Cash wanted to tilt forward and just lean against Gallivan, never mind that it would be a weird angle, because there was something about the physical touch that served as a reminder that this was real. And he was tired — he hadn't been able to sleep and had gotten home so late that he hadn't tried, but he was tired and Gallivan's hand on his shoulder had awakened this impulse in him. He kept himself upright, just sat in it, and tilted his head back at the sponsor at his statement.

"I can fly like this," Cash said, with no real feeling behind it either way. He had never flown like this before — had never felt exactly like this until yesterday — but his broomstick had never betrayed him before and he didn't think it would today. If he'd managed to survive playing for the Cannons in the summer after Eli died, he could survive it today.

Flying just felt natural, like once he had kicked off the ground he was always exactly where he was meant to be — the ease of it came to him even if he felt terrible.

But if it didn't, today, then —

And he really didn't want to fight Gallivan. In general, really, but today especially — he didn't want to fight him. He didn't think he had the stomach for it.

He moved his hand and rested it over Gallivan's on the desk edge. "But maybe I shouldn't."

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   Theodore Gallivan