And he wanders, both in his thoughts and on his feet.

He doesn't quite know where he takes himself but he passes train stations, people yelling into their phones, food stalls boasting that their wares are the finest in Tokyo with aromas enticing enough to prove their credit, but none of them make him stop.

He walks and walks.

Miyuki pays no mind to the sweltering heat of summer that sticks the back of his shirt to his neck nor does he heed the drone of the cicadas that echo like a dirge. Nothing makes its way through to his thoughts because all that circles in his head is:

Who will pitch for him?

(Or the crux of it all: who will bring him his victory?)