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It started with a ride. One night after her shift, Janiah stepped out into the chill, damp air. The streetlights flickered like they were tired too. The bus stop across the street was half-lit, and a group of guys posted up on the corner whistled low when she walked by. Her Burger Haven hat was pulled low, but not low enough. Then she heard the engine. The deep purr of a Dodge Charger pulling up beside the curb, headlights cutting through the dark. “You walking home again?” Rico leaned across the passenger seat, window rolled down, voice like velvet laced with warning. “Bus too dangerous out here. Lotta girls get snatched.” She hesitated. Keys clenched tight in her fist, pepper spray clipped to her bag. She didn’t trust easily. But the Charger looked clean. Smelled like new leather and some kind of expensive cologne. The interior glowed with soft blue light, music low and bassy. His dashboard was free of trash. No fast food bags, no baby seats, no chaos. She glanced back toward the bus stop. One of the guys was still staring. She opened the door. The first ride was silent. Tense. She gave short directions and kept her eyes forward. But when he dropped her off, he waited until she was inside the building before driving away. The second ride, she told herself, was just for convenience. It was raining, after all. The third time, she let herself relax. By the fifth ride, they were talking. “My mom works nights,” she admitted, arms crossed over her chest, eyes on the blurred lights passing outside the window. “I don’t really see her much.” “She don’t know you’re walkin’ home alone?” “She’s too tired to ask.” He shook his head slowly, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. “That ain’t right. You a kid still.” “I’m seventeen.” He smirked. “Still a kid.” But he didn’t say it in a way that made her feel small. He said it like someone who knew what it meant to grow up fast. Like he was trying to remind her she didn’t have to. They kept talking. About music, about food, about nothing. She told him about her favorite teachers. He told her he used to draw—used to want to design sneakers. “Life had other plans,” he said with a shrug. By the seventh ride, she didn’t wait for him to ask. She just texted: “Off at 8.” He sent back a thumbs-up and a smiley face. That night, as she leaned her head against the passenger window, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time. Safe. Wanted. Visible. But she didn’t realize that every ride came with a price. Not yet.

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Too Grown For This

ProudMommy0321

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Ceria Mcgrone

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