Roam stopped at the corner, his hood pulled low over his forehead, hands buried in his pockets, watching from a distance what had once been, years ago, a simple patch of cracked asphalt wedged between two abandoned metro pillars.
Now, brand-new hoops stood where nothing but bent rims and torn nets used to remain.
The ground had been completely redone, fresh white lines marking out a real regulation court, low bleachers set up along one side, even a little snack stand with a blue and white awning.
A dozen kids were running around on it, shouting, laughing, a ball bouncing cleanly off a surface that had nothing to do with the wreck he used to know. An older man in a clean tracksuit blew a whistle from the sideline, notebook in hand, jotting something down after every play.
Roam took a step back, pressing himself against the wall of a nearby building, as if the mere light from the court could give him away from that far.
