He hit the net on all fours, felt it give beneath his weight with a loud creak and sag, felt an odd, sharp, twisting sensation in his left ankle where it got caught in the mesh. It didn’t really hurt but it was such a peculiar feeling that he cried out: “Fuck!” Gerald and Sean, who had watched silently, suddenly shouted, “We’re coming, man,” and scooted down the course as fast as they could. Rashid struggled to sit up. “Fuck,” he said again.

Gerald reached him first. “Are you all right, man? Jesus Christ.”

Sean stood right behind him. Together, they got Rashid to his feet. He shook his head. He had never felt so awful in his life, sick with sorrow and the fading paranoid remains of his high. He could put his full weight on his leg, but only with difficulty. “Ya’ll better take me back to the dorm. I gotta get myself together. Fuck.”

The boys progressed down the short road to the dorms, jumping at every noise, praying no one would see them. No one did, a miracle. They didn’t speak. Rashid had to hop every so often, get the weight off his leg. He threw his arms around Gerald’s and Sean’s necks to get up the stairs. They helped him into bed and stuck pillows under his ankle. Then they all slumped into the various corners of the room, Gerald biting the edge of his thumb. Rashid’s leg didn’t hurt so much propped up, and unbelievably, he felt himself falling asleep. I miss my brother, y’all. Do you know that? He thought he might have spoken aloud, but he wasn’t sure.

When he woke up, the light had shifted to late afternoon gold. His leg hurt and his head hurt and his mouth tasted of ash and dirt. Gerald came into the room as he lay looking at the ceiling, dry-eyed.

“I think I need to go to the doctor. My ankle really hurts.”

“I thought you might. Well, I’ll help you.” Gerald paused. “What are you gonna tell him?”

Rashid smiled bitterly. “That I’m a motherfuckin’ idiot.” He sighed. “I’ll tell him that I went out to do some sprints or something by myself and tripped. I ain’t gonna fuck you guys up, too. Can you help me into my running stuff?”

“Yeah. Sure.” So Gerald got everything out of the drawers and helped him change clothes, tenderly, like his own mother might have done. “Think this is the end of the season for you?”

“Yeah, probably.” A moment passed while he realized that he was relieved by this. “You know, I don’t even care. Not totally. Sasser and Washington were more into it for me than I was really into it. You know? It was just too much.”