Mei-Lin two-putted for par.
On the walk to the ninth, Clifford fell into step beside Penwell. Zuri heard only pieces, but the pieces were enough.
"—not what the Cup is for—"
"—qualified fair and square—"
"—optics, Arthur—"
"—she's a child, Cliff. Act like it."
Clifford stopped walking. Penwell did not.
VIII.
The turn came with Zuri at two under, Brayden at one under, Mei-Lin at one over, Sebastian at four over. A volunteer handed out bottles of water and a basket of cut oranges. Zuri ate an orange section and thought about her mother on the third floor of Mercy South, probably checking a chart, probably glancing at the clock the way she did when she was trying not to hope too hard.
Mei-Lin sat on her bag and rewrapped a blister on her right thumb with athletic tape. Sebastian practiced putting strokes on the fringe. Brayden stood with his father twenty yards away. Clifford was talking. Brayden was nodding in the stiff way of a boy who had learned that nodding ended conversations faster than arguing.
When Brayden came back, his face was closed. He took his driver from the bag without looking at anyone.
Zuri caught Mei-Lin's eye. Mei-Lin gave the smallest shake of her head: *Don't ask.*
The tenth was a reachable par five if you were long and brave. Brayden was both. He bombed one down the left side, then hit a hybrid onto the green and two-putted for birdie to tie Zuri at two under. The gallery woke up. Clifford clapped as if he were conducting an orchestra.
Zuri lay up, hit wedge to ten feet, and missed the birdie putt by a cup's width. Par. Still tied in her mind even though the board would show Brayden's birdie first.
Sebastian, who had decided somewhere between the orange slices and the tenth tee that he was done apologizing for being here, ripped a drive, hit three-wood into a greenside bunker, and got up and down for birdie. He pump-fisted again. This time Penwell did smile.
"You're on a heater," Zuri told him.
"I'm on a prayer," Sebastian said. "Same thing some days."
IX.