The shed was his sanctuary. Where his room walls were plastered with hats, rappers, cars and supermodels, the shed had posters of weed plants and endless amounts of stickers that he had gathered over the years. A chair sat in one corner, while a big wooden box that stretched to the height of the shed sat in the other, with a table in the middle separating the two sides. 

The boy sat in his chair, opening a drawer in the table, revealing a small, handmade wooden box with intricate patterns etched in around the perimeter of the lid. Sliding the top of the box back revealed a grinder, a rolling device, and a pack of rolling papers. Opening up a second drawer, he pulled out a big ziplock bag of weed. The boy extracted two small buds from the bag, zipped it closed, and stashed it back into the drawer. Then he began placing the small buds into the grinder, grinding the plant until it resembled crushed oregano. 

He meticulously picked out all of the little stems, then stuffed the contents of his grinder into the rolling device and sealed it shut, he carefully inserted a single delicate paper into the device like a towel through polling pins. He licked the gum wax at the top, and rolled the paper into the device, sealing it like an envelope.

He popped the device open and out rolled the perfect joint. He tucked his instruments back into the small box, and closed the drawer, lighting the joint as he walked over to the tall wooden grow box in the corner. The light from inside the box illuminated his face with shadows, the cherry red end of his joint burning brightly as blue smoke began drifting away through the air.

He opened the box and there inside was a large cannabis plant, with forest green leaves and lavender colored stems. He smiled to himself as he gently held the leaves in his hands, cupping the top of the plant where a bud had started to form, he smelled his fingers before taking a long drag from his joint.

“You’re looking very beautiful.” The boy said to the plant, “Just a little bit longer now.”

He took out a spray bottle at the bottom of the grow box and spritzed the base of the plant until the soil was moist, shutting it closed he slumped himself back down into his chair. The dimly lit shed felt safe, comfortable. He started to reflect on his encounter with the old man. Offer to teach me about weed, he thought, laughing to himself, I’ve been growing weed for three years now, what could he possibly know...

The boy’s contemplation was interrupted by the booming sound of gunshots that felt so close he thought it was right behind him. He dropped down to the floor in a flat push up position, his heart pounding as his adrenaline focused his senses on survival. The shots stopped but still reverberated in his ears, as another set rang out to the sound of screeching tires and a car zooming away down the street. 

The boy was breathing hard as he waited a few seconds to ensure that the situation had ended, when he heard someone shout for help. He scrambled to his feet, opening the door to the shed he went to the back gate that led out to the alleyway behind the yard. He peered down both sides of the alley to find the source of the plea. Down towards his right where the alleyway met the street, he saw a man laying on the ground holding his stomach. 

“Junior!” He heard his grandma shouting from the house. “JUNIOR!”

“Call 911 grandma, someone just got shot!” He yelled back, jumping the wooden fence into the alley, he ran towards the man as he screamed for help.

The man clutched at his stomach, where a big red stain was beginning to cover his white t-shirt, when the boy noticed there were also red stains forming on his legs, and he also seemed to be bleeding from his back. The boy kneeled down and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

In the far off distance he swore he could hear the sirens of multiple emergency response vehicles come to life, wailing as they barreled through the pothole covered streets.

“Just breathe man, an ambulance is coming.” Said the boy.

The man began to cry.

“I don’t wanna die.” He said.

The man’s gun was sitting next to him, spent bullet casings littered the street where the man laid clutching at his stomach, as the pool of the man’s blood began to grow.

“Fuck them niggas.” The man said. “Fuck them ni....”

“Don’t talk, just concentrate on breathing.” The boy said. “You’ll be ok, help is on the way.”

He could hear the sirens getting closer now.

The man was beginning to choke, blood spurting from his mouth as he coughed. The boy didn’t want to move him, what if he tried to sit him up and made it worse somehow?  The man’s breathing became more ragged, gurgling as he seemed to struggle for air. The boy held the man’s hand.

“You’ll be ok.” The boy said, placing his other hand over the man’s.

He didn’t know why, but the boy started to cry as well.

He saw the lights before he heard the sirens. All the noise and sounds of the world seemed to be drowned out in the moments the boy spent with the man. He remembered the paramedics getting there, pushing him out the way as they began to hook the man up to machines.

He remembered the police coming after, and telling them all he heard were the shots. He remembered his grandmother’s face of utter horror as he walked into the house, his shirt covered in blood, as he recounted what happened. He took a long shower, wondering if the man was dead. After his shower, he opened his drawer to get his clothes, when he saw the gun.

Next Chapter: The Gun