Joe - Ghetto Child -

Malik handed the book back, his expression unreadable. "Don't stop seein' it. People like us... we get forgotten if nobody writes it down."

One sweltering July afternoon, the hydrants were popped, spraying plumes of cold water into the street. The older boys were playing a heated game of three-on-three on the asphalt court, the air thick with sweat and trash talk. Joe sat on the sidelines, not with a ball, but with a pen. Joe - Ghetto Child

That night, Joe didn’t write about the sirens. He wrote about the "Halo." He realized that being a "ghetto child" wasn't just about what they didn't have; it was about the intensity of what they did have—the loyalty, the survival, and the neon-lit beauty hidden in the grit. Malik handed the book back, his expression unreadable

Joe didn't flinch. He handed the notebook over. Malik’s eyes scanned the page. Joe had written a poem about the basketball court—how the orange rim was a "rust-covered halo" and the players were "kings in nylon jerseys, fighting for a kingdom that ended at the sidewalk." we get forgotten if nobody writes it down

The smirk vanished. Malik looked at the court, then back at the page. "You see all that in a hoop game, kid?" "I see everything," Joe said quietly.