Jett

Thump, thump went the basketball, bounced smooth as a pebble, while Jett stood under the Scoreboard, the only decorated thing on the whole Court, where every result was painted by hand, losses beside wins.

“Who paints it? Why keep the losses? Is that wet?”

“Old Twelve,” said the painter on the ladder. “Because losing counts. Yes.”

Jett squinted. “The dawn crew’s time should be forty-one, not forty-seven. I watched them shake on it. Sorry! It’s lovely lettering, though.”

Old Twelve checked a notebook, laughed, and fixed it. “Good eye. Name?”

Jett said it. Old Twelve chalked it small in the corner, corrected by, just as the evening crowd gathered to read the day’s results aloud. Fifty voices read the times, then, without pausing, read the name too.

It settled on Jett like a warm hand.

Jett looked up at the big empty space at the top of the board, bounced the ball once, and started asking what it took to get painted up there.

Clink. The hook caught, and the last of the tall south lamps flared gold over the track, the same lamps the night crew always trained under.

“That’s all six,” said Bo Castillo, who led the night relay and had never once seen them burn past midnight. “We usually switch them off by now.”

“Not tonight,” said Jett. “How far off can you see them from the dark roads? A mile? Does the fog swallow the light or just smudge it?”

Bo didn’t know. Jett chalked a fresh finish line anyway, wobbly, then redid it straight.

Near dawn, a muddy-booted traveller came slowly out of the grey, following the glow. Jett cheered loud enough to rattle the fieldhouse doors. Bo joined in. The traveller crossed the chalk, blinking, and shook Jett’s hand as if they’d just won.

By breakfast, Old Twelve had painted a new line on the Scoreboard: Home safe: 1.