Filling Aunty Up I
THE alley reeked of stale beer and something metallic, a scent Deena knew too well from her youth. Grime coated the brick walls, a mosaic of graffiti obscuring any original color. She clutched her handbag tighter, the strap digging into her shoulder as she navigated the uneven pavement.
Harper’s text, a frantic string of emojis and garbled words about a brawl, had dragged her from her peaceful morning coffee. The nerve of that boy. She rounded a dumpster overflowing with forgotten takeout containers, its stench assaulting her nostrils.
“Harper! What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?” Deena’s voice, sharp with maternal indignation, echoed off the narrow walls. She spotted him then, leaning against a graffiti-scarred wall, not a scratch on him, a smirk playing o
