5... My eyes dart around the court, analyzing every possible move. Everyone's covered. Without needing my telling, my teammates move out behind the arc clearing the lane for me.

4... Iso. A quick glance up at the scoreboard reveals us down by two.

3... Genetics gifted me with lightning fast reflexes, and I go to work. The ball crosses from one hand to the other, then under my legs. Baffled, my defender doesn't know what to do. One head fake and step-back later, he's on the ground. I'm wide open behind the arc.

2... My eyes flit to the hoop, arms and legs bending in muscle memory. I've practiced this hundreds if not thousands of times. The soft leather feels good in my hands, the grips sticking to my palms. Other defenders start rushing in, back-up for their fallen teammate. None of that registers to me though. It's just me and the hoop.

1... Like springs, my legs explode upward, my arms already in motion. The ball releases before anyone can even put a hand up.

Errrrr! The buzzer sounds, but the game isn't over. As if in slow motion, the ball glances off the backboard. I know it's going in. It hits the inside front of the rim, popping it up. For minutes, it seems it just floats above the net. Then...

"Nathaniel Price! I asked you a question, and you'd better respond! Just because you don't want to go doesn't mean you need to pout."

Sheesh.

My mom's voice blares from the driver's seat. I sit next to her, hand over basketball and airpods in both ears. There would be no way I wouldn't hear that screaming. Plucking one out, and doing so, yanking myself from my daydream, I look at her in a daze for a few seconds. She doesn't notice because she's focused on the road, but she asks the question she must've asked before.

"I want you to answer me young man or else I'm taking away your ball." Oof. A threat that I know she'll keep. Recently she's been high-strung for some reason, but I must not be helping with my often complaints about summer camp. "Did you pack clean clothes for all two weeks?" I nod, but after a couple of moments of silence from her realize she isn't looking at me.

"Yeah," I give a short answer. Nothing comes from her, so I grab my airpods from my lap and start putting them in. Halfway to my ear, she speaks.

"How about underwear? Or a toothbrush? What about deoderant? You don't want to smell there."

"I packed all of those," I reassure her. Before she can say anything else, I pop both airpods back in, and she takes it as a sign that I don't want to talk. I love my mom and all, but when she's stressed, she can be a little overbearing. My daydream won't come back, no matter how much I try to remember, and I eventually just lay my head back against my headrest, slumber taking me.

When I wake up, we're at the camp. Its large wooden overhang sign beams, "Welcome all campers!"

It doesn't make me any more eager to go.