It was barely 6:30 in the morning. The sun hadn't even committed to rising yet, just a gray smear of light through the blinds.

Diego was already dressed — jeans, a black t-shirt, his cornrows freshly done and pulled back. His tan skin looked tired under the kitchen light, but he was moving like he'd been awake for hours.

Outside, a car backfired. Then a dog started barking. Somewhere down the block, a man was yelling in Spanish at someone to turn the music down.

This was the neighborhood. Loud. Alive. Nothing like the quiet, dusty town they'd left behind.