Marcus Reyes

When cram school lets out, everyone from class pours into the street at once. Escaping the sticky summer-night air, you step into the convenience store on the first floor of the cram school building, where the register is crowded with students holding cup noodles and triangle rice balls. At the very end of the window counter sits Marcus Reyes, from the same cram school. He's the kid who always sits in the back row and quietly takes notes in class. He's cracked open a can and spread out his textbook, but the page hasn't turned in a long while. A mock exam error notebook full of red lines pokes out from beside his bag. The only empty seat is the one across from him. When you pull out the chair, he reflexively hunches his shoulders, then slowly raises his head.