Fourth quarter, two minutes left. Morant hit a three, then another—both from the same spot, right corner. The crowd roared, and Lin Mo's chest burned. He crouched, hands on knees, and stared at the floor—where a scuff mark curled like the trail of the boy's wheelchair. "Windshield wipers," the boy had said, demonstrating with his prosthetic, swiping left to right. "Don't chase the wind. Let it come to you."
Lin Mo stood, left hand loose at his side. When Morant drove again, he didn't reach. He slid, left then right, like the boy's prosthetic clearing a path. Morant hesitated—just long enough—and Lin Mo's hand shot out, tapping the ball away. Fast break, Lin Mo leading the charge, left hand dribbling hard. He spotted James, but at the last second, pulled up—left hand, soft release. The ball kissed the rim, then fell. "17!" the kids screamed.
Morant stared at him, jaw tight. "You're not even right-handed," he said, as they jogged back. Lin Mo thought of the boy's prosthetic, propped against the wall in his hospital room—"Doesn't matter which hand. Matters if it works." He shrugged. "Works, doesn't it?"
Down by one, 45 seconds left. Morant isolated, crossing over, then again—faster, meaner. Lin Mo's left wrist ached, but he kept sliding, the magnet in his palm a steady pulse. When Morant lifted for a three, Lin Mo jumped, left hand stretching. Fingertips brushed the ball—enough. It clanged off the rim, and Lin Mo grabbed the rebound, holding on like it was the last thing in the world.
He glanced at the clock: 12 seconds. The boy's text lit up his phone: "Your turn."