I take in a slow, deep breath—my belly pressing against Rex’s trembling belly—and let it out. Again. And again, until the trembling stops. Until his belly finally pushes firmly into mine and falls away. Until his breath picks up the pace of my own—now warm and moist on my face.

I lift my head out of the hot crook of his neck toward the bright blue sky. So cool and sweet I have to close my eyes. When I open them, Rex is looking up, too. I take it as a sign that he’s okay and start walking again.

At the corner I guide us left. Daddy says there’s a park up here. Figure it’ll be a nice to sit on some swings and chill out for a little while.

“Y’all got a court over here?” Rex exclaims, face lit up like a kid on Christmas. He reclaims his arm from around my shoulder and picks up the pace.

I look for a basketball court but can’t see it. Then, just above a thick hedge ahead, I spot a slither of orange hoop. How did he even see that?

We cross the street, Rex with extra pep in his step. It’s crazy how much spotting the court lifted his mood. It’s like the whole breakdown over his mom never even happened. Who knew basketball was out here working miracles like this?

“Man, I’ve been looking for a court out here for the longest,” he says excitedly. “They got this joint hidden! You know white people don’t like basketball courts in their neighborhoods . . . attracts too many of us,” Rex says, and rubs the top of his brown hand with his pointer finger. He’s walking so fast I can barely keep up. “Well, guess what? We found the secret court and we’re tellin’ all our friends!” He laughs. “Wait, I don’t really have any friends,” he says, and turns back toward me. “But now at least I have you.”

We walk through a small opening in the thick hedge.

“No friends?” I ask, looking around the secret park. No swings. Just the court to the left and an open field in the back. Leave it to Daddy to find the only public basketball court in Woodside.

“Nah, not really.” He walks ahead of me, then turns around so that he’s walking backward, facing me. He brings his hands up to eye level, about body-width apart, and moves them in sync—right to left, left to right, right to left—like windshield wipers or something. It’s strange. “I guess there’s Dante and Paul, two of the dudes I used to ball with at the court close to my old neighborhood. But once I moved out here, I haven’t seen them. Same with Craig and James, two of my old teammates who were pretty cool.”