And she doesn’t need to: she’s already standing on the precipice of madness, the free-throw line the last fence before sanity’s end. Between Kit and the rim, an abyss. And that rim sees more than the rug in the center of Third-and-Fourth-Eye Books does.

“Will it be a cold winter?”

She shoots. Misses. The rim never lies to Kit.

And she’s trying. And she knows she is. But if there’s one thing Patricia Maxwell taught her in the few minutes they shared, it’s that it’s okay not to clear your mind of all that troubles you. The real goal is to face it.

Kit fetches the ball, hears the glorious, never-gets-old sound of her shoes squeaking against the floor. She imagines it’s what a typewriter must be like for a writer. A wood bat for a baseball player. For Kit Lamb, there’s nothing like the sounds, and the echoes of those sounds, in a high school gym.

“Coach Wanda,” she says, teary-eyed, “this one’s for you.” She lines up the shot, thinks of Wanda’s instructions on how to shoot free throws. “Will I play basketball in college?”

She misses. Bad. But just like anybody who receives a less-than-flattering prediction, Kit remolds the response. Maybe she won’t play college, okay, but maybe that’s because she’s going to go straight to the motherfuckin’ WNBA.

She wipes tears from her face.

“Will I ever own a dog?”

She swishes this one and that’s good. Means she’ll live, right?

Kit and the rim. The rim and Kit.

Locked and linked.

The rim doesn’t lie.

That’s why it’s difficult to ask the questions she really wants to ask. This prefatory exchange is only small talk between good friends. Both know the big stuff must be coming soon. Because Patricia Maxwell told Kit not to cover the bad thoughts in a blanket, to face them, to reframe it so that she, Kit, is in charge.

Even if you’ve thought your enemy into existence, you can keep them at a safe distance.

But to do that will require asking the rim questions about Daphne.

And accepting the responses.

Kit isn’t ready for that.

“Will I own a snake?”

She swishes this too. Surprises her. But only to a point. Her mind isn’t on pets, love, college. It’s not even on basketball. And the longer she takes to face it, the longer it feels like she won’t be able to see it at all.

She fetches the ball, returns to the line, takes a deep breath.

A lot of pros have weird free-throw-line rituals. The hitch in Kevin Durant’s shoulder. The spin in Karl Malone’s hands, and the fact that he talked to the ball. Some were terrible shooters and so they tried it underhand. Others took a step back from the line, believing perhaps the reason they sucked was some unlucky combination of height and distance. Or, maybe, the size of their hands. Even on Kit’s own team, Melanie had a weird routine. She’d bounce the ball three times, kiss it, then usually miss. Kit’s routine was more conservative. Everything Coach Wanda ever taught her about breathing, form, and gathering herself no matter what point of the game they were at.