The saxophonist stumbles out of the band room, sprinting forward as much as anyone can with that much weight hanging from her neck. I have no way of knowing why she’s so late-“my swab got tangled up in my lyre” wouldn’t make any sense to me even if she did explain. It doesn’t matter to me, of course. We’re just piling out of the door, ready to win.

Coach sees her coming and raises a hand. “Hold up.”

Smiling, relieved, she cuts in front of us. “Thanks.”

Yeah, yeah. Move along.

“Good luck tonight,” she adds. “You won’t need it.”