He picked the hat. It wasn’t the smartest choice Devon had ever made. It probably wasn’t even a good choice. But it was his choice, and after living a life dictated by Momma's indulgence of Neveah's every need, that he chose was reason enough. Not all of him agreed, however; there was a practical part of him screaming at the top of its voiceless lungs,
What the hell are you doing? You really fixing to put yourself out on the street over a hat?!
Yes.
He grabbed his hat and stormed off to his room. His legs shook. He barely noticed throwing a few scraps of clothes into his gym bag—some basketball shorts, some jeans, a few shirts, socks, and underwear. Meanwhile, behind him came the voracious screaming of Momma and Neveah, though in his anger he didn’t hear what they were screaming about.
“Don’t go! Don’t go!”
“Get out! Get out!”
Whatever they were saying disappeared into a haze of chaotic shouting. Good, he thought. It’ll be payback for all the years his own screaming went unheard.
This is a terrible idea! You have nowhere to go! You don’t have a plan or resources of any kind.
Devon put those thoughts aside. He was taking a stand.
You’ll take a stand your way into jail or an early grave if you keep this up! Stupid, selfish, and stubborn. You really gonna throw your only family away over a goddamn hat?
But the decision had been made. Now it was time to follow through.
Rationality had no place in this moment. Anger was his fuel, memories the bitter wind kindling that fuel into rocket-fire. Memories linked together, forming an explosive chain of self-righteous power…
… from the time Neveah sold his dog when he was ten…
… from the time Momma blamed him for spilling soda on the carpet and wouldn’t hear a word otherwise…
… when Momma stopped taking him to basketball practices and, forbidding him to take the bus on his own, he got cut from the team …
All these memories came flooding out in a torrent of chaotic, painful emotion, their details blurring and slurring into a frothing, angry mess. Powered by pure rage, he threw the rest of “his stuff” in a bag, barely taking the time to even look at what he was taking with him, and stormed out the door without a word.
—
And just like that, he was gone.
Neveah was shocked. He actually went and did it.
She’d won.
Victory. Sweet, sweet victory. She had actually done it. All it took was a hat placed down at the right time.
Pleasure flooded down her legs. There was nothing more joyful than winning. Winning was better than sex. It was better than all the food she could eat and booze she could drink. What could compare to the indescribable pleasure of winning? And not just winning—dominating. Destroying the enemy. It was not even enough to win. The enemy had to be utterly and totally ruined, forever. And she had done it.
So why did she feel sick?
Neveah looked back towards the kitchen table and saw Momma, inconsolable, crying and sobbing as if she was the baby here. A pang of disgust ripped through Neveah’s belly—weak! Devon was weak for leaving, and Momma was weak for this… unbecoming display of crocodile tears. After all that, she couldn’t really miss him already.
Could she?
“What did I do? My boy… my baby boy…” sobbed Momma.
I’M THE BABY, thought Neveah. But she tamped down this thought into her belly, where it made her nauseous.
“There, there, Momma,” soothed Neveah—it seemed like what should be said. “It’ll be OK.”
Momma looked up, her eyes full of tears. “OK? Neveah, nothing about this is OK! My baby boy just left me and… I-I…”
Momma laid her head down on the table, despondent, tears dripping down on her pile of bills.
“Well, why’d you kick him out if you didn’t want him out?” Neveah said.
It seemed to her a reasonable point. It wasn’t like Neveah forced Momma to kick Devon out. That had been her choice; a choice she agreed with and maybe orchestrated a bit—but it was Momma’s choice in the end.
BANG!
Momma shot up, slamming the table, scattering papers everywhere.
“Don’t you dare start, Neveah,” Momma growled. “Don’t you dare start with me, girl, or so help me, you will regret it.”
Neveah reeled back as if slapped. Her heart pounded in her throat.
Momma never yelled at her like that.
Neveah stood shocked as Momma picked up the papers by hherself. This was bad. Neveah had deeply miscalculated—Momma never actually wanted Devon to leave. But Neveah had done what she did best—she laid her own wishes on top of Momma’s until the two seemed the same. It was so easy for her to do—as natural as a little bird stretches its wings to fly. Just so happened that her wings pushed her brother right out of the nest. Oops.
How could that be her fault?
Neveah was the baby. She had always been the cutie-pie, the adorable one. It was easy to get other folks to do what you want when you’re cute. And as time went on, the simple fact was that there was only space enough for one child. Neveah had banked on the assumption Momma just loved her more. She tested that premise, prodding and pushing to see how far she could.
She never thought her testing would make things break.“I just want us to be a family,” Momma sobbed quietly. “Is that too much to ask in life, God?”
Neveah’s skin crawled. “No… no, Momma, it’s…come on…”
But Momma raised up her hands to the sky.
“Lord! Tell me what did I do, Lord! What damnation is there on my life? What have I done to be cursed so that you deny me the joys of a loving family!”
Neveah’s heart nearly stopped. She really had pushed too hard this time. For Momma to become like this…
—no. Neveah could fix this. She was the best of the best. Her name was Heaven spelled backwards. There was nothing she couldn’t do.
She grabbed hold of Momma’s hands and squeezed.
“Oh Lord!” Neveah’s voice took on a preacher’s tone. “I pray that my brother Devon will come back to us.”
“Come back! Please come back, my baby!” Momma cried.
Neveah sighed with relief. Good. Where Neveah called, Momma would respond. Good. Neveah would take the lead.
“And let him see the error of his ways, to not let silly hats and costumes divide this family! Let him come home!”
“Oh yes! Oh yes! Bring him home to us!” Tears dripped down Momma’s face.
There, in the kitchen, Neveah called for Devon to come home, and Momma would respond. They held their hands and spoke with their eyes raised to the Heavens as tears streaked down Momma’s face. With every call, Neveah put any blame away from her.
It was just a hat, after all. They could have talked about it calmly, like a family. There was no need for Devon to get so upset. There wasn’t any actual need for him to walk out of their house. The more Neveah said this, the more true it became, until the ugly, bumpy moment in their kitchen was paved safe and smooth, fresh with perspective, good and bright and true.
Soon, the transformation was complete. Neveah embraced Momma and squeezed her tight. Neveah could feel the shuddering sobs of her mother as she cried into her shoulder.
“I’m here, Momma.” Neveah embraced her mother, smiling where she couldn’t see. “I’ll always be here.”

Latest Chapter
Chapter 52
His room had been cancelled. Just like that. No warning, no notice. At the snap of Marc’s fingers, Devon had been unceremoniously tossed out of a Convention that he literally gave up his family to attend. Devon stared at Marc for a while. Then, he laughed. He laughed quietly, then he laughed loudly, cackling, until he had no more breath in him. And still he laughed. This had been, by far, the most ridiculous weekend in Devon’s entire life. He had given up his family in a moment of anger, suffered assault and insult nearly daily, only to befriend some kind of foreign royalty who, while defending his newfound friend, had sacrificed the only housing he would have for the foreseeable future. Ridiculous! His life had become a joke, some absurd and wild story written by a mad idiot. This was a weekend that would define the rest of his life, and it all had just been so unbelievably stupid. Meanwhile, Marc looked as though he were about to leap out of the Executive Lounge window from shee
Chapter 51
Things were getting out of hand. Zayin needed to think quickly; his Prince was going to start digging himself into a deep and terribly expensive hole. Yes, Ali had certain entitlements to his family’s wealth…in theory. But Ali had never tapped into his family’s wealth before—Zayin wasn’t even sure that he could. It was a poorly kept secret that more than one relative had access to Ali’s accounts…including Cousin Sayid. To his shame, Zayin was quietly praying that there was not enough left to embarrass the Prince. He never thought that he would ever wish for relatives to embezzle the Prince’s funds. Even with his Aunts and Cousin Sayid dipping into his funds, Ali’s personal wealth was enough that he could make serious trouble for himself, as well as the Kingdom. And with the stone-set fury on Ali’s face, trouble would come. Perhaps the key to solving the trouble lay in Ali’s ‘brother’. “You.” He pointed at Devon and spoke in English. “Come with me, please.”Quietly, Devon complied.
Chapter 50
It was not the strangest occurrence to ever happen, but it was one of the strangest that had ever happen to Zayin.He stood nearly speechless as Marc, a hotel functionary, sputtered and nearly fell down on his knees trying to explain to Ali how all of this had been an enormous mistake. There had been in Marc’s words, ‘a deep and serious cultural miscommunication that New Hudson Convention Center will work tirelessly to reconcile’. It was ten minutes of this kind of diplomatic nonsense, and Zayin had to admit that he was doing quite well with it. In another life, and with another passport, Marc would have made a great presenter for one of the old State Television channels. More amusing still was, for the first time since knowing him, Ali acted like a prince. This was the greatest shock. Zayin was confident in this assessment—that Ali would be easily brushed aside by his more competent cousins and tossed out of Zhabaiye public life. Cousin Sayid would place him on a farm in the middle
Chapter 49
Since the construction of the New Hudson Convention Center, there had never been a moment quite what Marc Abramov experienced in that Executive Lounge. Since its actual opening some twenty years prior, there had never been so many people silenced all at once with just a few short words. Time seemed to freeze and Marc’s armhairs stood straight on their ends. The VIP…more like the VVIP in fact…was expecting an answer. Why did Marc make the VIP’s brother cry?He clasped his hands and began, “Well—“ Well what? Nothing. The words caught in his throat. Something about the young man’s look—and he barely registered as a man at all—struck him with a sense of absolute terror. The VIP’s gaze encompassed his entire being, utterly and completely, as though he were no more than a fixture of the room. Marc had a sudden, curious idea that there was a sword hanging over his neck. And if he did not speak very, very carefully, that sword would drop and lop his head clean off from his body. There
Chapter 48
Devon sat crosslegged on the floor, squishing his hunter’s hat for comfort. He stared at a spot of carpet, trying to drown out the sounds of the frightening-looking man screaming at Ali. Devon could piece together that the goons all worked for him—some of them were half in costume, others dressed like regular folk. A few wore golden watches. Were they thugs? If so, they weren’t like any gang members that Devon had ever seen, and New Hudson was unfortunately filled with those. These men looked too clean-cut. They didn’t have the casual swagger of the gangs he knew, and other than a little bit of rough-handling on the way to the top-floor lounge, they hadn’t been beaten. Furthermore, gang attacks usually don’t take this long, and by this point they had been sitting in the lounge for twenty minutes. Meanwhile, Ali had begun to shout at the man who kidnapped him. That was the strangest part of all of this--when Ali shouted, the man who kidnapped them listened. And so did his goons. At
Chapter 47
Zayin’s head throbbed. He wished, more than he’d ever wished for anything in his life, that he could wake up back home, in Al-Zhabaiye. He missed his coffee, he missed his 17th story view of the desert, he missed the smell of the cedar paneling of his building’s elevator. All these little things he missed, many of which he had not appreciated before. His head ached until the pain seeped down into his shoulders. So tense were all his muscles that even the slightest movement ached. And it was well to be tense, because his ward, the PRINCE OF AL-ZHABAIYE HIMSELF, chose to behave like a childish idiot. Now Zayin and his security team occupied the hotel’s Executive Lounge, where they had extradited the Prince from a possible attempt on his life. The Prince sat on the couch with his head in his hands, refusing to look at or speak to anyone. One of his security team had thoughtfully prepared a plate of dried fruit and cheese. The plate sat in front of the Prince, untouched. Good. Maybe the
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