The first night home, his alarm rang every two hours.
He shuffled into my room, hair sticking up.
“Pancake time,” he muttered, carefully turning me.
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He argued with insurance on speakerphone, pacing the kitchen.
I whimpered.
“I know,” he whispered. “I got you, kiddo.”
He built a plywood ramp so my wheelchair could get over the front step. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job.
He argued with insurance on speakerphone, pacing the kitchen.
“No, she can’t ‘make do’ without a shower chair,” he said. “You want to tell her that yourself?”
They didn’t.
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He took me to the park.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Patel, began dropping off casseroles and hovering nearby.
“She needs friends,” she told him.
“She needs not to break her neck on your stairs,” he muttered, but later he pushed me around the block and introduced me to every kid like I was his VIP.
He took me to the park.
Kids stared. Parents looked away.
My first real friend.
A girl my age approached and asked, “Why can’t you walk?”
I froze.
Ray crouched next to me. “Her legs don’t listen to her brain. But she can beat you at cards.”
The girl smiled. “No, she can’t.”
That was Zoe. My first real friend.
It looked terrible.
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