After the Shot Drops: Chapter 39–Epilogue

There’s a dresser on one wall, a patterned chair with an ottoman in the corner, and a bed with a nightstand in the other corner.

There’s some abstract art on the wall, but no photos or anything personal anywhere.

She returns a moment later with a mousy old guy who’s got a mustache like from an eighties movie. The librarian, I’m guessing.

It says that they found neither Benedict Thompson nor St. Sebastian’s to be in violation of any of the NJSIAA regulations, and that it appeared the email in question had been sent from his stolen phone—though, they couldn’t determine the responsible party due to steps taken by the sender to maintain anonymity.

It concludes by saying that Bunny could immediately resume participation in NJSIAA- sanctioned events.

Gradually, he opens his eyes. Looks at me. Blinks a few times. “Nas?” he asks, voice groggy.

He nods toward the door, eyes still bleary.

I scratch him behind the ears for a bit as Keyona’s stepmom wanders over, hugs me, and makes small talk about the whole eligibility situation and the game tomorrow.

On the wall, the red Rutgers R and three words: ATTITUDE, COMMITMENT, ACCOUNTABILITY.

I pull on my warmups, lace up my sneakers, and slip my headphones back over my ears. I sneak out to the court early, Cole crooning in my ears.

The cheerleaders gyrate.

The pain pulsates, like my heart’s beating inside my nose.

She gives me a skeptical look.

I spin around just in time to see him lay up an uncontested two.

I’m sending Nasir text after text. All variations on the same theme: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to win.

The only sounds in the night are our breathing and the soft shuffle of our feet plodding through the powder.

To break the monotony, after some time I ask, “Is your nose broken? That was a lot of blood.”

Bunny pushes off the bench and trudges to the spot where the ball disappeared. He digs it out, squares up, and sinks the bucket without even grazing the rim.

I’m shaking, hyperventilating.

Everyone who came by the hospital tonight is there, packed into the pews, even the doctor and nurses I’ve seen flit past.

Jess and Keyona give beautiful, heartbreaking eulogies, but when it’s my turn, I’m too wrecked to make it all the way up front.

Before I can say anything, the pastor shuts the lid, an old lady starts playing the organ, and the pallbearers lift the casket and carry it outside and into the hearse waiting out front like it’s all happening in fast forward.

We get in our cars and follow in a long, slow procession all the way to the cemetery.

I wake to the sterile smell and bright lights of the hospital, the steady beeping of a heart monitor.

Before I can ask about it, my mom says in her nurse voice, “The bullet went straight through. It hit the brachial artery on its way, but they were able to repair it. That’s why you were in surgery. It also grazed the humerus and fractured it a bit, which is the reason for the cast. It’s going to take some time to heal, but it will.”

They assure me the police will find Wallace soon, but that they’ll stick close by since he’s still at large.

The facility is surrounded by a red brick wall topped with coils of barbed wire.

We follow the crowd into the building and then stand in a line in the vestibule while they wand each person.

His head is shaved, the lopsided fade gone. His face is gaunt. Eyes cold.

We hold each other’s gaze, a static silence crackling on the line.