For everyone still
fighting until tomorrow.

Jax Morrow is 25. He grew up in East Oakland, raised by a grandmother who sang in a Baptist church choir every Sunday. His father was locked up. His mother worked two jobs.

As a kid he made it out of an apartment fire. His grandmother carried him through the smoke, and the burn on his right cheek never left. He keeps it. It reminds him who carried him out.

Today he works night shifts at the port and sleeps too little. His head never goes quiet, so he raps what keeps him up at night, in the language of his street. And when hope finally shows up, a gospel choir sings it, the way it did in his grandmother's church.

He wears his name like a promise: one more day. His songs are for everyone the world wrote off, and for everyone who gets back up anyway.