school and in life, but he wasn't sure boxing was the answer. It had never been his passion.
"I'll think about it," he muttered before heading out the door.
The walk to the convenience store was short, but Marcus took his time. He kicked loose gravel down the sidewalk, listening to the distant hum of the city. Baltimore had always felt like a place stuck between being something great and being forgotten. Kind of like him.
He passed a group of kids playing basketball on the street, their laughter echoing in the air. It reminded him of the old days when he and Trevor used to shoot hoops after school, before everything went downhill.
Trevor. His half-brother was always in the back of his mind, a constant source of worry and frustration. At 21, Trevor was already a father and neck-deep in trouble. They barely spoke anymore unless Trevor needed something. Marcus sighed at the thought of him.
Reaching the store, Marcus paused to look at his reflection in the glass door. There he was—19, stuck in the middle of a life he didn't want, in a city that seemed just as unsure about its own direction. His phone buzzed in his pocket, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Need you to cover for me with Mom. Gotta handle something. Don't ask."
It was Trevor. Of course.
Marcus stuffed the phone back into his pocket and pushed open the door. A blast of cold air from the store's AC hit his face, but it didn't do much to cool him down.
Inside, Angela stood behind the counter, ringing up a customer. She glanced up as Marcus entered, offering a quick smile before turning back to the register.
"You're late," she said as he approached the counter. Her tone was teasing but had a hint of seriousness behind it. "You're lucky I still need the help."
"Yeah, yeah," Marcus replied, grabbing an apron from the back of the counter. "Traffic, y'know?"
She snorted. "Sure. Traffic in your room maybe."
Marcus managed a weak smile, tying the apron around his waist. "What do you need help with today?"
"Stocking mostly. The shelves in the back are a mess, and I need someone to take inventory. You're good at that."
"Got it," he said, heading toward the back room. He was halfway there when Angela called out after him.
"By the way, you heard from Trevor?"
Marcus stopped, his back stiffening. He didn't turn around, just nodded slightly. "He's... handling something. Said he'll be by later."
Angela didn't say anything for a moment. He could feel her eyes on him, but he kept moving, not wanting to get into it. There was no point in telling her the truth—not when Trevor was already on thin ice with her and Ron.
The back room was a mess, just like she said. Boxes were piled high, the floor cluttered with random shipments. Marcus grabbed a clipboard and started counting inventory, his mind wandering as he worked.
The air was cooler back here, quieter too, but it didn't drown out his thoughts. Trevor, the way things used to be, and the growing feeling that his life was moving nowhere—all of it swirled around in his head.
He stacked a few boxes, pausing to catch his breath. His phone buzzed again. Trevor. Of course.
"Thanks for covering. I owe you."
Marcus stared at the message for a moment, then shoved the phone back into his pocket. He couldn't remember the last time Trevor didn't owe him.
Shaking his head, Marcus focused on the shelves in front of him, trying to push the thoughts away. But deep down, he knew something had to change. He couldn't keep living like this, waiting for Trevor to get his act together or for some opportunity to fall into his lap.
If anything was going to change, it had to start with him.