DEVIANT: Next Chapter (4) “TEETH”

A Forest That Smiles Back

Raheem walks through the forest before he realizes he’s asleep.

There is no falling into it. No warning. No seam between waking and dream. One moment his body is heavy in bed, the next his feet are on damp earth that gives slightly under his weight.

The trees are all tall and crowded, their trunks thick and dark; Bark slick as if they’ve been sweating together for centuries. Moss climbs them in slow, patient patterns. Vines hang low, brushing Raheem’s shoulders as he passes, cool and alive against his skin.

The air smells sweet. This forest comes to somewhat of a bayou and is charming and beautiful like scenes of swamps in New Orleans.

Overripe fruits and flowers burst from everywhere. The smell of the sweetness in the air is pleasant, almost comforting; Like the smell of a kitchen after something’s been cooking too long — perfectly charred, not quite burnt.

Fireflies blink lazily between branches. None of them are giants like Adze. Nothing to fear here.

Nothing is frantic. Nothing forewarning. Just enough light to suggest safety.

Raheem still moves carefully, instinct guiding him even before thought catches up. The forest floor is soft beneath his feet, layers of leaves and damp soil muffling his steps. It feels like the woods are listening — leaning in without moving.

A twig snaps. Raheem freezes.

Then — A man steps out from behind a tree. He’s handsome and grinning, not at all too eager or aggressive. His face is even more structured and symmetrical than Anansi’s was before his spider form.

Striking in a way that pleasantly surprises — even mezmerizes you. His face is perfectly guided symmetry, with eyes and a demeanor that are easy to trust. A full head of locks frames his face, thick and well-kept, catching the firefly light in soft glints. His posture is relaxed. Grounded. Familiar.

Not fatherly, in a way of authority in hierarchy, but brothery and inviting.

He’s the kind of man who looks like the perfect guide through a place such as this. His clothes aren’t torn to suggest any past struggle.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” the man says abruptly.

His voice is warm. Calm and measured. The kind of voice that has never been raised, likely because it’s never had to.

“It’s safe for the most part but I’m certain you shouldn’t just be wandering alone. You’re welcome to come with me — if ya want.”

Relief rushes through Raheem’s chest before he can stop it. A welcome is not a command or a web or a fist pulling you along.

His shoulders drop just a fraction. His breath loosens, but something tells him to test it: “No thanks”, Raheem blurts out. “I’m good on my own.”

“Suit yourself”. The man shrugs his shoulders and turns to walk away.

Just then, Raheem knows it’s not a ruse: “No. I know…” Raheem says quickly. “I was just — ”

The handsome man turns back around confused and yet amused. He steps closer. Not invading or abrupt, but certainly more easily seen. He puts his hands up to show that they’re empty: “There’s nothing to fear here kid. Not with me atleast.”

“Come,” he says, gesturing deeper into the forest. His palm is open, inviting. “I know a path and we can work together — keep each other safe.”

Raheem hesitates a beat, but then goes along– remembering the goodness of Jengu. Not all these characters are scary, evil, or tricksters. Some are good, and his gut tells him this man is good.

He follows. The forest thickens as they walk.

The trees draw closer together, their branches knitting overhead until the sky becomes something distant and fragmented. The air grows heavier, warmer, clinging to Raheem’s skin. The sweetness sharpens, edging toward something sour beneath it.

The man keeps walking, never looking back.

“You’re a good kid, I can tell,” he says over his shoulder, voice still smooth. “You likely just need some guidance out here.”

The words land familiar. Comfortable. They sound like something Raheem has heard before — from teachers, elders, men who smiled while giving him guidance he could trust.

Raheem opens his mouth to answer —

And catches movement from behind the man’s head.

Movement within his dreadlocked hair. A shadow that doesn’t match the light. Raheem slows.

His stomach tightens.

The man turns slightly — just enough. And Raheem sees it. Another face hidden within his head of locks.

A hyena’s face stretches where the back of the man’s skull should be. Slick with saliva. Eyes wild and glittering with hunger. Its mouth is split into a grin too wide, teeth crowded and yellowed, gums wet and eager.

The human face remains calm. Kind.

Raheem stumbles backward, heart slamming hard enough to hurt.

The man’s voice does not change. “Don’t be afraid,” he says softly.

But the hyena’s jaw opens. And the forest smiles with it.

Vines in the Sheets

At the sight of the hyena, Raheem wakes quickly. Tangled in his sheets and breathless, it feels as if the forest followed him home. His heart won’t stop sprinting even though his body hasn’t moved.

He wakes with a sharp inhale.

For a wild second, the forest is still there.

The sweetness.

The closeness.

The smile from the more mature stranger.

Then the room resolves. He’s home in bed.

Morning light presses through the window, pale and unforgiving, washing the walls in a thin gray-blue that makes everything feel exposed. Dust floats visibly in the beam. The radiator ticks softly, still cooling from the night.

Raheem lies still, staring at the ceiling.

The cracks are familiar. The faint water stain near the corner looks like a continent he’s memorized since childhood. Reality asserts itself piece by piece, solid and unarguable.

His breath slows.

Fear dissipates — because he lets it be there, as he was taught by Jengu. He breathes through the feelings these days.

Float, Jengu’s voice echoes faintly in his chest.

Feel.

Don’t fight what’s revealing itself.

His body feels tense but his mind and heart are clearer than before. Like a storm has just passed — air sharp, ground soaked, everything smelling like it’s been scrubbed raw.

He sits up slowly and untangles himself from the sheets, careful, deliberate, like he’s proving to himself that he can move without panic. He swings his feet onto the floor and lets the cool ground beneath him wake the rest of his body as it travels upwards through his nerves.

He gets dressed slowly.

Not dissociating.

Not rushing.

Hoodie. Pants. Socks pulled up evenly. He eats half a piece of toast and stops when his stomach says enough. He doesn’t force the rest. He sips water and breathes through the tightness in his chest, instead of running from it.

By the time he leaves the apartment, every bit of fear and anxiety he felt from his dreams has softened into something else — he’s present in the day. Determined to stay in the moment at hand.

Exiting the apartment door, Malik is already waiting across the hall.

A Smile too Beguiling

Something about Malik is off this morning.

Not broken.

Not upset.

Just… tuned too high.

His jacket is nicer than usual — cleaner, better fitted, like he dressed with intention instead of habit. And that’s particularly unusual for an early morning in New York City. His braids are freshly done, and his phone is buzzing in his hand… and it’s not even 8am.

When they get downstairs to the street, the phone is still buzzing and Malik is glancing up the block like he’s expecting someone important to appear.

He’s obviously restless, and the excitement or anxiety is unnerving Raheem as well. They can’t help but watch him, as he watches the block.

“You good?” Raheem asks carefully.

Malik flashes a grin too fast. Too wide. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m great.”

The words land hollow.

Aisha joins them moments later, her steps measured, her eyes already scanning. She clocks Malik’s energy instantly — head tilting slightly, gaze sharpening like she’s tuning into a frequency she doesn’t trust.

“You look… busy?,” she says.

Malik laughs, a little too loud. “Mind your business.”

Aisha doesn’t laugh back.

She side-eyes him, lips pressed together, filing the moment away. Raheem does the same. Something about Malik’s excitement reminds Raheem of the man in the forest — how comfort arrived dressed as certainty, but secretly held something else in the back of his brain.

They start walking.

The Black Boy Industiral Complex

At school, the pastor’s voice and commentary from the other day lingers and rings in Raheem’s head — the certainty, the way scripture had been sharpened into something pointed directly at his being. It’s something he’s still trying to shake.

Sensitive.

Urges.

Correction.

He shakes memory of the words loose and tries to focus on class, on the steady rhythm of routine. It works — almost.

Until third period.

A knock on the classroom door.

The teacher pauses mid-sentence. The guidance counselor stands in the doorway, clipboard tucked under her arm, smile professional and unreadable.

She gestures to Raheem.

“Raheem. Come with me.”

The hallway feels longer than usual. The walls close in just a little. Sneakers squeak. Voices echo. The counselor doesn’t say much as they walk, just points him toward the gym.

“Coach wants to see you,” she says.

The word potential hits Raheem in the stomach.

Heavy.

It doesn’t lift him. It doesn’t excite him. It presses — like a hand between his shoulder blades steering him forward.

They reach the gym doors.

Laughter echoes inside. Whistles. The sharp scent of sweat and rubber and ambition.

The counselor opens the door and gestures him in.

Raheem hesitates for half a second. Then steps forward.

And somewhere deep in his chest, a warning hums — quiet, persistent — like the forest teaching him how to listen.

The gym smells clean in the way institutions always do — like effort layered over something older.

Bleach bites sharp at the back of Raheem’s throat. Underneath it, sweat lingers: sour, human, unavoidable. The air vibrates with sound — basketballs thudding against hardwood, sneakers squealing, whistles snapping short and commanding. The rhythm is steady, mechanical, like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to him.

Raheem’s footsteps echo too loudly as he crosses the floor.

COACH HARRIS leans against the bleachers like he owns gravity.

Broad-shouldered. Thick neck. Voice trained to boom without effort. Authority sits on him like armor — earned, practiced, rarely questioned. He wears a school-issued tracksuit that somehow looks like a uniform and a warning at the same time.

“Raheem,” Coach Harris says. “Sit.”

It isn’t a suggestion.

Raheem sits on the edge of the bleachers. The cold metal presses through his pants. He keeps his hands folded, posture neutral, eyes forward. His body recognizes this posture instinctively — the one you take when adults decide they’re about to try and shape you into something you know nothing about.

Coach Harris studies him, like a puzzle missing a crucial piece.

“You’re smart,” the coach says. “Teachers say you’re a good kid. Grades are ok, but not solid enough for scholarship offers, ”

Raheem nods once. Says nothing. He’s learned that silence is often safer than any attitude or enthusiasm.

“But you’re soft,” Coach Harris continues. The word drops heavy.

“And I don’t mean that as an insult,” the coach adds quickly, waving a hand like that makes it gentler. “Although it can be a problem out here… for you. Coming to play sport may be a way to shape into your natural build.”

Raheem’s stomach tightens. The gym suddenly feels smaller.

“Boys like you,” Coach Harris says, pacing now, shoes squeaking with authority, “you need structure. Discipline. Fitness. A team.” He stops pacing and looks directly at Raheem. “And maybe even a little aggression to stay safe and create some college opportunities.”

The word aggression hums in the air.

Coach Harris steps closer. His shadow falls over Raheem.

“You ever consider joining a sport?”

Raheem hesitates.

The question feels bigger than sports. It feels like a test he didn’t study for.

“I — I don’t really like — ”

Coach Harris cuts him off with a laugh, loud and dismissive. “Nobody likes it at first. It’s hard. It’s a challenge — Intentitonally. But with your build, you’ll grow into it.” He taps the bleachers with his knuckles. “It toughens you up. And eventually you have fun.”

Raheem feels the pressure building — the familiar urge to nod, to agree, to let the moment end cleanly. He’s done this before. Said yes to things he didn’t want because saying no felt like inviting trouble.

Coach Harris leans in closer, lowering his voice.

“You don’t want people thinking things about you, right? You don’t want these guys out here trying you because they think you’re soft.”

The sentence lands sideways. Not explicit. Not necessary. Ugly and quiet.

Raheem’s chest tightens. His breath goes shallow. For a split second, he feels twelve years old again — trying to guess what adults mean when they don’t say it outright.

Then — Jengu’s voice surfaces, steady beneath the noise.

Feel it. Don’t swallow it.

Raheem lifts his eyes: “Respectfully. I don’t need to be toughened coach,” he says.

His voice shakes. He lets it: “But I do need to be respected.”

The words surprise him with their weight. They feel solid once spoken, like something he can stand on.

Coach Harris straightens, genuinely taken aback.

“This is an opportunity,” he says, tone sharpening. “You don’t want to throw it away.”

Raheem stands. His knees wobble, but he doesn’t sit back down.

“Coach,” he says carefully, “I’ll think on it forreal. But right now, I’m not certain it’s the one for me.”

For a moment, the gym holds its breath. Then Raheem turns and walks away.

Each step feels louder than the last. He expects to be stopped. Called back. Corrected.

He isn’t.

The gym doors close behind him with a hollow thud.

No, Spoken Aloud

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is not a fight — but a refusal. A clean boundary drawn around your body’s participation in anything.

By lunch, Aisha already knows.

Information travels fast when it’s about boys being shaped into potential athletes.

She slides into the seat across from Raheem, eyes sharp, posture angled toward him like a shield.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

Raheem nods. “I said no today, and that I’d think on it.”

Aisha exhales slowly, shoulders easing just a little. “Good.”

She doesn’t ask him to explain. Doesn’t question his decision. Just lets it stand.

Across the cafeteria, Malik sits with people Raheem doesn’t recognize.

They’re older. Flashier. Coats too clean. Jewelry catching light. Money in their pockets and confidence sharpened into something dangerous. One of them drapes an arm around Malik’s shoulders like he owns him: Offering warmth but also evading any chance of escape.

Malik laughs loud. Too loud. Raheem can hear his voice from across the cafeteria, where he’s sitting.

The laugh is performative, stretched, like he’s auditioning for something.

Raheem’s stomach drops as he recognizes the pattern now.

The forest that smiles. The invitation wrapped in safety. The warmth that asks for something later.

Aisha follows his gaze. Her jaw tightens.

“Malik,” she murmurs. Not loud enough for him to hear. Just naming their friend, in danger.

Raheem watches as Malik nods along to something one of the guys says. Watches Malik become smaller in the way people do when they’re trying too hard to belong somewhere they don’t belong.

The warning hum returns in Raheem’s chest.

This time, he listens.

The Park Bench

That afternoon, Raheem is on his way straight home.

No detours. No wandering. His body is tired and he just wants walls and quiet for comfort. His mind is still alert, still humming from the gym, from Malik, from saying no out loud and surviving it.

He’s halfway down the block when he hears his name.

“Raheem,” The voice is familiar. Warm. Trusted by design.

He turns.

It’s the pastor from his church. He’s standing near the edge of the small park, with his coat buttoned neatly, Bible tucked under his arm like an extension of his body, and he looks like he’s been waiting. As if this moment was always part of some big plan. Raheem hates being the prey.

Pastor approaches quickly, fake-smile already in tact.

“Raheem,” he says again. “I’ve been thinking about you, son.”

Raheem nods once. Keeps his hands in his hoodie pouch. “Yeah?”

“Here,” the pastor says gently, motioning toward a park bench. “Sit.”

The bench is warm. Metal slats biting through fabric. The park is quiet too, not yet alive with the kids from afterschool. Bare trees rattle softly in the breeze. A couple passes at a distance, then disappears around a corner.

The pastor sits beside him and opens his Bible immediately. Pages already marked, already known. His fingers flip with practiced ease.

“I worry,” the pastor says, voice low and sincere, “that the world is confusing you. That influences are pulling you away from God’s design.” He glances sideways at Raheem. “I want to see you more at church.”

Raheem’s heart begins to pound. Not with fear — with recognition and annoyance.

He doesn’t look away.

“I don’t feel confused,” Raheem says softly. His voice is steady, even as his pulse races. “I feel unheard. Like… you aren’t seeing me beyond your own… projections.”

The pastor pauses mid-page. The Bible rests open on his lap, suddenly heavier.

Raheem keeps going.

“When you talk about men like that,” he says, carefully, “about strength and sin — it feels like you’re talking about me, but you haven’t asked me about me. You don’t know anything about me for real, and you haven’t asked.”

The pastor frowns, brows knitting. “Scripture isn’t personal, son.”

“It is,” Raheem replies, a little firmer now, “especially when you use it on people.”

Silence stretches between them.

A crow caws somewhere overhead. Wind moves through bare branches. The pastor’s smile tightens — not gone, but sharpened.

“You’re too young to understand,” he says finally. “You need authority.”

Something clicks into place inside Raheem.

He stands. The motion is calm. Controlled.

“No,” he says. “I need space right now, and honesty and respect, whenever I’m in conversation with someone.”

The words surprise them both.

“I’m not broken,” Raheem adds. “And as much as you’ve come to ‘save me’ — ” his mouth tightens slightly around the word, “ — I don’t feel safe… here… with you. How can I, when you don’t even hear me, and you aren’t trying to?”

The pastor opens his mouth.

Raheem doesn’t wait: “You aren’t the guy you think you are Pastor. Sorry.” Adn with that he turns and walks away.

Each step feels lighter. Cleaner. The air shifts as if something unseen has loosened its grip.

The park behind him feels smaller, and he can feel the Pastor’s eyes on him, but he doesn’t care. Maybe those are are surprised with confusion or maybe theyr’re enraged. Either way, Raheem is relieved that he said what he meant, and meant what he said. He created his own safety.

And frankly– Fuck the Pastor. Fuck the church. Fuck the judgments and all the people who once hung Jesus, and now claim his name as they try and crucify other people with their judgments.

Names in the Dark

That night, Raheem dreams again.

The forest returns.

But this time — he knows where he is. Although a different world, his spirit and mind are made up– he’s unchanged.

The sweetness in the air no longer comforts him. It’s a warning — meant to lure him in. The fireflies don’t reassure; they illuminate just enough to show where not to step. The trees feel closer than before, crowding in with intent.

The man with the kind voice appears, just as before.

Handsome. Familiar. Hands open like a welcoming gesture.

“Come,” he says gently. “I can keep you safe out here and show you the way.”

Raheem doesn’t move.

His feet feel rooted now — not trapped, but anchored.

Behind the man, something shifts.

A figure steps forward from the shadows.

Asanbosam.

Tall. Massive. Red hair matted and wild, clinging to his shoulders like dried blood. His iron teeth gleam wet in the dim light, metal grinding softly as his mouth curves into a grin. His legs bend backward at the knee, unnatural, coiled like a predator waiting to spring.

“I am Kishi says the man” — smooth, inviting, eyes bright with false concern. Behind his head, the hyena face hangs open, drooling, lips curled back in silent laughter, breath hot and hungry.

“This is Asanbosam and it doesn’t care to keep you safe, the way I will. You may choose one or the other.”

Raheem feels fear, but it doesn’t own him.

ASANBOSAM

(low, amused)

“We invite you to join us on this journey. You do NOT want to be against us, child.”

KISHI

(smiling sweetly)

“Safety first.”

Raheem’s voice cuts through the forest.

“I know what you are.” The words land heavy.

The fireflies flicker erratically. The trees creak.

“YOU dress harm up and call it help,” Raheem says. “YOU call your hunger my guidance. YOU call controlling my path protection.”

The creatures don’t lunge as he suspects they would. They listen and grow angry at the sound of his voice.

And Raheem understands in that moment, something vital that he’s learned throughout the entire day: Predators hate being named.

The forest waits.

Name’Em

Raheem’s legs shake — but he stands.

The forest seems to sense it. Leaves still. Fireflies hesitate mid-blink. The sweetness in the air curdles, thickening into something sour at the back of his tongue.

“You don’t want to help me,” Raheem says, voice unsteady but clear. “You want to use me. Consume me maybe. But I’m not food.”

The creatures laugh. Loudly, with their eyes fixated on Raheem, seeking out his fear and uncertainty.

They’re disappointed to find neither.

ASANBOSAM

(low, amused)

“Help always comes at a costs.”

The iron teeth glint as he speaks, grinding softly, impatient. Kishi’s beautiful face tilts, sympathetic, while the hyena mouth behind it drools freely, saliva catching the firefly light.

Raheem closes his eyes. His heart hammers. His knees threaten to fold. Every instinct screams run.

Instead, he breathes. In through his nose. Out through his mouth.

He lets fear move through him instead of dragging him along.

“No,” he says, quieter now, steadier. “Help doesn’t have teeth that bite.”

The words land heavier than a shout.

The forest trembles. Branches creak. Vines shudder. The ground hums like something ancient has been struck.

The hyena mouth behind Kishi’s head opens wider and Kishi’s head jolts suddenly to the left. His neck cracks loudly as his head continues to turn, until the vicous and starving hyena is facing forward and the charming face is nowhere in sight.

Teeth glistening.

Asanbosam’s iron jaws grind together with a metallic rasp.

Just then —

The forest erupts.

Raheem runs as fast as he can. Not directly backwards, but at an angle through the forest, so he can use his full momentum going forward.

Branches slap his face. Roots grab at his feet, tripping him up. Vines claw his hoodie as he crashes through the undergrowth.

Behind him —

A devilish laugh.

Accompanied by horrible, uncontrollable hyena laugh.

Asanbosam: “You are our prey!”

The words slam through the trees.

Raheem ducks behind a fallen trunk, chest heaving, forcing himself flat against the mossy ground.

He remembers.

Listen.

Above him —

Branches bend and break. He hears them snapping. Asanboam is swinging through them.

Swing.

Pause.

Swing.

Asaboam moves through the canopy like a pendulum of hunger.

“You will be mine,” Kishi calls gently.

The words echo through the forest.

Once from his mouth.

Then again from the trees themselves.

Raheem presses his body lower.

Another sound cracks through the night —

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Heavy footsteps.

Kishi. He’s on foot. Actually on all on fours, tracking Raheem on the canopy floor.

“I will devour you, boy.”

Raheem squeezes his eyes shut.

The voice slides through the wind.

“Your scent is ingrained in my memory.”

A branch creaks overhead.

“You’ll never be free of me.”

Raheem forces himself still.

Swing.

Pause.

Swing.

Asanboam passes above him.

The sound of branches breaking move farther away.

Raheem crawls slowly through the underbrush, staying low beneath the canopy where the swinging predator cannot easily see him.

Then —

The hyena laugh explodes again.

Too close.

Raheem bolts.

The forest tears at him again as he runs.

Then suddenly —

He finally falls. Hand plunged into mud.

Cold.

Wet.

He looks down.

A thin thread of water slips between the roots.

A stream.

Raheem stares at it for one breath.

Then he thinks to follow it. Water can cleanse his scent.

He crawls on the ground, following the small stream into a larger rushing water. He lowers himself into it.

Cold water wraps around his ankles.

He crouches low and begins moving downstream.

Careful.

Quiet.

Let the water swallow his scent.

Behind him the forest explodes again.

Branches snapping.

“You cannot hide!”

Asanbosam crashes through the trees somewhere behind him.

Raheem pushes deeper into the water.

The stream widens at one end.

Soon it reaches his knees.

Then his waist. He’s reached a creek.

He crawls forward through the current, letting the water carry the mud and sweat from his body.

Above him —

A violent burst through the trees.

Kishi searches the forest floor some more.

“You are ours,” the predator whispers. Its voice echoed again from the trees.

But Raheem keeps moving.

The water grows deeper.

Soon he is floating.

Letting the current carry him.

The forest slowly begins to thin.

Moonlight spills through the trees.

Then —

The creek opens to a lake before him.

Wide.

Still.

Sacred.

Raheem drifts into the open water, chest rising and falling as he floats on his back.

Jengu’s domain.

He breathes.

Alive.

Near the shoreline he spots something —

A small wooden dock.

And tied to it —

A narrow fishing boat.

Raheem swims to the dock, climbs up, and pulls himself into the boat.

For a moment he just sits there shaking.

Then he unties the rope.

The wood creaks.

The boat pushes away from the dock.

The sound echoes across the lake.

CRACK.

The forest answers.

A violent rattling tears through the trees.

Branches explode.

Roots rip from the ground.

The predators are coming.

They burst from the forest edge seconds later.

Asanbosam arrives first, leaping from the treeline with impossible speed.

Kishi burst on the shoreline down beside him.

Both creatures bound to the shoreline.

Too late.

Raheem is already drifting out over the dark water.

The monsters roar.

“You will be mine!” Kishi screams.

“I will devour you!” Asanbosam snarls.

“You cannot escape!”

Their teeth flash in the moonlight.

But neither creature enters the lake.

They pace the shoreline like caged animals.

Raheem’s heart hammers as he watches them shrink in the distance.

Then —

The water beneath the boat begins to move.

Soft at first.

Then faster.

The still lake narrows into another rushing current.

Rocks appear ahead.

Whitewater.

Raheem lies down in the bottom of the boat.

Trust the water.

Trust Jengu.

The boat slams into the first rock.

CRACK —

Darkness swallows him, as he rendered unconscious again.

Reality — Waking

Raheem jolts upright in his bed.

His chest heaves.

The room is dark and quiet.

But the feeling is still there.

Something is wrong.

Malik.

Raheem grabs his hoodie and runs out the door.

The Concrete Jungle

The park smells like weed and cold pavement.

Raheem spots Malik immediately.

Sitting with the older boys.

Passing small bags.

Watching the street.

Waiting for customers.

Raheem’s stomach knots.

He whispers to himself:

“I can do this.”

He takes a deep breath and slaps himself in the face HARD.

Tears begin stumbling from his right eyes that he’s just slapped as he runs to Malik.

“Malik! Malik, man — I’m in trouble!”

The group all seated on the park table turns. Nosey.

Raheem stumbles toward them, breathing hard.

“Please — man — the cops!”

Malik stands.

“What?”

Raheem grabs his arm.

“They stopped me outta nowhere… a bag fell out… they were gonna cuff me and I — I ran!”

The older guys stiffen and can be heard complaining loudly: “What the f–?” “Man!” “Police?”

“What bag?” one demands.

“I don’t know! I just had some weed, but they ain’t — ” Raheem shouts.

“They said I was too young and going to jail!”

A police siren wails somewhere down the street. Normal in New York City.

The group panics regardless. “Yo fuck this!”

One of the older guys grabs his stash and holds his hand out to Malik.

Malik empties his pockets full of little baggies and cash.

Another points at Malik: “You bring cops around us again and you done, son! Both of you. Stay the hell away from us!”

They scatter.

Running.

Raheem grabs Malik.

“Come on.”

They run through the park.

Across the small patch of grass.

Down into the underpass where unhoused addicts mutter beneath blankets and shopping carts.

Then through an alley beside the school.

Finally they stop.

Both gasping for air.

Malik stares at him.

“You lying.”

Raheem exhales.

“…Yeah.”

Malik blinks.

“You faked that whole thing?”

Raheem nods.

“I saw you with them. I had to the you out and away.”

Silence.

Malik chuckles: “You made me think cops were coming?”

“…Yeah.”

Malik runs a hand down his face.

“You serious right now?”

“I was scared for you. I had to fight for you bro. That’s just my way.”

Malik stares at him.

Then slowly — they both erupt in laughter.

His anger fades.

“You really ran into that just to get me outta there?”

Raheem shrugs weakly.

“Yeah.”

Malik exhales.

“Damn.”

He pulls Raheem into a quick tight embrace.

“Next time just say something.”

Raheem smiles.

But both of them know —

Sometimes escaping predators takes more than words.

Above them, somewhere unseen, the concrete jungle creeps, but they are more aware of whose hands and company to trust, and how and where to recognize ill intentions, even when the teeth are smiling.

And far away, in the dark forest of dreams, predators retreat. Noticed. Named. Escaped.

And learning to name a thing for exactly what it is, and how its experienced, Raheem is learning, is power.