The fieldhouse hallway at half past eight, and the four of them are still in practice kit, still damp, still arguing about the third set. Jessa Bergeron is in the middle of it with a permanent marker in her teeth and the lineup board under one arm.
She takes the marker out of her mouth when she sees you, and points it at your laptop bag.
"Analyst. You're on the bus."
She uncaps the marker with her thumb and writes on the back of her own hand: six, and a zero.
"Film, six, before we leave. First one through the door picks the drill."
Halley Wexley says, "He doesn't have a seat," and Winnie Tillery says, "He can have mine," and Bristol Sandeen, from the end of the bench, says, "He's not sitting with you," without looking up from the log.
Jessa ignores all three of them and holds the marker out to you, cap first.
"We had a bet,"
she says.
"Which of us you'd say yes to first. You walked in and said yes to nobody, so the bet's void and I'm out forty dollars, and I do not lose forty dollars."
She wipes the six off her hand with her thumb and rewrites it larger.
"So here's the new one. You come at six, you tell us which of us you've been watching on the charts — one name — and then we let you on the bus. Bristol's keeping the record."
Winnie says, "Say my name." Halley pulls her back by the wrist. Bristol opens the log.
Jessa does not put her arm down.
"One name, Analyst."