The replica trophy arrived at the rehab center wrapped in brown paper, the boy's name scrawled on the package in Lin Mo's messy handwriting. When he tore it open, the base glinted—"To No.17: Your 17 details weigh more than gold."
He set it on the windowsill, next to his rehab log. On the page marked "Today," he'd written: "100m unassisted. 3 wobbles. 0 falls." The trophy's shadow stretched over the words, like a hand resting on his shoulder.
"It's too shiny," he texted Lin Mo, grinning at the camera. "Kinda like your speech. But I like the scratch on the base. Makes it look real."
Lin Mo laughed, watching the video in the training gym. Booker was teaching the rookies to parse footage, pausing on a clip of the boy's prosthetic, frozen mid-step. "See how he shifts weight?" Booker said, pointing. "Lin Mo says that's how you read if someone's gonna go left or right. Same with Towns' knee."
The rookies leaned in, notebooks flying. One asked, "Why does it matter? It's just… a kid's leg."
Booker's voice softened. "'Cause details aren't just about basketball. They're about seeing people. Lin Mo's trophy? It's 'cause he sees us. And that kid? He sees him."
Lin Mo's phone buzzed again. The boy had propped the replica next to his prosthetic, the two side by side—metal and plastic, both bearing scratches, both glowing in the sunlight.
"Doc says I can try stairs next week," the text read. "Says to 'take it slow, like a well-executed play.' Think you can send Booker to teach me? He seems like he'd yell 'NO WOBBLING!' real good."
Lin Mo showed the message to Booker, who barked a laugh, already typing: "Tell him I'll bring my 'sock slide' demonstration. Strict curriculum."