"Any pain I should know about. Ankle, knee, the place you don't mention because you want the floor."
Willa thought of the blister on her left heel, a week old, skin gone shiny. She had covered it with a square of tissue and a bandage stolen from the tin above the refrigerator. "Blister. Not bad."
"Left or right."
"Left heel."
"We'll pad it at the academy if it opens. You tell me if it speaks up. You don't get points for bleeding into a shoe."
Willa nodded. The questions were a rope. She held on.
They stopped at the light by the river bridge. A gull sat on a piling like it had an opinion. Coach Moretti's hands rested on the wheel without drumming.
"I'm going to tell you the shape of the morning," she said. "Not a pep talk. A map. You check in. You change. You get a number on a sticker if they have stickers this year. There is a warm-up led by one of their faculty, across the floor, maybe twelve minutes. Then groups of four for a short phrase they teach you there. Then, if they call you, a minute of your own. You have something of your own?"
"Yes."
"How long have you been keeping it."
Willa watched the gull lift. "Since summer. I change it when it gets dishonest."
The coach's mouth moved, not quite a smile. "Good answer. Too long an answer for the judges, so don't give it unless they ask. If they ask what you prepared, you say the truth in one line. You don't apologize for the shoes, the sweater, or your sister's schedule. If you forget the phrase, you breathe and pick it up at the nearest count you still believe. They are not hunting a fall. They are hunting whether you can hear."