The October morning suddenly felt colder.
Beside me, Julian whispered, “Mom?”
I took his hand.
“We’re going.”
Twenty minutes later, we entered the Glenwood Community Center.
Maya was waiting inside.
She sat in her new wheelchair near a window, wrapped in a blue sweater, her dark hair tied loosely behind her head.
When she saw Julian, she smiled.
It was not a dramatic smile.
It was shy and uncertain and real.
Julian immediately stared at his shoes.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Maya said.
Then she rolled forward smoothly.
No squeaking.
No jerking.
No stopping every few feet.
Julian watched the wheels turn.
Something in his face softened.
“You like it?”
Maya looked down at the chair.
“I got to the kitchen without swearing at anything.”
Her father made a startled noise.
Maya looked at him.
“I said ‘swearing.’ I didn’t demonstrate.”
Even the officers laughed.
Then I noticed the woman sitting across the room.
