Chapter 6: Deaf

Playing deaf meant crouch-walking.

In Holdline, a crouched player is slow, but his boots barely make a sound.

A whole team crouching for a whole match was something nobody had ever bothered to do.

"Seattle's going to waddle at us for a hundred seconds a round?" the Texan asked on Tuesday.

"Yes sir," Bodie said, and the Texan threw a cereal puff at him.

On Saturday the studio in Burbank was louder than the week before.

Somebody had made a sign that said HOSPICE in brown and cream with a little owl on it.

The widow was in the front row again, knitting something long and brown.

Bodie had texted his sister the link, and he checked his phone twice before the match started.

The Seattle coach caught my eye across the stage and put a finger to his lips.

Then his five players walked out and put on their headsets, and the studio laughed.

For the first four rounds, I heard nothing.

There were no boots in the halls and no feet on the stairs.

Seattle crept around the map.

They were slow, but they didn't need to be fast when we couldn't find them.

Mac kept turning corners into three of them at once.

At one round to four, she took off her headset during the break and looked back at me.

"Well?" she said.

"Give me the night manager's ears."

"Why him?"

"Because he's the only one of you still alive at the end of every round."

He'd been hiding behind the Texan's shield with his drone all morning.

I switched my headset to his game sound and shut my eyes.

There was no sound of boots, but there was something else.

It was a soft electric hum, the sound of a support's healing drone.

Ours hummed too, but ours was right next to me.