Peter Walker woke to the sharp buzz of his alarm, the sound grating and familiar. His arm reached out from under the blanket, lazy and slow, fingers fumbling until they found the button and silenced it with a soft click.
He lay still for a moment, the morning light creeping through the blinds and painting thin lines across his wall. Posters of old rock bands, a faded soccer schedule, and a cracked sketch of a dragon stared back at him. The air was cool, the kind that clung to bare skin, and it made him curl his toes before he finally sat up.
A stretch rolled through his body—long arms reaching high, joints cracking softly as if waking up too. He rubbed at his face, knuckles brushing against smooth skin. Thirteen. Too young for stubble, but old enough to wish for it.
His hand found its way to his hair, thick chestnut strands falling over his brow. It was getting long again. His mom kept saying it needed to go—"You can't see your face under all that." But he liked it. Full and soft, it had just enough natural wave to pull off the semi-mullet he'd seen online. He figured he'd trim the sides a little, maybe clean up the back, but the rest? That was staying.
He ran his fingers through it again, imagining what it looked like from the side. Cool. Kind of his own thing. A small smirk tugged at his lips. Skinny or not, he had good hair. That was something.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet landing on the cold floor. A sigh escaped him—not heavy, just the kind that came from waking up when you didn't quite want to. He sat there a moment longer, shoulders slouched, still somewhere between sleep and day.
Peter got up, the floor cool beneath his bare feet as he stepped across the room. Early September in New York City still held the weight of summer—humid, warm, a little sticky—so he'd slept shirtless, wearing only a pair of thin, worn sweatpants that clung lightly to his narrow frame.
He paused in front of the mirror on his closet door and studied himself.
Thirteen. Average height, maybe leaning tall, but super skinny. Compact, though—his body all lines and angles, built from constant movement. His chest was flat, ribs faintly visible, arms long and lean with just the hint of definition from hours spent playing. His shoulders were narrow, but held an athletic posture, like they were preparing for something more. His legs were wiry, marked with the usual badges—bruises on his shins, scrapes on his knees, healing scratches from concrete and chain link.
His skin white skin was still heavily tanned from the summer sun. His chestnut hair was messy from sleep, matching the steady brown of his eyes—both from his mom, people always said. But the rest—his long limbs, the early shape of his jaw, the calm in his expression—they said that was his dad.
His father had played Division II basketball. Six-foot-four, fast and athletic, but always said he'd grown too tall too quickly, never had the chance to build the footwork or skills the way he wanted. He told Peter he already had more technique at thirteen than he ever did.
They played all the time. Alley drills. Blacktop scrimmages. One-on-ones that turned into full-on battles. It was more than bonding—it was how they communicated. Few things felt more natural to Peter than the weight of the ball in his hands and the sound of sneakers on pavement.
Some dads pushed. His didn't.
"If you want to play for fun," he'd said, "we'll play for fun. But if you want to be the best—just ask."
Peter had asked.
He liked other sports too—soccer, baseball, even the occasional flag football game—but when he had free time, basketball always came first.
He dabbled in Call of Duty on weekends, logged a few hours with his friends, just enough to stay sharp and be part of the jokes. But his parents didn't allow gaming during the week—summer or school year. That was fine with him.
Thinking of basketball, Peter remembered—yesterday had been Sunday.
They'd gone to church in the morning, the usual routine. He wore the shirt his mom had ironed, sat through the service, tapped his foot during the long parts. Afterward, she reminded him about his homework. He told her yeah, he'd get to it.
But then he heard the ball.
That soft, steady bounce from the alley behind their building. His friends were already out there, calling up to his window. The sun was still out, the court was dry, and the last thing he wanted to do was sit inside with worksheets.
So he played. First game to eleven, then again, and again. He lost track of how many. They only stopped when it was too dark to see the rim.
Now, standing in front of the mirror, he blinked slowly.
The algebra homework. Still in his backpack. Still untouched.
It was advanced math—eighth-grade level. Not everyone in his class was in it. He wasn't a genius or anything, but numbers made sense to him. Always had. He liked the way things clicked into place, how there was always a right answer. He could usually figure things out fast, even if he hadn't studied.
He had art first period. The teacher barely paid attention at the start, too busy organizing paints and cleaning brushes from the day before. If he sat in the back, got his stuff out quick, kept his head down—
Yeah, he'd have time.
There was a knock on his door—three steady raps, solid and familiar. His dad's voice followed, deep and unmistakable, with that easy command that came from years of mornings just like this one.
"You better be ready, kid. Breakfast is already on the table."
"I'm up!" Peter called back, his voice rising to be heard, even as he stretched his arms overhead and let out a long breath.
He rolled his shoulders and stepped toward the dresser. The room still carried a faint trace of laundry detergent and sneaker rubber, but his skin felt clean and cool. He'd showered the night before, rinsing off the sweat and dust from hours on the court. The heat of the water had hit his muscles just right, and when he finally dropped into bed, it was like flipping a switch. Now, he was up, still carrying that faint smell of body wash and clean fabric.
Outside, the sky was pale and clear—early September air that hadn't decided if it was summer or fall. He grabbed a soft gray t-shirt and pulled it over his head, then shrugged into his Knicks hoodie. The cotton was worn smooth at the elbows, the cuffs stretched a little from tugging it on and off so much. The logo across the chest—orange and blue—had cracked slightly, but he liked it that way. It looked lived-in.
He pulled on a pair of black basketball shorts, loose and breathable, with compression shorts underneath. His socks came next—tall, ribbed, fresh white—pulled tight and straight with no wrinkles.
Then, carefully, he reached for his shoes.
Nike GT Hustle 2s—midnight navy with clean white trim and a flash of silver along the side. His best pair. He'd saved all summer for them: mowing lawns, running errands, scraping together every dollar. He'd checked the price online every week, waiting for the right moment. When they finally dropped into his range, he ordered them the same day. These weren't for playing—he knew better. The court would chew them up. These were for walking through hallways, showing up clean. The beat-up pair by the door, the ones with the worn-down soles and fraying laces, those were still his game shoes.
He laced the Hustles slowly, evenly, pulling each loop snug. When he stood, he bounced once, just to feel the grip, the spring underfoot. Clean shoes. Clean start.
He slung his backpack over one shoulder, adjusted the strap. The zipper bulged where the edge of his math folder pressed through. Algebra still unfinished. Whatever. He'd deal with it.
He gave one last glance at his room—bed unmade, hoodie from yesterday still slung over the chair, pencil on the floor—and headed toward the smell of breakfast.
As Peter stepped into the kitchen, the smell of breakfast hit him—eggs sizzling in the pan, oatmeal thick and steaming in bowls. Morning light slanted through the blinds, cutting clean lines across the floor and countertop.
His dad was at the stove, dressed in a casual gray suit. No tie, collar open, jacket sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He stood tall—six-foot-four—with a lean frame that still held the shape of his college basketball days. His skin was fair, sun-warmed from the end of summer, his dark hair cropped short and just starting to gray at the temples. His features were sharp—square jaw, long nose with a faint crook—and he moved with quiet, efficient rhythm, flipping eggs with one hand and sipping coffee from a Knicks mug with the other.
His mom sat at the table, phone in one hand, spoon in the other. She was tall for a woman—just under six feet—with a long, athletic frame that hadn't faded since her college track days. Her chestnut brown hair was tied back in a tight ponytail, and even dressed in joggers and a fitted zip-up jacket, she carried herself like someone who could still outrun most people in the room. Her skin was pale with a touch of sun, her features sharp and expressive, and her posture naturally upright. She never slouched.
She'd been a track star at the same Division II school his dad had played at. According to him, she could've gone Division I without question. "If she hadn't chosen education over a sports scholarship," he liked to say, "we never would've met." She'd stayed close to home, finished her degree, and now worked full-time as a dental hygienist.
Both his parents worked Monday through Friday, always up early, always in motion.
Peter dropped his backpack next to the table."Morning."
His dad looked over. "You've got about ten seconds before your eggs are mine."
Peter grinned and slid into his seat just as the plate was set in front of him—two sunny-side-up eggs with crisp edges and a bowl of oatmeal still steaming beside it.
Breakfast was non-negotiable in their house. No sugary cereal, no Pop-Tarts, no toaster strudels. His mom didn't allow dessert for breakfast, and his dad backed her up on it.
Peter didn't mind. If you wanted to be the champ, you had to eat like one.
Well… most of the time. He still loved pizza.
As Peter scraped the last of his oatmeal from the bowl, his sixteen-year-old sister stepped into the kitchen, tugging her chestnut brown hair into a ponytail as she slung her backpack over one shoulder.
She looked so much like their mom it was almost uncanny—same sharp cheekbones, same focused chestnut eyes, same long, athletic frame shaped by years of volleyball. She stood just under six feet, tall and lean, her movements confident and efficient, like she was always coming from or going to practice.
But her outfit made Peter pause.
She wore high-waisted jeans and a snug, scoop-neck crop top—fitted, thin, and riding high enough to show several inches of toned midsection. The neckline dipped lower than usual too, making the top cling across her chest. She wasn't showing everything, but it was enough to raise eyebrows—and she was well-developed for her age, full B-cup, and the shirt didn't hide much.
Peter glanced down into his bowl, smirking silently.
Their mom looked up from her coffee and locked eyes with her daughter for half a second. That was all it took.
"Nope. Go change. Real shirt. You know the rules."
His sister groaned as she reached for the orange juice."Seriously? I'm covered!"
"That's not the point. It's not school-appropriate," their mom said, tone level. "That's more for hanging out, not a classroom."
"It's not even showing that much!"
Their dad turned from the stove, still holding the spatula, and gave her a steady look.
"Listen to your mother," he said, calm but firm. "You've got plenty of other shirts. Pick one of those."
She folded her arms, digging in. "Literally everyone at school dresses like this."
"You're not everyone," he said, turning back to the eggs. "Go change. No more stalling."
Their mom added without looking up, "And don't just throw on a hoodie. I want a shirt. One that actually fits."
Muttering something under her breath, she turned and stomped down the hallway. The door shut harder than it needed to.
A minute later, she returned in a fitted black t-shirt. Still stylish, still her—but school-appropriate. She grabbed a banana from the counter and dropped into her seat without saying a word.
Peter leaned back with his glass of milk, hiding a grin."Could've just worn that the first time."
Without missing a beat, his dad looked over and said,"Peter. Mind your own business."
Peter didn't argue. He just nodded, kept his mouth shut, and quietly finished the last of his breakfast. He grabbed his backpack, slid his chair in, and followed his sister out the door.
They lived only a few blocks from school. As always, they walked.
As they left the apartment and started down the block toward school, the morning air was cool and dry—the kind of crisp that hinted fall was just beginning to take over. The sun was still low, casting a golden light over the red-brick apartment buildings that lined the quiet street. Trees along the sidewalk were just beginning to turn, their green edges edged with yellow and orange. A few leaves danced across the pavement with the breeze.
They lived in an upper-middle-class neighborhood—clean streets, quiet corners, and buildings that had stood the test of time. Small balconies, ivy-covered walls, and familiar stoops where people sat out in lawn chairs when the weather was good. Their own balcony had a faded Knicks flag fluttering from the railing—his dad's, a permanent fixture like the old folding chair that faced east toward the morning sun.
Peter walked a step behind his sister, who was already tapping furiously at her phone.
"Stupid piece of shit isn't working," she muttered, scowling as she stabbed the screen. The home screen was up, everything seemed fine—except for the part that mattered. No bars. No service.
Without looking over, Peter said, "The problem's not the phone. It's user error."
She gave him a sideways glare, lifting the phone like she was about to throw it at him."Shut up and check your phone. Do you even have service?"
Peter reached into the pocket of his hoodie and pulled out his flip phone. The thing was beat-up—scuffed plastic, worn edges, one corner cracked from a drop that winter. He flipped it open with a practiced motion. The tiny screen blinked, loaded the home screen—and displayed No Signal at the top.
He paused, then shrugged and said with a straight face, "Yep. Mine's working fine. Please don't touch it."
His sister narrowed her eyes. "Let me see."
Peter turned slightly, shielding the phone like it was classified. "Can't. Very delicate system. Might explode if you tap too hard."
She let out a frustrated sigh and restarted her phone again, grumbling something under her breath.
Unlike her, Peter didn't have a smartphone. He had made different choices. Their parents didn't believe in handing over everything just because other kids had it. They believed in responsibility—and in making trade-offs. You got one big thing. Not all of them.
Peter had used his allowance and side money to buy his Nike GT Hustle 2s—midnight navy, sharp white trim—and earlier in the year, his Xbox One. He didn't regret it. The flip phone worked well enough.
One kid at school had tried to make fun of him for it once, holding up his phone at lunch and laughing loud enough for a few others to hear.
Peter didn't even look up from tying his shoes."At least my game doesn't suck," he said, spinning a basketball on his finger for emphasis. "And I can always buy a phone. You can't buy a jump shot."
That was the end of that.
Now, as they neared the school, the sidewalks grew busier—clusters of students walking, a few crossing from the corner store with bottled drinks and snacks. Cars lined up in the drop-off zone, doors swinging open as kids climbed out in half-zipped hoodies and overstuffed backpacks.
His sister was still tapping her phone in frustration when one of her friends jogged up beside her, holding out her own phone.
"Is yours messed up too?" the girl asked. "Mine's stuck—no service at all."
His sister turned to her, now double-scowling, holding up her screen like it was proof she'd been wronged by the universe.
Peter didn't say anything. Other kids up ahead were also staring down at their phones with the same confused look.
He didn't care. His phone didn't work either, but it didn't matter. He had other things on his mind—like the unfinished math homework still in his backpack. He figured if he got to class fast enough, he might knock a little of it out before art period started.