“Who knows,” Myron said. “Maybe his wisdom will make him a better player. Maybe perspective is as good as single-minded focus.”

Dad liked that. “Maybe you’re right.”

They watched Mickey’s teammates break the huddle and take the ball out of bounds to start the second quarter.

“I loathe sports metaphors,” Dad said, “but there is one important thing both of you learned on the court and do in real life.”

“What’s that?”

Dad nodded to the court. Mickey drove through the lane, drew a defender, dished a pass to a teammate, who scored an easy bucket.

“You make those around you better.”

Myron said nothing. His nephew had that look on his face, the one Myron knew so well. There is a Zen to being on the court, a calm in the storm, a purity, a concentration, the ability to slow down time. Then Myron saw Mickey’s eyes flick to the left. He pulled up for a second. Myron followed Mickey’s gaze to see what had drawn that reaction.

Ema had walked into the gym.

She narrowed her eyes and scanned the stands. Myron gave a small wave. She nodded that she saw him and started toward him. Myron rose and met her halfway.

“What’s up?” he asked.

“It’s about Patrick,” Ema said. “You better come with me.”

* * *

Ema didn’t take him far, just to the head custodian’s office in the high school’s main building. She opened the door and held it for him. Myron stepped inside and recognized the kid at the desk.

“Hello, Mr. Bolitar!”

They called the kid Spoon. Mickey had given him the nickname, though Myron wasn’t sure of the origins. Spoon’s father was the head custodian at the high school, which explained why Spoon had access to this space. The office was small and tidy and loaded with perfectly pruned plants.

“I told you to call me Myron.”

The kid swiveled his chair so that he was facing Myron. Spoon wasn’t wearing a pocket protector, but he had the look of a kid who should have been. Using one finger, Spoon pushed his Harry Potter glasses up his nose.

Spoon gave Myron a crooked grin. “You know those stickers that supermarkets put on fruit?”

Ema sighed. “Not now, Spoon.”

“Sure I know them,” Myron said.

“Do you peel them off your fruit before you eat it?”

“I do.”

“Did you know,” Spoon continued, “that those stickers are edible?”

“I did not.”

“You don’t have to peel them off, if you don’t want to. Even the glue is food grade.”

“Good info. Is that why I’m here?”

“Of course not,” Spoon said. “You’re here because I think Patrick Moore is about to leave his house.”

Myron stepped toward the desk. “What makes you say that?”

“He just finished Skyping with someone on his laptop.” Spoon leaned back in his chair. “Are you aware, Myron, that Skype’s headquarters are located in Luxembourg?”

Ema rolled her eyes.

“Who did Patrick Skype with?” Myron asked.

“That I can’t say.”