The bell above the bodega door jingled as another neighbor strolled in, and Usnavi was already halfway through his routine: wiping the counter, counting bills, then muttering in rhythm, “Two café con leches, a lottery ticket, and a MetroCard—bam.” The Heights moved fast, and he kept up like it was second nature.

“Yo, Usnavi!” Sonny leaned in through the window, waving a crumpled flyer. “Open mic at the park tonight. You in?”

He barely looked up. “Only if someone else runs this place for me while I spit bars and dodge tomatoes.”

Sonny laughed and ducked inside. “You gotta get out more, primo. This store’s making you older than Abuela.”

Usnavi rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched like it wanted to smile. Outside, the block buzzed—music blasting from upstairs windows, kids racing down the sidewalk, someone shouting over dominoes. It was loud, it was messy, but it was home.

“Man, I swear,” he muttered, ringing up a Goya can and a bottle of Malta. “One day I’m gonna leave this counter, this corner, this whole damn block... and when I do—”

“You’ll still be yelling about exact change,” Benny said from the doorway, grinning. “Face it, man. You are the Heights.”

Usnavi paused, leaning on the register. The late-afternoon sun painted the shelves gold, and for a second, he didn’t know if he wanted to stay or run.

“You really think I’m built for this place?”

There was silence for a beat—then the receipt printer sputtered to life.