The geography classroom was warm. A globe sat on the teacher's desk, slowly spinning on a motorized axis.
Mr. Mercator stood next to a large map of the world. He was pointing at a small dot in the middle of Europe.
"Coordinates," Mr. Mercator said. "Latitude and Longitude. Every place on Earth can be defined by numbers. Where you are defines who you are."
Alex sat at his desk. He was looking at the map.
London. Paris. Madrid. Tokyo.
He had played in all of them. But there was one coordinate left. The biggest one.
"Mr. Finch," Mr. Mercator asked. "What is the capital of Catalonia?"
Alex looked up.
"Barcelona, Sir," Alex said.
"Correct," Mr. Mercator nodded. "A city of art. Of culture. And of football."
Mark sat next to Alex. He was wearing a beret (again) and holding a paintbrush (again).
"I AM PICASSO!" Mark whispered. "I SEE THE WORLD IN SHAPES! MOSTLY TRIANGLES! BECAUSE PIZZA IS A TRIANGLE!"
