Then Ms. Keene asked a second time.
“Who repaired it?”
“I did,” I said. “Well, my brother-in-law helped me. I brought it in because it was unsafe and—”
“Unsafe before or unsafe now?” the nurse asked.
I stared at her.
“Before,” I said. “Obviously before.”
She stood.
“That isn’t how this works.”
Mason finally looked up.
“It works fine,” he said quietly.
The nurse softened her voice, which somehow made it worse.
“I’m glad it feels better, honey. But we can’t allow unauthorized modifications to mobility equipment on campus without review.”
Unauthorized modifications.
Like we had put neon lights under it and a horn on the back.
Ms. Keene folded her hands.
“Mr. Carter, I know your intentions were good.”
That sentence has buried more decent human decisions than bad weather ever did.
“But until we can verify safety, Mason cannot use this chair at school.”
For a second, nobody said anything.
Then Mason asked the only question that mattered.
“So what am I supposed to use?”
The nurse glanced into a supply room.
“We have a transport chair.”
I knew what that meant before she finished.
Small back wheels.
Handles on the back.
Something a child sits in while somebody else decides when he moves.
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