All Jus knows is he’s got this shitty feeling in his gut, kind of like somebody crawled into his stomach and ran a cheese grater over the inside. He needs to get rid of it somehow. Talk to somebody who gets what he’s feeling because they’ve felt it too.

You know who gets it? Deuce Diggs. Jus has been listening to his music a lot since he woke up without a best friend. There’s one track he’s had on repeat since the article dropped:

Turn on the news, another black man slain.

They say “It’s okay. Save your voice, don’t complain.

This isn’t about race, so stop using that excuse.

Now look at this funny picture of Obama in a noose!

See how color-blind we are? You’re not really black to me.

Underneath, where it matters, we both bleed red, you see?

So put away that race card; it ain’t 1962.

There’s no more segregation…isn’t that enough for you?”

But of course Jus doesn’t have access to Deuce Diggs; he can’t just call him up and say: Hey, dawg, I’m feelin’ what you’re feelin’. Can we talk?

Jus remembers what Quan said about the neighborhood guys being “like family.” That Martel would get it. That he’d be welcomed if he wanted in.

That’s really why he’s on this bus right now: he’s sick of feeling alone.

—

The first thing to cross Jus’s mind as he steps off the bus is the irony of looking for solace in the place he was anxious to get away from. As someone drives by in a brand-new Benz, he also feels a twinge of guilt over refusing to drive his new car to Martel’s house. How can he be mad at white people for profiling when he’s doing the same damn thing they do? Lock your doors…Hide your valuables…He even left Manny’s watch at home.

This is the shit that has to be remedied.

He hangs a left onto Wynwood Street and spots the gunmetal Range Rover Trey said would be in the driveway. Despite it being an older model than the one Manny drove, seeing it makes Jus want to make a run for it.

He should turn back. He really should. Turn back, and go “home” to his mahogany desk and school-issued MacBook.

But he doesn’t.

It’s not until Jus starts up the driveway that he notices the three guys sitting on the porch. Trey is there, plus White Boy Brad and the dude who had the gun during the Halloween disaster.

“Oho! If it isn’t Smarty-Pants!” Brad says.

The gun-toter—Jus doesn’t remember his name—smiles. “ ’Sup, Justyce?” he says. “Great to see ya, buddy, ’ol pal!”

The others laugh.

Jus’s eyes immediately drop to the guy’s waistband. He can see the bulge of the gun handle beneath dude’s shirt. It gives him a chill.

He tries to pull himself together. “ ’Sup, y’all?”

They all laugh again.

Trey gives Jus the same kind of once-over he did at the Halloween party all those months ago. He smiles that sneery creeper smile, and Jus feels like his guts are about to make an appearance inside his boxer-briefs. Trey shouts: “Hey, Martel, you got company,” over his shoulder at the screen door, and the second Jus steps onto the porch, a voice calls out from inside: “Come on in, young brotha!”

Even though his heart is about to explode, Jus pulls the door open and enters the house he’s only ever eyed warily due to rumors about all the drugs and guns hidden inside. He follows a short hallway lined with what appear to be African relics: tribal masks, framed hieroglyphics, and a silhouette painting of Nefertiti—he can tell by the cylindrical headpiece that reminds him of the flattop haircuts some of the NBA players are trying to bring back.

There’s similar art all over the walls of the living room. Jus is sure this house could win the world record for largest collection of ancient Egyptian paraphernalia. His gaze roams the space until it lands on a youngish, bearded black man in a dashiki shirt and kufi hat. He’s sitting cross-legged in a papasan chair with a kente-cloth cushion. Most notable is the black tracking device strapped to his ankle—so this is why dude couldn’t meet Jus at a coffee shop.

“Welcome,” the guy says. “You must be Justyce.”

“Yep…That’s me.”

“Martel.” He sticks out a hand, and Jus walks over to shake it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Jus looks around again and then sticks his hands in his pockets.

Though Jus has known of the Black Jihad leader since middle school, Martel in person is not what he expected. He honestly has no idea what to say to the guy. The silence is beginning to morph into something straight-up menacing. “Cool art.”

Martel smiles. “I like to surround myself with reminders of ancient Kemet so the boys and I never forget our imperial roots. You know anything about that?”

Jus shrugs. “I’ve studied it a bit, but I don’t know a whole lot. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” Martel tents his fingers beneath his chin. “You’ll learn, young brotha. You’ll learn. The Europeans succeeded in denigrating and enslaving peoples of African descent, but there’s royal blood flowing through your veins, you hear me?”

Justyce nods and swallows. “Yes, sir.”

“People across the diaspora have been treated as inferior for so long, most of us have habituated to the lie of white superiority. But never forget,” Martel goes on, “your ancestors survived a transatlantic journey, built this nation from the ground up, and maintained a semblance of humanity, even when the very conditions of their existence suggested they were less than human. ‘Jihad’ is the act of striving, persevering. That is your legacy, young brotha. This country belongs to you.”

As Jus listens to Martel’s voice, he can feel himself relaxing. He doesn’t know if it’s the voice itself, or what it’s saying, or the art, or the incense, or the atmosphere, but something about Martel and his house makes Jus feel looser than he’s felt in a while.

He looks at Martel—who’s been watching him, reading him, studying him, he can tell, ever since he stepped into the room—and…yeah. Martel does get it. Quan said Jus would be welcomed, and that’s exactly how he feels. The disarming effect gives him vertigo.

“So what can I do for you, Justyce?” Martel asks. Before he knows it, Jus is telling Martel all the stuff he can’t talk to anyone else about: how it felt to be profiled, the Martin experiment and how it failed, how alone he’s felt and how furious he is, how much he misses his homeboy.

Martel listens intently, stroking his beard, lowering his eyes when Jus gets to Manny’s death, narrowing them when he hears about Mr. Julian’s job. By the time Jus finishes getting it all out, he’s sprawled on his back across the giant ankh at the center of Martel’s Egyptian rug. He feels empty…in a good way.

Martel gets up without a word and disappears into what must be the kitchen. Jus lets his head fall to the left. That’s when he sees the sawed-off shotgun tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table.

It smacks him like a battering ram: he shouldn’t be here. No matter how chill Martel seems, the dude is a criminal (Hello? House arrest anklet?). Those guys outside…they’re the same ones who threatened to shoot Manny’s old friends.