At three o'clock in the morning, only one of the overhead lights in the arena was flickering. Chen Jin's knee pads were soaked through, and blood seeped out from the inside of his knees and flowed down his calves into his sneakers. He didn't stop, and took the 217th shot. The ball drew a low arc and hit the net hollowly.
Lin Zhao squatted on the sidelines, counting a wad of crumpled banknotes, his fingertips stained with cigarette ashes. There were three empty beer bottles in front of him, with half-finished cigarettes still hanging from the mouths of the bottles. He looked up at Chen Jin, said nothing, and threw a box of ice packs over.
