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Sol heard familiar voices. “I wish she would hurry up,” Kai complained. “These mosquitoes are killing me. Are you sure Waffle House is closed?”

“Yeah, it was on the news. I saw it when I was at Apollo’s house.”

Kai rang the doorbell, holding it down to extend the tinny chime. Sol finally rose from the couch. “Come in,” she grumbled, opening the door. Zed and Kai entered the house, making a beeline to the couch. Sol remained standing, sluggish from her whiskey-induced nap. She glanced at the clock above the television. 4:24 p.m. She’d slept for six hours. Kai and Zed were in high spirits. To Sol, they seemed to glow.

“What’s up with y’all today?” Sol asked, noticing they were both dressed in form-flattering nylon fitness gear and sneakers.

“Apollo…” Zed started.

“Tennis, my nigga,” Kai interrupted.

Sol immediately shook her head. “I haven’t played since, like, tenth grade, before I got locked up. You guys will murk me.”

“Whatever, girl,” Zed chided. “With those arms, you’ll probably be acing us left and right. Remember the first time Theo got an ace? He lost the match, but he insisted that we go to Chick-fil-A to celebrate.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” Kai sighed. “I was the one who got aced by him! And hell yeah, he lost. I killed his ass. But y’all never remember my version. To this day, I’m convinced that the secret ingredient in that Chick-fil-A sauce is loyalty.” Zed slid off the couch and dropped to her knees, propped up by the laughter bouncing around her chest.

Sol quietly belched, shaking her head again. The tennis talk and the Jack were bringing up memories of Jerry. “Tennis Titan,” she’d used to call him. He actually wasn’t particularly good at the sport. As Sol improved her game, she realized that Jerry’s only skill was his reaction time. He didn’t control space like a veteran player. He simply defended it well, chasing the ball to every crevice and cranny of the court like a determined puppy. His pursuit of the ball was so dogged that he seemed to forget the possibility of injury. Matches with him used to last forever because even if he was obviously outmatched, he’d trap his opponent in a purgatory of deuce, refusing to relinquish a game until his opponent collapsed from fatigue or frustration.

His specialty was the high-flying return lob. No matter how impossible the odds were of him reciprocating a well-placed shot, he’d accelerate toward it at inhuman speed, committing life, limb, and racket to a cloud-chafing return that would make the ball linger in the air like an escaped balloon, then casually glide back toward the court like a Tony Parker teardrop. His opponent would then smash it when it finally touched down and repeat the cycle. Their coach used to call it the float-a-dope method, much to Jerry’s goofy satisfaction.

“I just can’t, guys. I’ll go and watch you,” Sol offered, slipping on some worn flats.