Chapter Four: The Boy Who Remembered the Score

Lin Xi recognized the boy who always cut his thumb. “Zhou Mi?” He recoiled. “How do you know?” “At 6:21, you cut your right thumb. Every time. How much do you remember?” Zhou Mi said he had dreamed the final three nights in a row. Sometimes a long shot went in at twelve minutes, sometimes a penalty at seventeen. Every match became 3–3. Every time, someone applauded beneath the pitch. He had dismissed it as nerves until he saw the twelve strips of tape on Lin Xi's belt—the same strips appeared in his dream. “I only licked the water,” he said. “It tastes like coins.” At kickoff, they spread their caps on the back-row steps: 031742, 071936, 120828, 000000.