His voice stayed low.
“People see wheels and think wheels.”
He touched the tiny rim he could barely grip.
“This one means I have to wait.”
He glanced toward the door.
“For someone to take me to the bathroom. For someone to take me to lunch. For someone to get me if class ends early. For someone to turn me around when I get stuck.”
Then he looked right at me.
“I hate needing permission to go left.”
I had to swallow before I trusted my voice.
After third period, I was called to Ms. Keene’s office.
She closed the door and asked me to sit.
That is never a good sign.
On her desk was a thin folder with my name on a sticky note.
Beside it sat a man in a button-down shirt with a striped tie and the expression of somebody born suspicious of unplanned kindness.
“This is Mr. Vale,” Ms. Keene said. “He’s with regional student services.”
He held out a hand.
I shook it.
Then I sat down and wished I had not.
He opened the folder.
“We’re conducting a review of an incident involving unauthorized repair of a student mobility aid by school personnel.”
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