Webby managed to restrain herself until it was properly seven A.M. the following morning before she raced downstairs to the second landing and knocked on the boys' door. Two groans greeted her. "Dewey!" she half-whispered, half-shouted through the wood. "Come on, the bus leaves in twenty minutes! Ooh and I've got so many more stories from Dad and your Mom, you're going to love this one, apparently Pancho–"

The door opened, and she blinked, her knocking fist still raised. "Louie?"

"Webby," the green-shirted duck said back with as much patience as a sleep-deprived teenage boy could muster, steepling his fingers and then pointing them at her. "You know it's Sunday, right?"

"I know, I know! But Dewey and I were supposed to go to the library and I just really wanted to get a head start on our project and–"

"And, he's not here," Louie cut her off.

"Huh?"

"He left," Huey's voice called sleepily from inside. "Like an hour ago."

"But where did he go?"

"Don't know, don't care. So how about you let us go back to sleep," Louie said, reaching up and lowering her fist for her; Webby deflated, annoyed, "and go look for him somewhere else, okay?"

"But–"

The door shut in her face. Webby scowled, and then the scowl turned into a look of confusion. "Dewey got up early? But he never gets up early on Sundays…" Even as she spoke there was a little ping! on her phone, and a message popped up: "Webby: cant work on the project today, sorry, have to practice for tryouts. Dewey." She frowned and looked up. "Tryouts for what?"

"Okay, so, tell me everything you know about basketball."

Dewey was, ostensibly, standing alone with a ball in the middle of the mansion's landing strip; the manor didn't exactly have a basketball court (seeing as it was owned by a Scottish immigrant who still put the word "American" in front of "football"), but it did have a rusty old backboard-and-hoop nailed up over the top of the hangar, presumably by his mom or uncle in a long-past childhood summer. His bag was resting against the garage door, the top open so the jacket was peaking out; unseen by anyone else, the ghost was standing across from him, looking over his young protege. "Oh man, I've seen like, all the movies," the freshman insisted eagerly. "It's all about the heart of the game, the soul of the team! The–"

"Yeah, yeah, but like, what can you actually do?"

"Oh! Uh, yeah, of course," he flushed. "Uhh, lemme show you what I got!"

The ghost watched as the boy ran forward and jumped for the basket as if he intended to slam-dunk the ball despite missing the bottom of the ragged net by several inches. The ball, predictably, swished into dead air and went bouncing off the hangar door. He turned, panting and grinning. Bluejay looked unimpressed.

"Okay, so, that was traveling, and you missed the hoop, and now the ball is out of bounds and the other team gets a free throw."

"Yeah, but it looked amazing, right?!"

The ghost looked like he was questioning all his life—well, undeath choices. "So like, you don't know anything about real basketball?"

"Uh– no. But that's why I have you!"

The ghost looked frustrated, and Dewey's expression fell as he watched the bluejay pace a few steps away, running a hand over his face. Then he turned around. "Okay, okay, I can work this. You." He pointed at Dewey, who straightened up. "We've got a lot of work to do. First off you have to learn better ball-control, and then we need to get you able to actually make a basket. And those are just the basics."

"Is that going to be enough? I mean, tryouts are on Thursday–"

"It'll work. It's got to," Bluejay vowed. "But for the next week you're going to eat, sleep and breathe basketball, got it? No distractions."

"Uh…" He looked down at the ball in his hands. "When you say no distractions, you mean other than important stuff, right? 'Cause I have that project I told you about and–"

"Hey, you said you were up for this man, come on," the ghost insisted. The duck shook off his worry.

"Yeah, yeah of course! No distractions."

"Good. Now go get the ball and start dribbling." He watched as the freshman ran off towards the fence and grabbed the ball; Dewey did some tentative dribbling before the ball bounced off his foot and went rolling away, and he had to chase it again. After this happened three more times, the ghost stopped him. "Okay, seriously, do you not know how to handle a ball? Do you do any sport?" Dewey shook his head. "Great. You're really cutting my work out for me, kid, you know that?"

"Sorry…"

"At least you're not out of shape; what do you do, anyway, some sort of cardio?"

"Kinda? My family's like, really into adventuring. Y'know, running from bad guys, fighting bad guys, racing for treasure against bad guys—lots of bad guys," he noted. "It's sort of the family business; my mom's training me to be a pilot like her someday. I've got these cool goggles and her old jacket and–"

"Yeah yeah, the toy airplanes, I get it," the ghost said with a slight eye roll. Dewey pinked. "Anyway, we've wasted enough time, let's get started. We'll keep on with dribbling drills, then once you've got the hang of that we'll move on to shooting. Short little guys like you usually play point guard, but you'll be playing small forward."

"Why?"

"Because I played small forward," Bluejay said. "Now come on, you need to start practicing real basketball."

"And I will totally do that, but just hold on one sec." He dashing off to his bookbag, and the ghost looked exasperated.

"Seriously? Do you wanna play or not?" The kid took out his phone and what looked like a very small speaker without cords. "What's that?"

"Uh, only one of the best inventions of the twenty-first century!" said Dewey proudly. "Let me introduce you to the wireless speaker." He tapped something on his phone and a poppy song started to play. The ghost looked suspicious, but Dewey only grinned. "Trust me: with this, everything feels like a training montage."

[Training Montage]

Gonna get better with the power of the jacket; show them all that we're not the same.

[Shot of Dewey in the jacket, dribbling the ball as Brandon looks on; it bounces out of his hands and rolls off down the driveway.]

Once we were at the bottom of the bracket. Now it's time to change up the game!

[Up in her room, Webby is hidden by a small wall of books as she scribbles out plans in a sparkly notebook.]

You gotta harness the magic in your soul!

[Dewey dribbles and shoots; it misses.]

You gotta dig even deeper for your goal!

[A crumpled piece of paper misses the trash can as Webby sketches out a new idea in her notebook.]

You're gonna find out the magic in your heart!

[She twirls her pencil as he dribbles the ball.]

Burn it! Turn it! Just Learn it! Channel the power, be who you are!

[Webby swipes her city library card in and then out as she checks out a large stack of books.]

Prove it! Move it! Just Dew it! Now is the hour, reach for the stars!

[Dewey takes three shots in a row; all three miss. Brandon huffs and shows him how to stand; the fourth shot rings the basket and goes in.]

[Guitar solo]

[The week flies by: Dewey waves goodbye to his startled mother as he races out of the house to the car, a ball under his arm; Webby munches on popcorn as she watches an antique movie on the library projector; Della goes into the Sunchaser and frowns upon seeing her old jacket still on the back of the copilot chair; Dewey practices shooting in the driveway, as Webby accidentally buries herself under an avalanche of books at her desk. One morning Webby catches Dewey's shoulder as they're about to walk into the school; he appears to make her some sort of promise before rushing off to the gym for early practice.]

You gotta harness the magic in your soul!

[Brandon blows a ghostly whistle; Dewey runs forward, dribbling the ball back and forth across the empty gym.]

You gotta dig even deeper on your own!

[Webby pokes her head into the gym door, looking confused.]

You're gonna find out the magic in your heart.

[Dewey tries to take a shot; Brandon, now playing light opposition, tries to "steal" it, but Dewey dribbles around him. Webby frowns, not seeing the ghost, and leaves.]

Prove it! Move it! Just Dew it!

[Dewey dribbles into the paint and squares up, taking the shot as Brandon looks on.]

Now is the hour! Reach for the Stars!

[The ball swishes in.]

The morning of tryouts dawned overcast and cold. When his brothers were still talking in the bedroom, Dewey quickly slunk down the tower steps into the bathroom, locked the door and opened his bookbag again. A moment later the ghost materialized, looked him over and gave him a flat look.

"Nope."

"Oh come on!" Dewey said, spinning on the spot and grinning as he gestured to the ghost's jacket, which he'd just put on. "I look amazing."

"Uh, yeah, everyone looks great in a letter jacket. But those jackets are for varsity players only, you're not on the team yet."

"But I will be by the end of today!" Dewey promised, picking up his comb and trying to flatten his hair back. The cowlick popped up again anyway, so he gave up and went for the "carelessly ruffled" look instead. "I've been practicing all week; there's no way I won't blow everyone away at tryouts! I even make the baskets most of the time now!"

"Uh, right, sure," Bluejay said, sounding doubtful. Dewey didn't seem to notice.

"Man, once I'm on the team things are going to be so different, everyone at school's going to know who I am, I mean they already know who I am, but this time it'll be for something cool that I'm doing, not just because of my family name, and–"

"Hey, uh, champ, listen," Bluejay cut in smoothly. "You're right, I underestimated you; you should take the jacket to school."

Dewey grinned. "You think? For real?"

"Sure. Why don't you even take it to tryouts, so I can watch? Just don't wear it until you're actually on the team."

"Okay, fair. Y'know my uncle always says I'm super impatient, but I can wait one more day!" Their conversation was cut off by the sound of Mrs. Beakley calling him down for breakfast. "On my way, Mrs. B!" Dewey called back. "Hold on, I just gotta take these." He opened the cabinet and grabbed a pill bottle off of the middle shelf, which was almost comically messy compared to the pristinely organized shelf above (Huey's) and the mostly empty shelf below (Louie's).

"Whoa, whoa, hold up. You take pills?" the ghost demanded, hovering over his shoulder in the mirror. Dewey went a little pink. "Oh man, please tell me my jacket wasn't found by some weirdo."

"It's just my meds," said Dewey, a bit defensively. "I need them to focus in class, okay?"

"Whatever man, just don't tell anyone else," the ghost warned. Dewey frowned, but another call from Mrs. Beakley stopped him from replying.

By the time he got downstairs (the jacket now safely stowed in his bookbag), Mrs. Beakley was in a state. "There you are; I'm afraid you'll have to take your breakfast to go," she said, handing him a muffin and a banana.

"Calm down, Mrs. B, we don't have to leave for another thirty minutes."

"Don't you remember?" At his blank look, the housekeeper sighed. "Launchpad has today off for Yom Kippur, so your mother's driving you to school before she heads in to work! She told you last night at dinner!"

"Sorry, Mrs. B, just been really, uh, busy," Dewey deflected, trying and failing to dodge around her to grab another muffin. The housekeeper blocked his hand and frowned suspiciously.

"Yes, I've noticed. You will be working with my granddaughter this afternoon on your joint project, won't you?"

"Wh– uh, yeah, of course! I just have tryouts first, but then I'll totally go to the archives, Mrs. B, I promise!" She opened her mouth, but before she could say anything else there came the sound of the limo's horn honking from the front drive. "Whoops, looks like that's my cue. Great talk Mrs. B., bye!" And he fled the kitchen before she could object.

As soon as he stepped outside he immediately regretted that decision. "Brr, it's cold," the duck muttered, and then brightened as he spotted the (still somewhat damaged) Sun Chaser perched on the lawn next to the driveway. "Be there in a minute, mom!" he called to where Della was chatting with an overeager Webby next to the limo.

He hurried up the steps into the cockpit and put his bag down on the copilot's chair, looking around. "Aha!" His bomber jacket was hanging over the back of the seat, and he quickly pulled it on, grateful for the extra warmth.

"You're seriously gonna wear that?"

Dewey looked over his shoulder; the ghost had rematerialized when his bag had fallen open, crossing his arms. "Yeah? Why?"

"Because you look totally lame."

"Hey, pilots are cool!" Dewey argued. "How many fourteen-year-olds do you know who can fly a plane!"

"Look," the ghost explained, "Even if that's technically cool, you look like you're trying way too hard. Like 'uhh, look at me, I'm Dewey Duck, I'm a teen pilot.'"

"But I am a teen pilo-"

"Also, didn't you say that's your mom's jacket? Like a lady's jacket?"

"Yeah? So what, my mom wore this on the moon, you can see here where she fixed the sleeve and–"

"Dude, it's a lady's jacket."

"Okay, first my model airplane, then my meds, now my jacket—what's wrong with you man, why are you being such a jerk all of a sudden?" Dewey demanded, crossing his arms.

"Because you're being a lame little dork!" Brandon snapped, the ghostly aura around him briefly turning dark and shadowy. Dewey stepped back, startled, and the ghost huffed. The aura faded. "Look, I'm just being honest, kid; you said you wanted to be cool, right? Trust me, all this stuff—playing with toys, taking pills, wearing that dumb jacket, it's all gonna get in the way." He nodded out the plane window to where Webby was bouncing up and down on her toes in the driveway, talking animatedly about going to the archives that afternoon. "You don't wanna end up like her, do you?"

"Wh– but Webby's great, she's– I mean, yeah, okay, maybe she goes a little overboard on stuff, and sure, people make fun of her when she's not around and…" The ghost was giving him a look, and a little light bulb went on in the boy's head. "Oh man. Webby's… kind of a dork, huh?"

"Uh, yeah. So, do you wanna be like that–" Dewey looked away from the window back to the ghost, who straightened his ethereal jacket, "–or do you wanna be like me?"

Two minutes later, Dewey was hurrying down the driveway, wearing only his T-shirt and slinging his bookbag back over his shoulder. "–Webby, those are all great ideas, but maybe pick just one visual aid okay?" Della counseled, and then looked over. "Dewey, honey, you sure you don't want a jacket? It's pretty cold out today."

"I'll be fine, mom, don't worry about it," Dewey insisted, getting into the car.

"But–"

"Mom, I'm fourteen, I don't need to be told what to wear!"

Della blinked, and then frowned. "Okay, sheesh, sorry for asking. Come on, kids, get in the car."

Dewey and Webby piled in next to Huey and Louie as Webby continued to chatter. "I can't wait to go to the archives this afternoon, it's gonna be so fun! Mr. Van Bark was right, teamwork makes the dreamwork! Right Dewey?"

"Uhuh, sure Webby," he said vaguely, still staring out the window, one hand on the jacket in his bag.

"Dad said he'd be working late so he'll keep it open for us and I'm sure there's something in his old journals and– ooh, Dewey!" He looked over, startled. "I just realized, maybe you can talk about some of the stunts she did! Which one's the most impressive, how dangerous they are, that kind of thing!"

"Oh, uh, well yeah," he said, lighting up a little; archives weren't exactly his forte, but he could talk about aerial stunts for hours. "Planes were totally different back then, so pilots can do way cooler stunts now. But even pulling off a barrel roll in one of those old Mystery Ships would have been tricky, y'know they were some of the fastest racing planes in the world at the time 'cause they were competing with the military and–"

"Agghhhh, can you please save the fangirl talk for the library?" Louie interrupted, and Dewey went pink. "It's like all you guys've been talking about for a week is your stupid class, which I'm not even in by the way! It's getting old!"

"Louie, be nice to your brother!" Della scolded back from the front seat, but Dewey shook his head.

"Uh, no, it's fine mom," he muttered. "Sorry, Lou."

Louie at least had the good sense to realize that this response was unusual for his brother, who usually just continued to rant even louder about whatever hobby he was fixating on, but before he could say anything Della pulled up in front of the school and they were all getting out of the limo. "Okay, kids, have a good day. Dewey, hun, good luck with your tryouts."

"Oh, um, yeah. Thanks, Mom." Della waved them off and then, checking her watch and panicking, quickly drove off.

"By the way, since when do you like basketball?" Louie asked as they headed towards the doors.

"Uh, since forever? Don't you remember the shared-nightmare-thing we had with Lena?"

"You know sports movies aren't the same thing as actual sports, right?" Huey said dubiously.

"I know that! Seriously, why is everyone on my case today?!" He shouldered his bookbag and stalked ahead towards the school. His brothers shared a look.

"So, that was weird," Huey decided, and Louie nodded. "Hey, Webby, has Dewey seemed kind of off to you lately?" The girl didn't answer, and they looked over. "Webby."

"Huh?!" She jumped and nearly dropped her phone, on which she'd been scrolling through a Waddlepedia page on 1930s stunt pilots. "Sorry, what?"

"Has Dewey seemed weird to you? Like, strangely touchy about stuff?"

Webby shrugged. "He seems fine to me; why?" The brothers looked like they were about to answer, but were cut off as the bell rang and they were forced to shelve the conversation in favor of not getting a late mark from Mr. Kumar. Even so, the triplets continued to shoot the occasional worried look in Dewey's direction as class began.

From his spot in the front of the room, Dewey bounced his leg up and down, unable to focus on the lecture. His eyes kept drifting towards the clock; tryouts were still eight hours away, and he wasn't sure if his excess of energy was from excitement or nervousness.

The situation was not necessarily helped by the ghost who'd sat down in the empty desk beside him, emanating from the open flap of his backpack. "I hate to say I told you so, but I told–"

"Fine, man, I get it," Dewey muttered, and took out his pencil as Mr. Kumar started to write something down on the blackboard. Focus up, Dewey. No more dumb distractions!

The production floor of McDuck Aerospace Engineering was buzzing with activity when Della arrived, and she took a moment to breathe in the atmosphere and feel the hum of life rumbling in the floor under her feet, letting it wash away some of the anxiety. Initially after coming back from the moon she'd found that the one thing she'd craved most—company—had caused her panic attacks when encountered in too large of amounts, but after four years that particular aspect of her trauma had melted away to the point that a large crowd now felt invigorating again, like a good cup of coffee. (The rest of the trauma, eh, not so much—but hey, who was counting?)

She made her way upstairs to the research and development headquarters and rapped her knuckles against Indigo Sabrewing's open door-frame. The engineer looked up from his computer. "Della! Gyro didn't tell me you were coming; what's up?"

"Heya Indy, sorry to drop in unannounced but Gyro wanted me to bring over some new thoughts on the hydrogen engine idea. Apparently he had some sort of mad genius breakthrough last night and he wants your team to take a look at it."

"Well, let me see it." Della handed over the manilla folder and the hummingbird flipped it open, studying the madman's ravings, written (as Gyro's brilliant ideas often were) on six sheets of half-used printer paper and a piece of paper towel. "Interesting. Yeah, this might fix some of the problems we've been having with the design."

"You think your team can build a prototype?"

"Depends; when does he want it by?"

Della snorted. "You know Gyro, he wants it by last Tuesday." Indy snickered and studied the notes again. As he did so Della leaned against the wall, arms crossed and her metal foot kicked out in front of the other. Indy quirked an eyebrow and looked up.

"Della? You okay?"

"Fine. Just family stuff," she answered vaguely. He gave her a curious-but-not-prying look, and she bit her lower beak. "Dewey kind of snapped at me today when I asked if he wanted to wear a jacket."

"Well, he is a teenager. It used to drive me crazy when my mom told me to wear a coat, and I grew up in Michigan."

"I mean Louie, sure, him I'd expect a little snark from," she continued, "but Dewey's usually pretty chill about stuff. I don't know, it felt weird."

Indigo nodded thoughtfully. "Some kids are like that; when Lena's unhappy about something I can usually tell because she gets a lot more sarcastic, but Violet's harder to pin down. Maybe something happened at school?"

"I mean he has this big project for class, and he's trying out for the basketball team today. Maybe it was just nerves."

"Sounds reasonable."

Della straightened up, a little relieved. "Thanks, Indy. Anyway, I'll keep an eye on him." She checked her phone as it pinged. "Phooey, I've gotta get back; Cabrera says Gyro's talking about turning something sentient again."

"Well if you ever want to switch labs, I can put in a good word for you here."

Della snorted as she headed back out the door. "Thanks, but I think I've already got an in with the boss."

"Alright, alright, fair."

As she made her way back downstairs, she turned Indy's suggestion over in her head. Maybe something happened at school. She had the brief worry that maybe someone was picking on her kid (in which case that someone would definitely live to regret it) but then decided against it. He'd tell me if someone were messing with him; he was probably just nervous about making the team. She and Dewey talked about pretty much everything. If someone were bullying him, she'd have been the first to hear about it.

The entire varsity team had heard about it, and Dewey wondered if it were possible to actually die of embarrassment.

He stood in his gym shorts with his ear pressed to the bathroom stall door, desperately hoping that neither of the seniors would notice the webbed feet poking out from underneath. "Give me one good reason I shouldn't go to Coach right now and tell her what you did!" he heard the unfamiliar voice say.

"Oh come on, captain." That was Jason Radcliffe's voice. "It wasn't that big a deal–"

"You picked on an underclassman and made the whole team look bad; what the heck is wrong with you?" Noncommittal grumbling. "Also, did you forget who his family is? His uncle literally owns the land the school's built on, Jason, you could have gotten the team in serious trouble!"

"Fine, I'm sor–"

"Save it and get out there. And I don't want to hear about you pulling any crap like this again."

"Fine, fine, I'll leave the little twerps alone…"

He heard the sound of footsteps as the two seniors left the locker room, and waited until the door was closed to come out. The ghost of Brandon Bluejay was waiting next to his backpack. "I can't do this," Dewey said queasily, sitting down on the bench.

"Come on, you can't bail now!"

"All those guys out there know what happened!" he insisted. "Besides they're all seniors, they've been playing for way longer than I have! What if I get out there and I look like an idiot?"

"We had a deal, kid! You're going out there and you're making varsity," Brandon insisted, but Dewey just shook his head.

"Who am I kidding? I should just quit now before I embarrass myself even more." Brandon huffed and sat down next to him, and Dewey sighed. "Sorry for letting you down."

"...There's another option." Dewey looked up. "You could let me play for you."

"What– you mean like possess me?" Brandon shrugged. "I-I don't know, isn't that kind of…cheating?"

"You'll make up for it! Look, once you get good enough to play on your own, does it really matter how you got on the team?"

Dewey hesitated, and then shook his head and stood up. "No. No way, if my mom and uncles found out I cheated I'd be in so much trouble. But you're right, I made a promise." Brandon opened his mouth, but a whistle blew outside the locker room. "Crap, we gotta go. Come on."

He grabbed the bookbag and hurried out into the gym, setting it down on the bleachers. The moment he saw the last few passes and shots the other boys were making, he felt the last dregs of his confidence evaporate. There were easily forty other kids in the gym and they were all better than him. Much better.

"Alright, everyone line up!" Mrs. Rufina barked. The boys quickly gathered the last rolling balls and gathered on the nearest sideline. Dewey joined them at the end of the line, trying to look (and feel) taller than he was. He saw several of the seniors notice him, including Jason Radcliffe, whose mouth dropped open, but kept his eyes fixed forward. "Let's get this show on the road; most of you know your captain, Jack Aguilar–" A teenage eagle at her side gave a short nod, "–he'll be helping me with tryouts today. Okay! Let's start with some warmup dribbling drills…"

Dewey grabbed a ball from the rack and followed the other boys, who were dribbling around the orange cones that had been set out on the floor. He managed to round the first couple cones and felt his nerves settling. Okay. Yeah, I can do this, I can totally do this! I've been training for a week, how hard can it–

Whumph. The ball hit his sneaker and went rolling off across the floor; the teeanger scrambled after it as snickers erupted around him, and he looked up to see Jason Radcliffe and his friends laughing among themselves, before shutting up at a sharp look from the captain. Sitting over on the bleachers, the ghost of Brandon Bluejay gave him a what did you expect? look, and Dewey gulped.

Uh oh.

The autumn afternoon sun was falling a lazy yellow into the front lobby of the Money Bin when Webby arrived, waving hello to the security guard. "Afternoon, Ms. Sphinx! I didn't know you were a front-desk guard too!"

"Yes, I took a day job to help with tuition," the guardian purred.

"Tuition?"

Her tail flicked proudly. "Calisota State has an online master's program in philosophy. I really think it's the future of riddle-guardianship."

"Wow, congrats!" Webby patted her backpack. "Actually I'm here to do some studying myself!"

"Mm? Well, your father is in the athenaeum himself at the moment. Has been all day, in fact."

"Really?" The sphinx inclined her head. "That's unusual," Webby frowned, before shrugging. "Well, I should wait here for Dewey anyway." The sound of hissing steam caught her attention, and she brightened as she spotted the newest Bin employee. "Heya, Jane. Wow, this place looks amazing! Is this your opening day?"

"Yup." The parrot looked around proudly at the brand-new Starducks counter that now sat to the right of the elevator. "I've already had, like, a million customers. Apparently people here drink a lot of coffee." She frowned. "Especially that chicken-scientist guy, he's already been up here five times today and he only orders black coffee. Is he okay?"

"Oh no, definitely not," Webby chirped. The parrot nodded as if this made sense. "Dewey said his basketball thing would end at four so he should be here in like half an hour… can I put in an order ahead of time?"

"Sure thing; what do you want?"

"Medium hot chocolate for me, and… hmm, let me see—a double-caramel latte with extra whipped cream and an extra shot of espresso?" she recited, frowning. "Yeah I think that's it."

"Youch. That kid's gonna be bouncing off the walls. Or sick."

Webby shrugged again. "He says it helps him focus."

"Whatever floats his boat, I guess. Four-fifteen then?"

"Yep!" She checked her phone. 3:45. "I can barely wait; I've got so many ideas! We could do a skit, or a paper-maché, ooh, or a storyboard for an animation! Or–"

Jane chuckled under her breath and glanced with a quirked eyebrow across the lobby. As if asking whether every day was like this. The sphinx's shrug and amused flick of her tail assured the barista that it was usually much more chaotic.

"Alright, everyone, wrap it up!"

Dewey tried and failed to catch the ball as his drill partner tried for one last pass; it sailed past him and went bouncing off across the gym. The other boy gave him an apologetic grimace that nevertheless contained a hint of relief that this, at least, was one opponent he wouldn't have to worry about. More snickers echoed from down the line as he chased after the errant ball for the fourth time, sweat pouring down his forehead and shame burning red straight through his white feathers.

Stupid, stupid. He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid, humiliating himself in public like this. As he jogged back, Brandon called from his spot on the bleachers, "You ready to throw in the towel yet?"

"No way. I can still do this," Dewey huffed under his breath.

"Yeah, no you can't. Face it, kid, this is over unless these guys see you pull off something really impressive."

Dewey hesitated, looking over at the group of students as they gathered around the coach. "Okay, let's round up with some scrimmage," Mrs. Rufina called. "Aguilar's going to call you in; line up again–"

"Come on, kid," Brandon said, standing up and holding out his hand. "You can't do this on your own. Let me sub in."

Dewey wavered one last moment, before letting out a little huff and nodding. "Fine, just don't make me look like an idiot out there okay?"

"Trust me, you've got nowhere to go but up," the ghost grumbled and gave him a low high-five.

In that same moment a buzzer sounded so loud that Dewey covered his ears with a yelp. "What was–?!" He turned, and felt his mouth fall open.

His own body was standing in front of him, looking back and blinking repeatedly. Dewey looked down at his arms to find that his "body" was now just an outline, glowing a faint blue. The other Dewey looked down at his corporeal hands and tensed and untensed his fingers, testing them out, before turning as the team captain called, "Okay, any volunteers for going first–?"

"I'll play, Cap," Dewey heard his own voice call with easy confidence. The eagle looked over at him, surprised and then doubtful.

"Uh– sure, if you want–"

"We'll play too," Jason Radcliffe volunteered. The captain gave him a flat look. "What? The kid volunteered."

"Fine. You can all be on Team One," the captain said, visibly annoyed, and then shut up Radcliffe with a look when the cardinal seemed ready to object. "Okay, volunteers for Team Two?"

The other kids arranged themselves on the court as Dewey—or rather the spirit of Dewey—sat down on the bench, watching in mild awe as his double sauntered out onto the court like he owned it. Mrs. Rufina blew her whistle and tossed the ball into the air. Team One got control of the ball and then—

Dewey sat up straight, his mouth falling open. A blue-and-white blur had shot forward, taking hold of the ball from a teammate and driving for the opposite hoop. Before the opposition could reach him he wound up and shot the ball towards the hoop.

Swish.

"Yes!" Dewey, unheard by anyone, punched his fist into the air. The ball was picked up by the opposing team who tried to push it back across the half-court line—only to be stolen by the same blue-and-white blur. Dewey sat back and watched in shock with the rest of the gym as his body made another shot, another two points ticking up on the clock. Jason Radcliffe's beak had fallen open, standing stupidly in the middle of the court as the freshman he'd been mocking all afternoon shot him a grin.

It was everything Dewey had ever envisioned for himself and more. Watching himself push the ball upcourt and take shots—every shot, it seemed like—it felt like he was looking at a vision of what he could be. Gone was the try-hard little freshman, sucking up to older and cooler classmates in hopes their popularity would rub off on him. This Dewey was effortlessly cool, like he knew he belonged in Jason Radcliffe's ranks and had no fear anyone would challenge him on it. This was the Dewey he'd seen in the mirror when he'd put on the jacket, only—more, somehow. Not a fraud, but the real deal.

He stared in awe as the other Dewey stole the ball again and stopped just beyond the half-court line when a Team 2 guard blocked his way. "I'm open! I'm open!" Jason called, circling around to an open spot in the defense, but the duck wasn't looking to pass. He sized up the half-a-court distance to the basket, narrowed his eyes, and took his shot.

Like a dream, the ball sailed between the waving arms of the much taller defense, soared over the court, and seemed to hover for a moment against the gymnasium's spotlights, weightless.

Swish.

The crowd went wild. They couldn't help themselves; the shot was so good, so impossibly good, that it had to be cheered, even if it meant one spot on the varsity team was definitely gone.

The whistle blew, and the captain waved them off the court. As the other players took their place, Dewey stood up and greeted his body as it came back. "That was amazing!" he bubbled. "I looked awesome out there; that shot–"

"Like I said, kid, you've got the best coach in the world," Brandon said, tagging him back in. There came that weirdly loud buzzer again, and suddenly Dewey was back in his own body, with the outline of Brandon Bluejay smirking at him before he pointed. "Just don't mess this next part up."

"What do you–" He stopped and turned as a shadow fell over him, and found Jack Aguilar standing behind him. "Uh, hey," he said nervously, "I was just–"

"You're Dewford Duck, right?"

"Uh–"

"Let's take a walk."

Dewey cast a nervous look over his shoulder at the ghost and, beyond him, the other likely-varsity players. Jason Radcliffe was whispering quickly to the others, who looked annoyed at him. The freshman's bookbag with the corner of the varsity jacket poking out was still sitting on the bleachers; he couldn't very well take it with him. "Uh, sure," he agreed, trying to hide his anxiety. Brandon gave him a don't screw this up look, and Dewey reluctantly followed the captain away into the hall.

As soon as the door closed they stopped, and the eagle turned to face him, fixing him with pin-like yellow eyes. Dewey gulped. "Okay, kid, it's clear you've probably got a spot on the varsity team," he said bluntly. Dewey's eyes lit up, but before he could say anything the eagle continued, "But I want to know exactly why you pulled that stunt in there."

"That stunt? What stunt?"

"Pretending to suck for the first half of tryouts? That wasn't cool, even if you did want to take Jason down a peg, and it was risky too. I don't want someone on my team who's going to take those kinds of risks in a real game."

"I–" He was about to deny it, when it suddenly occurred to him that this was the perfect cover. "Sorry. I just, um, wanted to show him that he was wrong about me. It won't happen again!"

The eagle eyed him, and then sighed. "Okay, fine. I'll talk to Coach." He pointed at the younger teenager. "Never again. Got that?"

"Absolutely," Dewey vowed. The captain turned on his heels, and Dewey followed him back inside the gym.

After the rest of the scrimmage matches had concluded, Mrs. Rufina and Aguilar disappeared into the teacher's office while the rest of the boys waited anxiously outside, watching through the window as the two talked and pointed at the coach's clipboard. Fifteen minutes later Aguilar came out and taped the lists up on the wall. The crowd surged forward, and Dewey had to fight his way through the taller students to get to the front of the group. There were twelve lines on each paper, filled out with names. On the bottom of the Varsity page the twelfth blank had been filled with the name, Dewford Duck.

"Ha-ha! Yeah!" He punched the air and spun around, before quickly putting his hand down as he saw the crestfallen faces of several other cut contestants. "Eheh," he said sheepishly and sidled off to the side. "Sorry. Really sorry. Better luck next time–"

"Hey," a voice interrupted, and he looked over and gulped as Jason Radcliffe and his friends walked up.

"Uhh, hey, guys, look, I didn't mean to–"

"Listen," Jason interjected, looking uncomfortable, "about earlier, uh, we didn't know you could play."

"Yeah, you were awesome out there," one of the other boys said, and Jason shot him a look, quieting him.

"Anyway, what happened in Toontown—you know we were just messing around, right?" the cardinal continued. "It was just a joke."

Dewey blinked, trying to evaluate what had just happened, and then decided to roll with it. "Hey, wait, you guys aren't still worried about the museum, are you? It's totally cool; a-actually, I thought it was funny!" he insisted, and almost believed it himself, before an idea popped into his mind: "And uh, turns out you guys did me a favor!"

"We– did?" Jason said, glancing at the others in confusion.

"Yeah. I mean, you all know Scrooge McDuck, my super rich uncle?" Dewey said, shrugging and returning to the bleachers. "Well that room you locked me in—and again, super funny joke!—it was the museum's storage room, and you'll never believe what I found in there." He flipped open his bookbag to show them the jacket.

"A varsity jacket?" one of the other boys said, frowning.

"Not just any varsity jacket," Dewey bragged. "The varsity jacket of Brandon Bluejay." He shot a quick confirmation glance at the shimmering ghost hovering at the back of the crowd, who gave him a thumbs up. "Yeah so, basically my uncle just bought it for me. But don't spread that around!" he added quickly, having had a brief but nightmarish flash of what his uncle's response would be if he ever heard the rumor of him buying a museum artifact for his nephew. "It's sort of a secret."

"Whoa." One of the boys reached out to touch the fraying on the sleeve, but Dewey pulled the bag back.

"Sorry, I'm not supposed to let anyone else touch it. But hey, looks pretty great, right?" He put it on, straightening it, and then looked up at the older boys. Their reverence of the jacket was almost like a golden glow on their faces, and he knew then that he was in.

"I guess it does," Jason said, eyeing him with surprised approval, and Dewey grinned. "Listen, Dewford–"

"Dewey," he corrected quickly. "I hate Dewford, it's the worst."

"–we're getting some food," the cardinal finished. "Wanna come?" Behind him, Brandon gave Dewey a thumbs-up, and the freshman grinned back.

"Food sounds great. But uh, nobody tell my mom," he added, as they walked out of the gym. "I'm technically still grounded."

"Really? What for?"

"Oh, um, just broke one of her dumb rules. She can be really strict sometimes, I don't know why—and I was trying to help my brother too!"

"What did you do?"

"Well my uncle was at this competition in Nepal and…"

A cold wind swept over the bay and across the bridge, heading in to the mainland, and Webby shivered from her spot on the steps, watching the sun set magenta and purple over the western horizon. She hunched down a little closer behind her backpack, which was currently functioning as a wind-wall on her right side, and pulled out her phone to check the time. 4:45 read the white glowing numbers on the screen, and she bit her lower beak, shoulders slumping. Inside the Bin lobby, Jane and the sphinx shared a look.

"Tryouts must just be running late," Webby mumbled, as if to convince herself, and went to put her phone back in her pocket before it emitted a little ping! as a Waddlebook notification appeared. Frowning, she swiped her phone to unlock it and clicked on the bar.

The Waddlebook app opened to a profile of a senior student she barely recognized, but that wasn't what caught her attention. The notification had led to a picture of the new varsity basketball team at some sort of sports restaurant, posing for a selfie. Visible in the back, almost hidden by the taller seniors but not quite out of view, was a beaming Dewey Duck in a varsity jacket.

Inside the Bin, Jane was just wiping down the counter when the sight of movement through the windows distracted her, and she looked up to see the young duck stand, put her phone back in her pocket and pick up the two stone-cold drinks which had been sitting on the steps next to her. As Jane watched, the girl angrily chucked them into the nearby trash can, and then started off across the bridge, her hands shoved into her jacket pockets.

A/N: So I haven't played basketball since I was like, eight, and the most contact I've had with it in my adult life was playing for pep band in high school; I did research to understand the rules for this chapter, but I definitely don't play the game and I'm sure I got something wrong. Mea culpa.

STORY NOTES:

The buzzer sound that Dewey hears when he moves in and out of his body is a basketball reference; a buzzer sounds to let the referees know whenever one player is substituted in for another on the court.

"Mystery Ship": Aka a Travel Air Type R plane, so called because the first few planes in the series were built in secret.