Page 34 of The Last Five Yards

They work again. It is easier to move than to stand still. Reese unscrews the mic stand while Maren traces the extension cord back to the wall and unplugs it. The lights shift as the AV student takes another bank down.

“You could have told me you were going to stay in North Carolina,” Maren says, almost conversational. “A call would have helped.”

“I could have,” Reese says. “I did not. I am sorry.”

Maren nods once. The honesty is a clean line across the floor. “Thank you.”

A beat passes. A balloon drifts down from the hoop and skims the floor. Reese stabs it lightly with the fork she is holding and jumps at the soft pop, then laughs at herself. Maren looks over, and the laugh catches her too, small and reluctant.

“Still brave,” Reese says. “Still efficient.”

“Still ridiculous,” Maren says. “Who cleans up with a fork?”

“I do.” Reese holds up the fork like a trophy. “Multi-tool.”

They let the easy moment sit. It is not enough to fix anything. It is enough to keep going, though.

The janitor switches off a row of lights near the back. The gym drops into a cooler blue. The cardboard trident shines and then dims. Voices in the hallway fade as the last families leave.

“We should finish up,” Maren says.

“Yeah.” Reese takes the box of centerpieces from the table. “Where does this go?”

“Storage closet by the stage,” Maren says. “Top shelf.”

Reese carries the box across the gym, balance steady. Maren watches the way she moves, the way she has always moved, with the same loose confidence that used to make diving boards look like they were built for her. She feels the old ache and lets it pass through her. One, two, three, four.

Reese returns, and they fold the final table together. The metal legs click and lock. Their fingers brush at the final fold. It is a small static shock, and it makes them both flinch.

“Sorry,” Reese says.

“It is fine,” Maren says. “I am just tired.”

“Me too.”

They stand for a second with the folded table between them. The moment tilts toward something and then evens out again.

“Thank you for helping,” Maren says. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Reese lifts her chin toward the door. “He will like that the gym looks clean in the morning.”

“He will.” Maren gathers the last trash bag and knots it. “He always did.”

Silence settles. The kind that has a current under it.

Reese finds the banner from the wall and smooths it over her arm. The gold letters catch the low light. Thank You, Coach Hensley. She looks at it for a long moment, then at Maren.

“You are good at this,” she says. “All of it.”

“It is just a gym,” Maren says softly. “It is just a room that needs to be reset.”

Reese studies her face. “You know that is not what I mean.”

Maren lifts the trash bag to her shoulder. “I know.”

They carry the last of the cleanup to the doorway. The hallway is quiet. The pool beyond it breathes in its own way, air warm and damp, filters running steady.

At the threshold, Reese pauses. “I will be back in town for a few more days,” she says. “If you need anything moved or lifted or carried, I am good at being useful.”