Page 88 of The Wright Man

By the time he sat down, Kareem was already grinning at me—wide, reckless, and damn near too bright for a place like this.

I couldn't help but smile back. Same grin he's had since we were kids, like he knew something the rest of the world didn't. Like life hadn't been steadily beating the hell out of us since birth.

But his eyes gave him away.

Up close, I could see it—how the years had sunk into him. He was bigger now, built like he'd been lifting the yard itself. His shoulders stretched the seams of his jumpsuit, and his hair was longer, thicker. He had a full beard now, salt starting to pepper his jaw. He looked… solid. Healthy, even. But his eyes? They looked tired. Not sleepy. Worn. The kind of tired that don't come from lack of rest, but from carrying too much for too long.

Still, he looked happy to see me. Real happy. Like the sight of me made him forget, just for a second, that we were separated by bulletproof glass and nine years of state-sponsored hell.

I picked up the receiver and pressed it to my ear, still smiling. Kept my face steady. Whatever was happening behind my eyes, Kareem didn't need to see it.

Kareem leaned forward, eyes dancing. "Damn, G.I. Joe. You been lifting tanks or what?"

I snorted. "You're one to talk. You look like you could bench press a cellblock."

He laughed, loud and unbothered, like we weren't inside a fucking prison. "Had to do something with all this time, bro. You out there getting paid to be angry in camo. I'm in here getting swole off peanut butter and push-ups."

"Peanut butter and push-ups," I echoed, shaking my head. "A memoir."

"Bestseller," he said, smirking. "With a foreword by Maleek Wright, international ass-kicker and reformed sad boy."

We both laughed, the sound too full for the room we were in. For a minute, it almost felt like old times.

Then the silence came. Not heavy, but honest.

I watched him for a second. The lines in his face. The way he rolled his shoulder like it still gave him problems. The way his fingers tapped the table, steady, rhythmic. Like he was trying to keep time with something that used to soothe him.

I cleared my throat and lowered my voice. "How are you, Reem? For real."

His smile faded—not gone, just softer. "Better than last time you saw me."

I nodded slowly.

"I ain't fightin' no more," he said. "Ain't got the energy to keep proving I ain't weak to people who don't matter. I stay to myself. Work out. Read. Mind my damn business."

"There was a minute where I gave up, Leek. Not gon' lie. Thought this was it. Whole life just... this." He gestured around with a bitter smile. "But then you told me about that lawyer of yours. That changed something. Knowing you were out there working on my appeal? Made me feel like maybe I wasn't crazy to hope again."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "You ain't crazy."

He nodded. "I enrolled in one of the higher education programs they got in here. Bout to finish soon. Got me helping lead support groups too. For the young ones in here acting like they bulletproof. Trying to give 'em something before the system swallows 'em whole."

A beat passed. Pride swelled so sharp in my chest it hurt. "I'm proud of you, Reem. Real shit."

He gave me a look—vulnerable, a little shaky—but nodded. "Thanks, man."

I tightened my grip on the receiver. "We're gonna bring you home."

Kareem blinked. His grin returned, just a touch more guarded. "You and Judge Judy Jr.?"

I barked a laugh at his nickname for my lawyer. "Yeah, me and the baby-faced assassin. We're making it happen."

"You got a lot of faith in that nigga, Leek."

"I do," I said without hesitation. "There's nobody I trust more."

Kareem stared at me for a long moment, then finally nodded. "If you trust him, then I trust him."

We bumped fists against the glass—just knuckles and a thin pane between us. But it still felt like something real passed through.