Jeff Withey took a prolonged sniff of the air in the airplane cabin. “Trey, man, I know that’s your special jumpshot box and everything, but could you at least put with the rest of your luggage? It still smells like a hobo crawled into it and died while farting.”
Trey Lyles cradled the crumpled, musty cardboard box in his arms. “Don’t listen to mean old Jeff,” he cooed to the long-lost, and now found, object. “Daddy’s happy that you’re back with him no matter what you smell like.”
“I still can’t believe that after you found that box, you started hitting jumpers all of a sudden,” said Trevor Booker. “That’s just too weird.” His face bore obvious signs of suspicion.
Trey looked up from where he had been continuing to murmur to the box. “I told you, Trevor, it’s got my jumpshot in it. That’s all there is to it. If you put your jumpshot somewhere and then forgot where it was, you wouldn’t be able to shoot either. That’s why my box is never leaving my sight again!”
“You say that as if it makes any sense,” Trevor responded as Jeff rolled his eyes. “How exactly does one go about taking their jumpshot and putting it in a box?”
Trey pouted and clutched the tattered storage container close to his chest. “You’re hurting his feelings.”
Trevor now got up from his seat across the aisle from Trey. “Well, I wanna see what’s in the box.”
“NOOOOOO!” Trey screeched, jumping up from his own seat to sprint down the aisle. “Nobody can open it except for me! What if my jumper escapes?”
“Fine, fine, Jesus Christ,” Trevor mumbled, resuming his seated position. “I won’t touch the damn box.” But the damage had been done, and Trey spent the rest of the flight hidden in the bathroom, stroking the box tenderly with a loving hand.
“It’s us against them,” Trey whispered. “They don’t want me to have a jumpshot, Mr. Box. They want to see us fail.”
In response, the box seemed to rattle with anticipation, and Trey laughed quietly to himself.