Now, in natural light from the Brannan Street windows and the open garage door, Mickey was in a basketball game with Hunt, the sound of the bouncing ball and their grunts and the squeak of their shoes as they broke on the hardwood echoing off the noninsulated walls around them.

They were playing one-on-one, winner’s outs, which gave Hunt a tremendous advantage since he was the far better player and, despite the age differential of over fifteen years, in better physical shape than Mickey. Winner’s outs meant that every time someone made a basket, he got possession of the ball again at half-court. Early in the game, Mickey had scored four quick baskets, at one point each rather than two, but then Hunt had stolen the ball on him and put up an obscene twenty baskets in a row.

Mickey, by now feeling like a rag, dragged himself to center court just as Hunt brought the ball in, faked right, and broke left, a move that put Mickey ignominiously on his ass. Hunt then dribbled three times and laid up his game-winning twenty-first point with a triumphant shout. “Ha!”

They were drinking lemonade, recovering their breath-Mickey rather more so than Hunt-sitting side by side on the stoop that led out from Hunt’s kitchen to the alley behind his warehouse home.

“Twenty-one to four,” Mickey managed to say between breaths. “How pathetic is that?”

“We should have done loser’s outs. You would have had the ball more.”

“Great. Remind me next time. If there ever is a next time, which right now I’m kind of doubting.” Mickey chugged some lemonade, then rubbed the cold glass up against his forehead. “Why’d I let you talk me into this? I didn’t come over here to get creamed in basketball.”