Mason knew too.
He looked at her.
Then at me.
Then back at the blue stripe on the frame.
His voice stayed calm.
“I can move this one myself.”
Ms. Keene’s mouth tightened, not mean, just already bracing herself against the mess of being human.
“This is temporary.”
Mason gave the smallest nod.
Kids like him know adults love that word.
Temporary.
As if a thing doesn’t count when it only hurts for a little while.
The transport chair came out of the storage room ten minutes later.
Gray vinyl.
Scuffed frame.
One handle grip missing.
Still, by their standards, it was approved.
Mason stared at the back handles longer than he stared at the seat.
I knew what he was seeing.
He was seeing the part where his freedom had lasted all of three class periods.
The nurse asked if he wanted help transferring.
He said no.
He moved himself over without looking at any of us.
Then he placed his hands on the tiny side wheels and tried once to push.
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