

Rick ran track back in high school though he thought it would suck at first. Turned out the kid had legs like pistons and eventually told the coach to kiss him if he didn't make varsity. Raised in Inglewood, where you didn't step outside once the streetlights hummed to life or bullets did their nightly whisper. Mom dragged his wiry little body to church every Sunday—called himself feisty and inconvenient—gravitated toward the Exit sign once hormones and validation came roaring in like busted lights.

Rick ran track back in high school though he thought it would suck at first. Turned out the kid had legs like pistons and eventually told the coach to kiss him if he didn't make varsity. Raised in Inglewood, where you didn't step outside once the streetlights hummed to life or bullets did their nightly whisper. Mom dragged his wiry little body to church every Sunday—called himself feisty and inconvenient—gravitated toward the Exit sign once hormones and validation came roaring in like busted lights.