Story code: ST-000974
Part 1: The Night Shift
Mateo pressed the plastic spreader against the side of the commercial Ford E-250, forcing a thick glob of gray Bondo into the jagged, dime-sized hole. His hands shook, smearing the quick-hardening putty across the faded company logo. The garage smelled intensely of chemical resin and cold sweat. It was three in the morning, and the harsh fluorescent bulb hanging from the rafters cast long, nervous shadows across the stained concrete floor. Mateo scraped another dollop of filler from the mixing board, his knuckles raw and coated in fine gray dust. There were six more holes tearing through the driver-side panel, the steel folded inward like torn paper. The silence of the industrial park felt heavy, pressing down on him as he desperately tried to erase the violent damage before sunrise.
Behind him, a sneaker squeaked sharply on the concrete.
Trey lounged on a stack of plastic milk crates, holding his phone up at an angle to catch the harsh overhead light. The teenager had one foot propped on a discarded tire, his thumb tapping the screen as he monitored the scrolling text of a live broadcast. In his other hand, Trey casually held a small, dark blue booklet. The gold foil crest on the cover caught the glare of the bulb. It was Mateo’s passport.
“Got my guy putting in the overtime,” Trey said to his phone camera, his voice carrying a casual, sharp edge. He flipped the passport open with his thumb, flashing the photo page toward the lens for a fraction of a second. “Best auto body man in the city. Real quiet, too.”
Mateo flinched at the sound of the teenager’s voice but did not turn around. He dug the plastic spreader into the next bullet hole. If he stopped moving, if he hesitated for even a moment, Trey would make good on the threat hanging thick in the air. The teenager had walked into the closed garage an hour ago, dropped the blue booklet on the hood of the van, and recited the exact phone number for the local ICE enforcement office entirely from memory. Mateo had kept that passport hidden inside a locked metal box shoved deep under his mattress at his apartment. Trey’s ability to casually produce it was far more terrifying than the heavy pistol sagging in the front pocket of the teenager’s oversized hoodie.
“Y’all keep spamming the chat, I might have to show you his real name,” Trey laughed, tapping the corner of the passport against his knee. “Give a quick shoutout to the feds, maybe.”
Mateo focused on the rough edge of the damaged metal. He sanded the dried Bondo with frantic, uneven strokes. The dust plumed into the air, coating his eyelashes and stinging the back of his throat. He had to get the surface perfectly flush before he could prime it. The van belonged to Marcus, the owner of the small plumbing supply business that paid Mateo in unrecorded cash every Friday. Marcus was a large, unforgiving man who treated his small fleet of vehicles with aggressive pride. A single scratch on a bumper meant a deducted shift and a screaming lecture. Six bullet holes meant something entirely different. Mateo did not know who had shot up the vehicle while it was parked out by the loading dock, and he aggressively did not want to know. He only knew that Trey had claimed the damage, claimed the van, and essentially claimed Mateo the moment he flashed that stolen booklet. The teenager had made it clear that fixing the van in silence was the only way Mateo would ever see his documents again.
The teenager leaned closer, pointing the phone camera directly at Mateo’s rigid back. “Look at him work. That is dedication right there.”
Mateo wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a thick streak of gray dust across his skin. His shoulder muscles burned fiercely from the repetitive, pressing motion. He moved to the third hole, located right above the rear wheel well. The metal here was much thicker, and the violent impact had shattered the surrounding white paint like a spiderweb. He pressed the gray filler deep into the cavity, trying to smooth it out with the plastic edge before it cured into a solid lump. The fear was a cold, heavy knot sitting in the pit of his stomach. He had spent four long years keeping his head down, taking the worst night shifts, sweeping the warehouse floors, and remaining entirely invisible to the outside world. One careless phone call from Trey would erase every single sacrifice. He pictured the sterile holding facility, the endless processing lines, the terrifying flight back to a place he had nearly died escaping. That vivid image fueled his frantic sanding, driving his raw knuckles to move faster against the grit of the sandpaper.
“Almost done, amigo,” Trey called out, sliding off the stack of milk crates. The teenager pocketed his phone but kept the passport twirling loosely between his fingers. “Sun’s coming up soon. You better blend that paint good. Marcus is gonna pop a blood vessel if he sees this mess.”
Mateo reached for the can of automotive primer. He shook it violently, the metal ball inside rattling like a panicked heartbeat. He masked off the edges of the repair with a torn strip of blue tape, his fingers clumsy and rushing. The harsh fumes from the spray paint made him lightheaded, but he coated the dried Bondo in thick, sweeping layers, praying the matte gray would pass for a shadow in the dim morning light. He needed the white topcoat next. He needed a heat gun to dry it faster. He needed Trey to leave the garage.
The heavy steel roll-up door at the front of the building rattled hard on its metal tracks.
Mateo froze, his finger still pressing firmly on the nozzle of the primer can. A hiss of gray paint sprayed aimlessly onto the concrete floor.
A key scraped loudly in the exterior lock. The heavy metal deadbolt slid back with a loud, echoing crack. The chain motor groaned to life, and the massive door began to inch upward, letting in a pale, freezing sliver of dawn. Heavy work boots stepped into the gap before the door was even waist-high.
Trey stopped twirling the passport. He shifted his weight, his right hand dropping casually toward the heavy sag in his hoodie pocket.
Marcus ducked under the rising metal door, a shipping clipboard in one hand and a steel thermos in the other. He stopped dead in the center of the bay, his eyes locked on the fresh gray primer staining the side of his pristine delivery van.
Mateo pressed the plastic spreader against the side of the commercial Ford E-250, forcing a thick glob of gray Bondo into the jagged, dime-sized hole. His hands shook, smearing the quick-hardening putty across the faded company logo. The garage smelled intensely of chemical resin and cold sweat. It was three in the morning, and the harsh fluorescent bulb hanging from the rafters cast long, nervous shadows across the stained concrete floor. Mateo scraped another dollop of filler from the mixing board, his knuckles raw and coated in fine gray dust. There were six more holes tearing through the driver-side panel, the steel folded inward like torn paper. The silence of the industrial park felt heavy, pressing down on him as he desperately tried to erase the violent damage before sunrise.
Behind him, a sneaker squeaked sharply on the concrete.
Trey lounged on a stack of plastic milk crates, holding his phone up at an angle to catch the harsh overhead light. The teenager had one foot propped on a discarded tire, his thumb tapping the screen as he monitored the scrolling text of a live broadcast. In his other hand, Trey casually held a small, dark blue booklet. The gold foil crest on the cover caught the glare of the bulb. It was Mateo’s passport.
“Got my guy putting in the overtime,” Trey said to his phone camera, his voice carrying a casual, sharp edge. He flipped the passport open with his thumb, flashing the photo page toward the lens for a fraction of a second. “Best auto body man in the city. Real quiet, too.”
Mateo flinched at the sound of the teenager’s voice but did not turn around. He dug the plastic spreader into the next bullet hole. If he stopped moving, if he hesitated for even a moment, Trey would make good on the threat hanging thick in the air. The teenager had walked into the closed garage an hour ago, dropped the blue booklet on the hood of the van, and recited the exact phone number for the local ICE enforcement office entirely from memory. Mateo had kept that passport hidden inside a locked metal box shoved deep under his mattress at his apartment. Trey’s ability to casually produce it was far more terrifying than the heavy pistol sagging in the front pocket of the teenager’s oversized hoodie.
“Y’all keep spamming the chat, I might have to show you his real name,” Trey laughed, tapping the corner of the passport against his knee. “Give a quick shoutout to the feds, maybe.”
Mateo focused on the rough edge of the damaged metal. He sanded the dried Bondo with frantic, uneven strokes. The dust plumed into the air, coating his eyelashes and stinging the back of his throat. He had to get the surface perfectly flush before he could prime it. The van belonged to Marcus, the owner of the small plumbing supply business that paid Mateo in unrecorded cash every Friday. Marcus was a large, unforgiving man who treated his small fleet of vehicles with aggressive pride. A single scratch on a bumper meant a deducted shift and a screaming lecture. Six bullet holes meant something entirely different. Mateo did not know who had shot up the vehicle while it was parked out by the loading dock, and he aggressively did not want to know. He only knew that Trey had claimed the damage, claimed the van, and essentially claimed Mateo the moment he flashed that stolen booklet. The teenager had made it clear that fixing the van in silence was the only way Mateo would ever see his documents again.
The teenager leaned closer, pointing the phone camera directly at Mateo’s rigid back. “Look at him work. That is dedication right there.”
Mateo wiped a line of sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a thick streak of gray dust across his skin. His shoulder muscles burned fiercely from the repetitive, pressing motion. He moved to the third hole, located right above the rear wheel well. The metal here was much thicker, and the violent impact had shattered the surrounding white paint like a spiderweb. He pressed the gray filler deep into the cavity, trying to smooth it out with the plastic edge before it cured into a solid lump. The fear was a cold, heavy knot sitting in the pit of his stomach. He had spent four long years keeping his head down, taking the worst night shifts, sweeping the warehouse floors, and remaining entirely invisible to the outside world. One careless phone call from Trey would erase every single sacrifice. He pictured the sterile holding facility, the endless processing lines, the terrifying flight back to a place he had nearly died escaping. That vivid image fueled his frantic sanding, driving his raw knuckles to move faster against the grit of the sandpaper.
“Almost done, amigo,” Trey called out, sliding off the stack of milk crates. The teenager pocketed his phone but kept the passport twirling loosely between his fingers. “Sun’s coming up soon. You better blend that paint good. Marcus is gonna pop a blood vessel if he sees this mess.”
Mateo reached for the can of automotive primer. He shook it violently, the metal ball inside rattling like a panicked heartbeat. He masked off the edges of the repair with a torn strip of blue tape, his fingers clumsy and rushing. The harsh fumes from the spray paint made him lightheaded, but he coated the dried Bondo in thick, sweeping layers, praying the matte gray would pass for a shadow in the dim morning light. He needed the white topcoat next. He needed a heat gun to dry it faster. He needed Trey to leave the garage.
The heavy steel roll-up door at the front of the building rattled hard on its metal tracks.
Mateo froze, his finger still pressing firmly on the nozzle of the primer can. A hiss of gray paint sprayed aimlessly onto the concrete floor.
A key scraped loudly in the exterior lock. The heavy metal deadbolt slid back with a loud, echoing crack. The chain motor groaned to life, and the massive door began to inch upward, letting in a pale, freezing sliver of dawn. Heavy work boots stepped into the gap before the door was even waist-high.
Trey stopped twirling the passport. He shifted his weight, his right hand dropping casually toward the heavy sag in his hoodie pocket.
Marcus ducked under the rising metal door, a shipping clipboard in one hand and a steel thermos in the other. He stopped dead in the center of the bay, his eyes locked on the fresh gray primer staining the side of his pristine delivery van.