CHAPTER 1
DIEGO
"Fuck," I growl, killing the 4:45 AM alarm before it wakes the dead.
I never miss my morning run. No excuses, not even half-drunk from whatever poor decisions chased me home at 3 AM via Uber. Eyes crusty, skull throbbing, routine ironclad since high school.
Gym shorts, keys, phone, sneakers laced sloppy. Water bottle topped off. Door clicks shut behind me into Miami's ghost hour, streets empty, lamps flickering gold.
I love this city as the sun rises. It's the only time she's quiet.
August humidity clings like an old habit, not brutal yet. Pavement therapy. Lungs burning clean. The sky bruises purple at the edges where the sun is starting to claw up, and the streetlights wash everything amber. The same block I spent my childhood dodging potholes and stray cats on.
Watch beeps: 6:02 AM, two miles down. Solid pace.
A text buzzes from Ma.
Mijo, can you pick up my meds while you're out? Just got a message my refill is ready.
Pharmacy's close. I fire back a thumbs-up from my wrist and adjust my route.
The pharmacy crew nods me in like family. Valeria Mendez's prescription runs are a ritual now. Three years ago, a car accident shredded her spine, nerves fried, permanent damage. Her pain doctor keeps her on a low dose of Plex, the insurance company's idea of mercy. Anything stronger and they ghost you. She works part-time overnight at a motel downtown, hustles what she can. Watching her grind through the pain guts me every single day, but we scrape by. We always scrape by.
"Hey, DJ." The pharmacist's eyes go soft with that pity I hate. Diego Javier Mendez, but DJ sticks. "How's your mom doing?"
"She's okay. Works tonight, so she's resting up."
"Glad to hear it." He reaches back for the bag. "Glad she has you."
The bag slides over. I glance at the total and go still.
"That's low. Did they switch brands on her again?"
"No." He shrugs. "Reduced supply this time. Have her call her doctor. I can't say more than that."
HIPAA. I know the script. It still makes my jaw tighten. I'll talk to her when I get home, see if she'll sign off on a release form so I can start advocating in the room instead of standing in the hallway guessing.
I'm heading back to the truck when I spot it. The little family-owned donut shop on the corner, the one Ma used to take me to as a kid, her hand warm around mine, eyes bright in a way they rarely are anymore. I glance at what I saved on the prescription.
Small luxury. One-time thing.
Inside, the smell of hot grease and sugar hits me like a memory. I scan the row: maple, glazed, chocolate sprinkles, cinnamon rolls, until I find them. Boston cream. Her favorite.
I order two. Tuck them carefully beside the prescription in my backpack and head home.
5.2 miles in just under thirty minutes of pure running, stops excluded. I've logged faster. I've survived uglier mornings.
Cuban coffee gurgles to life on the stove when I hear it, a soft"Diego"drifting from down the hall.
I'm through her doorway before the sound finishes.
"Good morning, Ma. How are you feeling?"
"Ay, sore and tired." She shifts against the pillow, already squinting at me. "How was your run? Were you safe?"
"Sí, mami. Always." I pull the prescription bag from my backpack and set it on the nightstand. "They said the doctor lowered your pill count this time. Did you know about that?"
"Lowered?" She pinches the bridge of her nose and starts pushing herself upright, cursing low in Spanish. Strands of dark hair escape her messy bun. Beneath them, her eyes look hollowed, the kind of tired that sleep can't fix.