“Where’d you get it?”

   “New, uhh…business venture,” Trey said, pushing to his feet. “Matter fact—” He looked down at Quan. Rubbed the patch of hairs that had appeared on his chin since Quan last saw him.

   He looked a little too calculating for Quan’s liking in that moment, and Quan’s muscles tensed of their own accord. It’d been a long time since Quan was in the presence of someone he considered a friend. He didn’t really know how to act.

   Trey nodded. “Yeah,” he said, answering a question Quan wasn’t privy to. “Come on.”

   “Where we going?”

   Trey smiled. “It’s some folks I want you to meet.”

       Quan is nervous as hell walking up the “Hallowed Hallway,” as he’s heard the guys call it. He’s been on the porch before, but to be invited inside?

   Huge.

   It’s different than he expected, though he can’t articulate how, even in his mind. He’s been kicking it with Trey and them for a minute now, and has pieced together bits about the inner workings of their crew and their operation. But seeing framed images of ancient Egyptian kings and queens hung across from a poster that reads The racist dog policemen must withdraw immediately from our communities, cease their wanton murder and brutality and torture of black people, or face the wrath of the armed people. —Huey Newton…

   Well, Quan don’t really know what to make of that.

   There’s no one in the living room when he gets to it, but within a couple seconds, a deep—and he’ll admit: smooth—voice comes from somewhere else in the house:

   “Have a seat, young brutha. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

   Quan does as he’s told, choosing a spot on a well-worn sofa. Then he takes in the room. It smells…flowery? Quan is suddenly smacked with a memory of the first time he stepped into Ms. Mays’s classroom in seventh grade. The scent inside was so different from anything he’d ever smelled before, it made him feel like he’d stepped into another world, as corny as that sounds.

       Turns out, Ms. Mays had this flower-shaped device plugged into her wall that had these interchangeable glass bulb joints filled with liquid fragrance.

   Quan spots one sticking out of an outlet opposite him.

   And now he’s really confused. Especially since it’s plugged in beneath a framed poster of a beret-wearing dude sitting on what looks like a woven throne. Homie’s holding a spear in one hand and a shotgun in the other.

   “Quan, right?”

   Quan jumps and a yelp slips past his lips.

   Standing beside him—and chuckling—is a bearded brown-skinned dude in white pants and a V-neck shirt that looks like it came straight outta Africa. He hands Quan a glass bottle, then goes to sit in a round chair that looks like it’s made of bamboo. He’s holding a glass bottle too.

   Quan peeks at the label on the one in his hand: JAMAICAN GINGER BREW.

   “Drink up,” the man says.

   So Quan does. It’s…good. Kinda spicy, but also soothing in a weird way. He relaxes a little.

   “That your given name?” the man asks.

   “Huh?”

   “Quan. That’s what’s on your birth certificate?”

   Quan shakes his head. “No, sir.”

       “Dispense with the sir, little homie. You can call me Martel or Tel. Take your pick. What’s your given name?”

   “Uhh—” And Quan falters. He never tells anyone his given name. “The whole thing?”

   Martel chuckles again. “Every part that’s given.”

   “Vernell LaQuan Banks Jr.”

   “Junior, huh? So you got your daddy’s name?”

   “Yeah.” And Quan drops his eyes.

   “I’ll take it he ain’t in the picture?”

   “He’s incarcerated.”

   “And you?”

   “Huh?”

   “You been incarcerated?”

   Now Quan’s jaw clenches. “Yeah.”

   “You mad about it?”

   This gives Quan pause. It’s a question no one’s ever asked him, case managers included. He meets Martel’s gaze. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

   “Why? You did the crime, didn’t you?”

   Now Quan gulps. Last thing he wants to do is start sounding like some of the dudes in lockup who constantly complained about how “unfair” the system is. “Always take responsibility for your actions, Junior,” Daddy used to say. “I know the potential consequences of what I do, and I choose to do it anyway, so if it comes down on me, I don’t get to complain.”

       But that was the thing: as uncomfortable as the complaints always made him, Quan couldn’t deny their ring of truth. The system is unfair. Quan saw that with his own eyes. Hell, he lived it.

   “I mean, I did, but”—he fumbles around in his head for the right words—“they gave me a YEAR in detention for trying to steal a cell phone. Which, yes, was wrong…” Quan’s mind flashes to White Boy Shawn, aka the Dad Stabber. “And I’m not complaining about having to suffer some consequences for my wrongdoing. Just seems like the ‘time’ was…excessive. Considering the ‘crime.’ ”

   Martel’s eyes narrow just the slightest bit, but it doesn’t give a single clue as to what he’s thinking.

   “What else you mad about?” he says.

   That’s certainly not what Quan was expecting. “What you mean?”

   “You what? Fifteen?”

   “Yeah.”

   Martel nods. “My master’s thesis was on the trajectories of African American adolescent males raised in impoverished urban environments by single mothers.”

   Which…“HUH?”

   Now Martel laughs in earnest. “I got a master’s degree in social work, li’l man. Dudes like you are my ‘area of expertise,’ if you will, and frankly, the shit I learned is the reason I came back home and do what I do now. You know who that is?” He nods toward the poster with beret guy.

       “Nah,” Quan replies.

   “That’s Huey Newton. One of the cofounders of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. I came across a quote of his while working on my thesis: Black Power is giving power to people who have not had power to determine their destiny. And there it was: a summation of my research findings, and what I needed to do about it. So I’ll ask you again: What else you mad about, Vernell?”