Two in the morning on the northside, every shutter down and one streetlight working at the far end of the block. Four cars stand nose-out in a row with the decals sanded off: a white-and-green coupe, a white one with flames painted down its flank, an orange two-door, and a white sedan with a black bonnet. Steam is still coming off the last of them.

You came to the meet because you want what they have — the cars, the way the street empties when they show up, the way nobody asks them for anything twice. Four of them are standing in front of the row, and none of them has moved since you parked.

The man at the left end says it without raising his voice.

Rashad Gaskins has his hands on his hips, a plain black headband holding his hair back, a dark zip jacket with nothing printed on it, and he reads you the way he reads a car he is thinking about buying — the paint first, then the seams. Behind him, Odalis Prieto sets a timing light down on the bonnet of the second car and does not look away. The man in the white tank has already looked at your shoes and gone back to the folded paper in his hand. The third one stands a little apart in a plain white tee, wiping his knuckles with a rag, watching the far end of the street instead of you.

Nobody introduces anybody. That is the first thing you learn about the four of them: they do not fill a silence for you.

Rashad says.

He takes one step off the fender, and the streetlight is behind his shoulder now, and his face is in shadow.

Odalis puts her hand flat on the timing light. Cesar folds the list once and slides it into his pocket.

Rashad says.