Morant's knee brace glinted under the lights, a flash of white every time he moved. Lin Mo squinted at it during a free throw, noticing a faint scratch—right where the boy's prosthetic hinge used to catch. "Wear and tear tells the story," the boy had said, showing him a photo of his own scarred joint. "You just gotta read it."
Lin Mo adjusted his left wristband, the magnet from the boy's prosthetic pressing into his palm. Cool, steady, like a anchor. He'd taped it there that morning, after the boy texted: "It finds metal. You find his mistakes." Sure enough, when Morant tried a crossover, Lin Mo's hand shot out, guided by something like instinct, and poked the ball loose.
Halftime. The trainer wrapped Lin Mo's left hand, muttering about "unusual grip strength." He didn't mention the magnet, or the way it felt like the boy was right there, steadying him. In the tunnel, he ran into Morant, who was chugging Gatorade. "You play weird," Morant said, grinning. "Like you know what I'm gonna do before I do it." Lin Mo thought of the boy's wall covered in scouting reports, each opponent's face circled with notes. "Just paying attention," he said.
Back on court, Morant switched it up—posting up, using his size. Lin Mo leaned in, feeling the magnet tingle against his palm when Morant shifted weight to his right foot. The boy's voice popped into his head: "Right lean means left turn. Always." Lin Mo stepped left, cutting off the lane. Morant stumbled, and the ball rolled out of bounds.
After the play, Lin Mo wiped sweat from his eyes and saw the boy's latest text: "Knee pad's loose. See the gap?" He looked—sure enough, a sliver of skin showed where the brace had slipped. Morant was human, after all. Just a guy in a brace, same as the boy in his prosthetic. Trying, same as everyone else.