Page 37 of California Wild

Through Coronado, everything felt clean and put together—palm-lined streets, upscale restaurants, families strolling past boutique shops. It was the kind of place where people left their doors unlocked, where the biggest problem was the parking near the ferry landing.

But as Jesse drove off the island, cutting through the bridges and into the city, the picture changed.

Downtown was different. The good and the bad sat side by side, towering high-rises next to alleyways filled with tents, designer stores standing across from liquor stores with bulletproof glass.

Then, as he went deeper, past the parts of the city where the tourists went, past the places even locals avoided unless they had to—

That’s where San Diego bled.

Abandoned lots filled with burnt-out cars, streetlights flickering, the cracked pavement lined with trash and needles. The underbelly of the city—the parts that people in their million-dollar homes and safe neighborhoods liked to pretend didn’t exist.

Jesse saw it all.

And he kept driving.

Because somewhere in that darkness, Kwilé was waiting.

When he finally arrived, Jesse grabbed a plastic bag from the passenger seat, slinging it over his shoulder before heading down the half-broken concrete steps, his boots crunching over scattered debris.

He ducked into the half-open basement, where the smell of damp earth mixed with something sharper—burnt chemicals.

Kwilé was there, hunched in his usual spot against the wall, wrapped in layers of dirty coats and a blanket that Jesse had given him a few months ago. His face was weathered, leathery, lines etched deep, his dark eyes sharp despite the haze behind them.

Jesse knew that look.

Meth. Maybe heroin. Jesse had been there before.

Kwilé was high, but not too far gone. Not yet.

“Brought dinner,” Jesse said, crouching down and pulling out a warm styrofoam container, still smelling of carne asada fries.

Kwilé snorted. “What, no lobster tonight?”

Jesse smirked. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

Kwilé took the food, muttering something under his breath, but still ate.

Jesse leaned back, stretching his legs out, setting the rest of the bag between them.

Water bottles. A clean T-shirt. Toiletries.

Kwilé glanced at it, then back at Jesse. “You know I ain’t goin’ to a shelter.”

Jesse exhaled, rubbing his jaw. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant sound of sirens and the occasional rustling of movement in the alley.

Kwilé took a slow bite, chewing like he was thinking.

Then—“You got demons, kid?”

Jesse huffed a laugh. “You really gotta ask?”

Kwilé chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I guess I don’t.”

Jesse stared ahead, watching the way shadows crawled over the broken walls, how the dim light of the city barely reached this far.

Kwilé kept eating.

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