Lin Mo's alarm blared at 6 a.m., and he lay there, staring at the ceiling. Moving hurt—laughing, coughing, even shifting his weight. He'd slept sitting up, propped on three pillows, and his neck ached like he'd been in a car crash.
He grabbed his phone, and there was a video from his dad: Joe's quilt, hanging on the wall of their old house, sunlight through the kitchen window making the threads glow. "She started that quilt when she was sick," his dad said, voice breaking. "Chemo days, she couldn't lift her arms, but she'd stitch one thread. Just one. Said it's not about speed. It's about showing up."
Lin Mo touched his ribs. Pain flared, but so did something else—hot, bright, stubborn.
He texted the trainer: I'm playing.
Practice was a nightmare. He couldn't run full speed, so he shuffled, feet dragging like they were in sand. He couldn't jump, so he shot free throws from his knees, ribs throbbing with every breath. Vincent mimicked Doncic's crossover, and Lin Mo stumbled, elbow hitting the floor—again.
"Quit," Gabe said, hauling him up. "You'll get killed out there. Literally."
Lin Mo grabbed the ball, winced, and shot a free throw. It swished. "I don't need to be fast. Just… smarter."
He stayed late, watching film in the dark. Doncic's passes: he looked at the opposite corner before firing. His fades: left shoulder drops after the shot, not before. Small things. But small things held quilts together.