The hotel window overlooked downtown Memphis, neon bleeding into the dusk. Lin Mo lined five water bottles on the sill, labels facing him: "12 – Morant," "13 – Jaren," "23 – Dillon," "2 – Brooks," "33 – Adams." He crumpled a napkin, aimed, and missed.
"Turn the bottle," the boy's voice echoed. Lin Mo rotated "12" a half-turn, so the label's edge aligned with the window frame. "See? Now you're not just looking at a number. You're looking at him," the boy had said, in a video from his hospital bed, spinning a bottle labeled "Morant" with his prosthetic. "His left foot points here when he's gonna drive. Always."
Lin Mo tossed again. The napkin hit "12" dead center. His phone buzzed: the boy had sent a photo of his old prosthetic, disassembled, a thread stuck in the joint. "Found this. Remember your shoe?" Lin Mo looked down; the thread was still there, looped through the third eyelet, frayed but intact. "Threads hold things together," the boy texted. "Even when they're worn. Like how you're holding the scouting report—details matter."
A commotion erupted in the hall. Teammates filed past, laughing, one holding a tactical board covered in notes. Lin Mo squinted: next to Dillon's defensive stance, someone had written, "Check label—he leans right when nervous." It was in the kid's handwriting, the same looped letters as the water bottle tags.
The next morning, at FedExForum, Lin Mo practiced floaters on the Grizzlies' rim. The ball kissed the backboard and swished, and he froze. The rim's corner had a chip of fresh paint, the same off-white as the boy's wheelchair armrest, which had chipped when he'd rammed it into a doorframe chasing a loose ball. "See?" the boy would say. "Even courts remember."
In the stands, a flash of color: the Chase the Light kids, holding signs. One read, "17 Tries = Grizzlies' Nightmare." Lin Mo waved, and they cheered. He picked up the ball, left hand gripping it tight, and thought: 17. For the boy. For the threads. For the shot.