Fourth quarter. The scrimmage clock read 2:14, and they were down 4. Lin Mo's wristband was soaked, sweat dripping into his eyes. He fumbled for the spare tape in his pocket, and his fingers brushed something stiff: a Band-Aid, its wrapper printed with a lopsided basketball. "For when it gets rough," the boy had written, in the margin.
The center—mimicking Adams—set a screen, thick as a wall. Lin Mo pivoted, left hand slamming into the floor to steady himself, and the tape dug into his palm, a grid of lines. It felt like counting the grooves on a basketball, each ridge a reminder: 1, Morant's first step; 2, Jackson's block reach; 3…
Adams' stand-in rumbled past, elbowing him. Lin Mo stumbled, but caught the inbound pass, sprinting upcourt. Dillon's mimic was hot on his heels, arm outstretched. "Prosthetic trick," the boy's voice popped up. "When it jams mid-throw? Twist the wrist. Makes the ball dance."
Lin Mo did it. Left hand, wrist snapping sideways, the ball arcing in a wild curve—over the defender's hand, off the backboard, through the net. The bench erupted. "How'd you see that?" someone yelled. He touched his palm; the tape's grid had pressed into his skin, a map of where to go.
Timeout. Coach Chen circled his shot on the board, green marker bright. "This spot," he said. "Same as your first-round winner. Muscle memory, kid." Lin Mo traced the circle. It matched the glow of the boy's desk lamp, the one he kept on during late-night rehab.
His phone buzzed. The boy's text was simple: "Knocked over all my bottles. Your turn." Lin Mo looked up. The scrimmage clock read 45 seconds. He grinned, left hand flexing. The grid on his palm tingled, like the boy was right there, whispering: Aim true.