You’d checked the locker room, the showers, the equipment closet. Finally, you spotted a familiar figure in the far corner, past the stacked mats and the folded net.

Miya Osamu was sitting on the floor, his back against the cold cinderblock wall. His knees were drawn up to his chest, his face buried in his arms. The gray practice jacket he always wore was zipped all the way up, his shoulders hunched inward.