The morning began the way every morning began. Coffee. Black. No sugar. The same cup, the same ceramic mug with a hairline crack running down the handle that I refused to replace because the crack was the only imperfection in my life I allowed.
I drank it standing at the window of the second-floor office. The office was above the warehouse in Allapattah, a concrete building that looked like every other concrete building on the block, which was the point. The sun came up over the city and the light hit the warehouses and the light was always the same, the light of a city that didn't care who owned it, and I owned a piece of it.
