The Dust Dogs' court was three levels down in an abandoned parking garage under the east overpass.
Cracked pillars wept into oil puddles that caught the flickering sodium lamps and threw back greasy little rainbows.
Chain nets clanged in the draft, tired and metallic, like someone shaking a can full of loose change.
The air was thick: piss, rust, the sour bite of cheap roids sweating out of pores, and underneath it all the ghost of last night's spilled beer gone sticky and sour.
Tylo showed up first, alone.
He bounced the ball once, twice, the sound flat and dead against the concrete.
Tried a lazy jumper.
Clang.
Brick.
"Fuck this…"
He didn't even chase it, just sank onto the cracked asphalt, elbows on his knees, staring at the scuff marks on his once-white sneakers like they'd personally let him down.
Kej came next, steps heavy.
Both didn't speak to each other.
