“Now get the hell outta my house.”

   Justyce doesn’t have to be told twice. He tries to keep his cool as he heads back up the hallway to the exit, but he’s pretty sure his heart has stopped beating.

   As he pulls the front door open, he hears the words keg stand and sees the shoulders of three wildly different young men at the porch rail suddenly quake with laughter.

   “You a straight fool, Jared,” Trey says.

   “Got my ass wanting to go to college…” from Brad.

   And Justyce smiles. Because despite knowing that stepping out of Martel’s house this time means stepping into way more than he bargained for, that there’s still a life—lives—on the line, right here and right now, Justyce McAllister feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time:

   Free.

   Quan hasn’t been sleeping well, and he’s about 96 percent sure Doc can tell.

   Thing is, Doc is part of the problem. Technically, Quan’s not even supposed to be meeting with Doc anymore: he graduated two months ago, so the court-mandated “education component” of his juvenile detainment is over.

   Been over.

   But somehow, Doc is still here. Still showing up twice a week and giving Quan assignments to complete. Apparently, everything he’s doing now is aimed at earning college-level credits that’ll be transferable once he’s out. Attorney Friedman and Liberty talked to some people and did some stuff Quan didn’t know was possible to set the whole thing up.

              At Doc’s request.

     Doc, who also

     mentioned some

     grant he got that

     will help him start

         a tutoring service

    that he eventually

   wants Quan to work

   for. Because Quan’s

              good at math.

   I have a hunch you’ll be able to expound and make the numerical concepts relatable to the disenfranchised populations I intend to serve, Quan can imagine Doc saying.

              (Except he’s not imagining it.)

     (Doc really did just say that.)

   “Quan…you falling asleep on me, man?”

   A hand touches down on Quan’s shoulder, and his drooping eyelids SNAP wide. “Huh?”

   “You’re getting drool all on your brand-new materials.” Doc gestures to the open Principles of Economics textbook on the table in front of Quan.

   And when Quan looks down at quite the saliva stain, what word leaps off the page at him?

              DEBT.

    (Why the hell is there a B in it? he thinks.

          Is it for unnecessary burden? Bane of his existence?

     Maybe it’s there to remind him who’s boss—)

   “What’s going on, man?” Doc startles Quan again. “You’re drowsy. Unfocused. Bags under your eyes could carry my groceries.”

   Quan snorts.

       “You’re not sleeping well, I presume.”

   Now Quan looks away. Which, in this case, is its own answer.

   “You been talking to Tay?”

        About this stuff? No.

    “Yeah.”

   Doc doesn’t reply to Quan’s reply, so Quan knows Doc’s doing the laser-beam-eye mind-read thing. Where he stares at Quan all hard with his freaky green eyes all narrowed and reads—or so it feels—all Quan’s thoughts and shit.

   Quan can’t look at Doc now because if he does…well, there’s so much swirling around his head—a lot of it in the shape of dollar signs—there’s a chance some of it will leak out the corners of his eyes in the shape of

              wet drops.

   And Quan can’t have that, now can he?

   He does wonder what Doc can see. The sleeplessness, sure. But can he also see the four prongs of fear, worry, helplessness, and hopelessness propping the sleeplessness up?

   Can he see the bizarre letter Quan received from Mama last week, telling him that she, Dasia, and Gabe were moving out to the suburbs?

   Or maybe he can see the conversation Quan had with Liberty where she let it slip that she turned down a job offer so she could stay on his case file.

   Perhaps, though, he can see what’s really been keeping Quan awake at night…because two days after the family relocation letter, Quan received an envelope that had one of Martel’s drop houses—the one Trey used to stay (still stays?) in—as the return address.

       And inside that envelope was something so eerily familiar, Quan dropped it as soon as he got it unfolded.

        A ledger.

    Using the template Quan created when he used to keep Tel’s books.

    Stuffed to the edges with delineated dates and details and costs.

          All related to Quan’s family.

   There’s

        cash and

    fuel fill-ups

          groceries and

     prescription meds

          home services and

     hot meals.

   Any reference to Dwight is notably absent, a relief considering the twenty-two months Quan’s been locked up on these charges. Good to know that debt is settled.

        But still.

    The ledger has a total.

    What Quan owes a man who now wants nothing to do with him.

    Because with that ledger came a one-word note:

                Exactum.

   It’s the same one-word note that was delivered to Tel’s clients when he no longer wanted to be in business with them. A command and threat in one: Pay up and disappear, or else.