NEVER SAY NEVER

ASHLEY: You need to come home. Now.

Joe and Cole were alone on the basketball court, hours before classes began. Cole's sneakers let out a shrill squeak as he pivoted and turned towards Joe. He received the basketball from Joe, cut to the hoop with two quick dribbles, paused, found the ball's ridges with his fingertips, and shot. The ball arched through the air and then clanged off the rim. Sneakers against hardwood and the thud of the basketball being dribbled — even the stubborn sound of a bricked shot — were like music to Cole. He would've rather heard the mesh snap as his ball swished past the rim, but the game, the court, was his calm place. He needed it, especially now.

You need to come home.

Now.

The only basketball-related sound Cole hated was the crowd. He never liked the roars, and never liked so many eyes on him. He always felt like he needed to take his anti-anxiety medication before a game.

The ball trailed away from Joe and Cole in progressively smaller bounces.

"If only you could shoot like you throw a pick," Joe said.

Cole half-smiled. Even though he'd been the team's leading scorer last year, the stuff he did away from the ball — throwing picks, boxing out, guarding the other team's best player — had always been his thing. In fact, his coach had told him to go easy on the picks last year after he'd knocked a player out of a game in the playoffs. Broke the guy's rib. His coach didn't know that Cole was already going easy, and gauging just how easy to take it was often the problem.

Cole jogged after the ball, picked it up, and dribbled back over to Joe. He passed the ball to Joe, and then positioned himself under the hoop as though a defender was behind him.

"I can shoot," Cole said, ready for the rebound.

"Yeah," Joe shrugged and released the ball. The mesh snapped as the ball passed through the metal ring. It dropped into Cole's arms. "But you can really throw a pick."

A few minutes later, the boys were sitting with their open gym bags at the side of the court. Joe didn't waste time. He was already getting his jeans on as soon as they'd sat down. Cole, meanwhile, hadn't even untied a shoelace. He was staring at the gymnasium ceiling, at a birdie stuck in the rafters. The same one had been there since he'd started high school. Ashley's text kept scrolling through Cole's mind.

You need to come home.

Now.

Joe kicked Cole lightly on the arm, bringing him back to the real world.

"Doing anything this weekend, or are you all zoned in for tryouts?"

"I took some shifts at the community centre," Cole said.

Joe chuckled and shook his head. "Dude, you're either playing ball, doing homework, or working at that shithole."

"I have to save money for university, man. My grandma doesn't have money to pay for it."

"What about your aunt? She lives with you too, right?"

"Yeah, but that's the thing, Joe. If my grandma doesn't have the money, it means my auntie doesn't have the money. She supports both of us. Usually works sixteen-hour days just to get us by."

"Dude," Joe intoned. "Dude" could mean a million different things.

Here, Cole interpreted it as: "Holy shit, that's rough."

"Anyway, I think by June I'll have enough for my first year's tuition.

Mostly."

Joe started buttoning his shirt up. Cole was trying to twirl the basketball on his finger for more than ten seconds straight, still in his sweat-drenched shorts and shirt, still with tied shoelaces.

"So won't your band pay for anything?" Joe asked. "They do that, right?"

Cole shook his head and slapped the basketball to get it spinning harder. It wobbled and fell off his finger. He caught it and started the process over again. "I don't need their help."

"Whatever, dude." Joe stuffed his gym clothes into his bag, then slung it and his backpack over his shoulder.

"Besides," Cole said, "if I work and get that scholarship, I'll be fine."

"Yeah," Joe said. "Sure. But then you might want to work on that jump shot." And with a parting, "Later," he left Cole alone in the gym.

"Later," Cole said, but the heavy gym doors had already slammed shut. The gym seemed even quieter now. Cole felt more alone. He didn't mind the feeling. But he did mind the message from Ashley, a message he couldn't ignore anymore. He fished into his gym bag and pulled out his phone. Read the text over again.

Ashley: You need to come home. Now.

Cole took a deep breath, then responded: Very funny.

As soon as Cole had sent the text, he saw the bubbled ellipsis by Ashley's name.

Ashley: I'm not joking, Cole. This is serious. Come home.

Cole's heart started to pound, fast and hard. His hands were shaking and his head was swimming. He gripped the bench to keep from falling over. He rifled through his gym bag until he found what he was looking for. He fumbled with the cap, managed to get it off, and took an anti-anxiety pill.

The first time he'd had a panic attack Cole's teacher had to call an ambulance. He was eight years old and walking into his fourth-grade class in the city for the first time. All the kids stared in his direction. He remembered Mrs. Benjamin screaming, "Call 9-1-1!" just before he'd blacked out. Next thing he knew he was in Grace Hospital Emergency, eerily calm. Months later, he started to see a therapist.

Now, Cole closed his eyes. He breathed in through his nose, right into his stomach, for five seconds, held it, and then breathed out through his mouth for seven seconds. He repeated this several times until he'd calmed, through the breathing or the pills. Sometimes he couldn't tell which.

Cole: You're an asshole for even asking that.

Cole muted his phone and threw it deep into his gym bag. He reached down to his shoes, but instead of undoing the laces he tightened them. He walked back onto the court with the basketball and stood at the foul line. He stared at the rim until its orange metal turned into Ashley's texts. You need to come home. Now. I'm not joking, Cole. This is serious. Come home. He bounced the ball once, let out a guttural scream, and charged towards the hoop. He leapt into the air and dunked the basketball with both hands, as hard as he could. He dunked the ball about two million times before class started.

It was a wonder he didn't shatter the backboard.

At 3:41 p.m. Cole stood in front of his opened locker, staring at the gym bag which he had put at the bottom. Throughout the day, he had piled textbooks and binders on to the bag. He had his hands in his pockets. One of those hands was wrapped around his pill bottle, which was always on his person, just in case.

"Dude." Joe walked up and stood beside Cole. They both stared into the locker.

"Hey." Cole didn't look away from the gym bag.

"I thought my shit was messy," Joe said. "Ever seen Hoarders?"

"I don't usually —"

"Like, there could be a black hole in there and nobody would know it. Matthew McConaughey could be behind that big stack of textbooks screaming out 'Murph! Don't leave me, Murph!' and, you know, the world would end because there's just —"

"Okay, I get it. I don't keep my locker like this. You know that. I'm trying to —"

"Great movie, though. Every time, I'm like, 'I'm not going to...