Saturday arrived under a sky the color of polished pewter.
The Charlotte Municipal Stadium—a fifteen-thousand-seat concrete colosseum that served as the crown jewel of minor-league baseball in the Carolinas—hummed with an electric, pressurized energy. The parking lots were packed with scouts’ sedans, luxury SUVs from prominent sports management agencies, and three satellite broadcast trucks from national sports networks.
Behind the plate, five rows of premium blue box seats had been cleared of regular fans. In their place sat eighty-four men wearing identical dark sunglasses, holding identical black clipboards, and resting identical yellow Stalker radar guns atop the padded backstop railing.
At eleven o’clock in the morning, Arthur Vance’s black sedan pulled up to the security checkpoint at Gate 4, the players' entrance.
Wesley sat in the backseat, wearing a clean, pressed white cotton t-shirt that Clara had starched with lavender water, his dark jeans—the hole at the knee neatly patched from the inside with heavy black canvas—and a pair of brand-new, plain black leather baseball cleats that Silas had bought with his veterans' pension check at a general store in Wilkesboro. On his lap rested the mended Rawlings glove.
Arthur rolled down his window, holding out his gold Major League Scout pass.
The security guard, a burly off-duty county deputy wearing an earpiece, leaned down and inspected the credential. His eyes flickered toward the backseat, landing on Wesley. He tapped his radio twice.
"Mr. Arthur Vance?" the guard asked, his tone polite but stiff.
"That’s me, officer," Arthur said. "Got an amateur invitee for the afternoon session. Washington, Wesley. Right-handed pitcher."
A second guard stepped out of the booth, followed immediately by Harrison Vance.
Harrison wore his official showcase blazer—navy blue with gold brass buttons and the embroidered crest of the State Athletic Association. His hair was slicked back, his expression tight, cold, and entirely devoid of the swagger he had displayed on his home diamond five days earlier.
"Arthur," Harrison said, stepping up to the driver’s side door.
"Harrison," Arthur replied, not taking his hands off the steering wheel. "You look dressed for church. Who died?"
Harrison ignored the barb, turning his gaze directly into the backseat. His eyes bored into Wesley’s face, searching for a trace of hesitation, a flicker of the fear that a twelve-year-old from the Bottoms was supposed to feel when entering a thirty-million-dollar professional stadium.
Wesley looked back at him through the glass. His eyes were calm, unblinking, dark as creek water under winter ice.
"There’s an issue with the registration, Arthur," Harrison said, pulling a manila folder from under his arm. "The boy isn't enrolled in an accredited scholastic athletic program. The committee reviewed the roster this morning. Without an active high-school liability waiver and a certified medical clearance from a state-licensed sports physician, we can't let him into the dugout. It’s an insurance liability."
Arthur turned his head slowly, looking at his nephew with a look of such profound, withering contempt that Harrison actually took half a step backward on the asphalt.
"You think you’re smart, don't you, boy?" Arthur said softly. "You think you can hide behind a paper waiver because you’re terrified your golden goose is going to get plucked in front of eighty scouts?"
"It’s the rules, Uncle," Harrison said, his voice rising, trying to project authority for the two security guards standing beside him. "The showcase is for registered prospects. We can’t just let walk-ons off the street—"
"Open the trunk, Harrison," a new voice interrupted.
Walking along the concrete apron of the stadium was a tall, stooped man in an unpressed gray tweed jacket, carrying an antique leather doctor’s bag with brass latches. His hair was a wild shock of white, and his thick bifocals were tethered to his neck by a frayed black cord.
"Dr. Caldwell?" Harrison blurted, his jaw dropping.
"Hello, Harrison," the old doctor said, setting his heavy bag on the hood of Arthur’s car with a metallic clatter. "Still swinging at high sliders, I see. Arthur called me three days ago from Silas’s cabin. I was the chief medical officer for the Charlotte Knights for thirty-two years, young man. I hold life-tenure on the state athletic medical commission."
Dr. Caldwell opened his bag, pulled out an embossed certificate stamped with the gold seal of the State Board of Health, and slapped it firmly against Harrison’s chest.
"Comprehensive physical examination completed yesterday evening at seven p.m.," Dr. Caldwell recited loudly, his voice echoing off the concrete walls of the gatehouse. "Blood pressure: one-ten over seventy. Resting heart rate: forty-eight beats per minute. Full rotational range of motion in both glenohumeral joints, zero laxity in the ulnar collateral ligament, and visual acuity twenty-fifteen in both eyes. The boy is healthier than any three of your pampered prep-school pitchers put together. Now sign the medical rider, Harrison, or I’ll have the state commissioner on the telephone before the national anthem finishes."
Harrison looked from the document to Dr. Caldwell, his face turning an ugly, mottled gray. His hands shook as he pulled an expensive gold pen from his blazer pocket and scribbled his signature across the bottom of the clearance form.
"Gate four," Harrison rasped to the security guard, not looking at his uncle. "Let them through."
Arthur put the car in gear, rolling slowly past his nephew. As the rear window cleared the gatehouse, Wesley turned his head.
Harrison was standing on the curb, his teeth clenched, his eyes burning with an unholy hatred. He raised his hand, pointing a single, trembling finger at Wesley’s chest.
"Seventh inning, kid," Harrison mouthed through the glass, his lips twisting with savage anticipation. "Julian is waiting for you."
Wesley didn't answer. He adjusted the mended glove on his lap, turned his face toward the stadium tunnel ahead, and let the darkness of the concourse swallow them whole.