Chapter 3 - The Railyards of South Boston
South Boston was a labyrinth of rust, corrugated iron, and old brick warehouses that smelled eternally of diesel exhaust and salt water. Here, the glamorous skyline of the financial district felt like a postcard from a different planet.
Maya Morales walked home along the crumbling concrete perimeter of the MBTA rail yards, her purple backpack bouncing against her spine with every step. The safety pins jingled softly—a familiar, comforting rhythm that kept pace with the clicking of her worn sneakers.
In her hand, she carried a brown paper bag containing two day-old bagels she had begged from the bakery counter at the terminal before security chased her out for making a scene.
When she reached the end of F Street, she turned into the gravel courtyard of a sagging, three-story wooden tenement house whose paint had peeled away years ago, leaving gray, weathered wood exposed to the biting Atlantic wind. She climbed the creaking outside staircase to the second-floor landing, slipped her key into the lock, and pushed the door open.
“Maya?”
A voice drifted from the dim, cramped living room.
Leo Morales sat in a modified wheelchair that looked as though it had been assembled from spare bicycle parts and an old office chair. His legs were wrapped in heavy woolen blankets, and his pale, thin face lit up with a brilliant, gap-toothed smile as his sister walked through the door.
“You’re late,” Leo said, wheeling himself forward a few inches using the manual push-rims. “Mom’s still at the laundry shift down on Congress Street. Did you get the bread?”
“Better than bread,” Maya said, her serious face breaking into a wide grin as she tossed the paper bag onto the scarred wooden table. “The baker gave me two bagels with cream cheese because I helped him sweep up the flour spill behind the counter.”
Leo’s eyes widened with delight. “Real cream cheese? Not the fake stuff?”
“Real stuff. Look.” She pulled out one of the bagels and handed it to him, watching with quiet satisfaction as her ten-year-old brother took a massive bite, crumbs spilling onto his flannel shirt.
Leo chewed happily, then looked at his sister with a sudden, shrewd expression. “You didn't just go to the bakery, Maya. You smell like jet fuel and expensive carpet.”
Maya paused, her hand hovering over the zipper of her backpack. She pulled out a small, metallic object—a silver screw she had pocketed from the floor near Ethan’s wheelchair before the security guards noticed her—and set it on the table.
“I was at the airport,” she admitted quietly. “I went to see the big planes take off through the observation glass.”
“You know Mom says not to go near the airport alone. It’s too far to walk, and the security cops are mean.”
“I didn't do anything bad,” Maya said defensively, sitting down in the wooden chair opposite him. She rested her chin in her hands, her large brown eyes staring out the frosted window toward the dark silhouette of the city skyline. “I helped a boy.”
Leo stopped chewing. “What kind of boy?”
“A rich boy. In a fancy chair. Way better than yours, Leo. It had buttons and a little screen and everything.” Maya’s voice dropped an octave, her childish bravado fading into something more serious. “And he stopped breathing, Leo. Right on the floor. His dad was crying. A big, important-looking man with a fancy coat, and he was just... freezing. He didn't know what to do.”
Leo stared at her, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth. “Did he die?”
“No,” Maya said softly. “I fixed it. Just like Dr. Vance showed us in the medical books we found in the library dumpster. I cleared his throat. I remembered the shunt.”
Leo reached across the small table and grabbed her hand. His fingers were cold, but his grip was surprisingly strong. “You shouldn't have done that, Maya. What if something went wrong? What if the cops blamed you?”
“They didn't,” Maya said, though a flicker of unease crossed her features. “I left before they could ask too many questions. But... his dad saw me, Leo. He looked right at me.”
May you like
Before Leo could answer, the front door rattled violently.
It wasn't their mother’s gentle, familiar knock. It was a heavy, authoritative pounding that shook the entire doorframe and sent dust motes dancing in the meager light of the overhead bulb.
