Today, Desiree wants me to run through my "wheelchairs ed" class. It still feels weird calling it that. By now, I've mostly gotten the hang of maneuvering around in this new chair, but she insisted in that thick Czech accent of hers that I still run through the obstacle course a few times. I guess that's her way of trying to make things fun. It's kind of hard to have fun when the entirety of your playground consists of one chair and a pair of wheels.

Desiree leisurely pushes me through the curvy hallways of the rehab center.

"Where are we going?" I say.

"The place where you learn to drive, of course. Where else?" There's a tinge of mystery in her voice.

Before long, I realize that she's taking me to the parking lot. We move through the automatic doors of the entrance and then on outside. It's a sunny day, hardly a cloud to flaw the near perfect sky. I can feel my skin instantly warm, soaking up the sun's rays like the pale, shriveled up sponge that I am. It's a nice contrast to the Center's chilled climate.

This section of the parking lot is empty aside from a labyrinth pattern of miniature orange traffic cones, much like ones you would face during a real drivers test. Cardboard cutouts of human silhouettes are positioned throughout the maze of cones to add a certain level of difficulty.

I rotate my head, examining the layout of the obstacle course. "Um. You seriously want me to go through that?"

"It is part of your classes, no?" She almost looks hurt over my lack of enthusiasm to participate.

"Uh. Yeah, I guess so."

She clasps her hands together. "Wonderful!" Then motions me towards the starting line.

I lazily run through the obstacle course, taking my sweet time navigating in between the traffic cones, while making sure to avoid the cardboard cutouts. It's tight. There isn't a whole lot of room, maybe three to four inches of space between my wheels and the cones, but at this speed, it isn't difficult to avoid them.

I wonder how long I'll be stuck here. I can't imagine doing this routine three times a week for who knows how long. A person could grow old here at this place with nothing more to their name than the faint hope that they might one day get well enough to move away from here. And the only way that will happen for me is if I undergo surgery.

Surgery!

My stomach swells with uneasiness.

Why are you so worried about it, McKenzie? This could mean getting your legs back! But what if I don't get them back? What if something goes wrong during the surgery, which prevents me from achieving what little hope I have left? I can't handle living out the rest of my days confined to this chair. I just can't!

After finishing the obstacle course, I circle back around to the beginning. Desiree stoops down to my eye level. "Is everything alright?"

I must have some sort of dismal expression plastered on my face. Tears sting my eyes, but I somehow manage to override their determination to fall. "Yeah, I'm fine," I manage to mumble.

"Fine?" She tilts her head sideways. "In all my years of hearing the word 'fine', it never means fine. It goes: 'great', 'good', 'okay', 'bummed', 'terrible', 'kill me now', and then 'fine'." She uses her hands to illustrate the levels of emotions as she says them, moving down with each one.

I actually find her actions amusing, and to my surprise, I even laugh a little bit. "No, really; I'm okay. All things considered at least."

"Ah! So now we've moved on up to 'okay', have we? That's good." She gives me a blue-eyed wink. "Now. Run it again."

"Are you serious? But I just did it. And I didn't hit a single traffic cone either."

"Oh, that?" She throws her head back and laughs mischievously. "No, that was just your warm-up." She pulls a stopwatch from her mint-colored scrubs pocket. "This time it's for real."

I feel my eyebrow arch with interest. "Do I smell a challenge?" She bobs her head up and down in confirmation. "Challenge accepted!"

Desiree places her thumb above the knob of the stopwatch, ready to pound it in at any moment. I steady my hands a mere inches above my wheels with my body hunched forward for better aerodynamics, not breaking my gaze from the obstacle before me. My heart throbs inside my chest; a thick bead of perspiration slips through the creases of my forehead, waiting for Desiree's signal.

"Go!" She slams her thumb on the stopwatch clicker.

I zoom down the open stretch, spinning my wheels faster and faster, the summer air ripping itself through my hair and drying my moist forehead. As I approach the first corner, I question whether I should I take it slow or drift through it. No one has ever achieved greatness by being slow—drift it is! The wheels shudder beneath my grip as I slide around the corner, my heart rate spiking as I nearly topple over. It's a struggle to regain my balance—the right wheel wobbles causing me to veer off the track and plow down multiple traffic cones until I finally skid to a halt. Desiree is bent over with laughter. After glancing at all the traffic cones that are now laying on their side, I find it hard to conceal a grin of my own.

Desiree jogs over to me. "You'll get better with time. For now, how 'bout we go into the air-conditioning and get some lunch?"

I wipe the sweat from my face. "That sounds great!"

* * *

The Center's cafeteria reminds me of the one we had at Stardust High. Though, I suppose there isn't much deviation from the general appearance of one cafeteria to another: white walls, black and white checkered floor, one long line of food sitting beneath heat lamps, starting with soups, then meats, all the way down to the dessert section. At least the overall quality of food appears to be significantly higher than what we had at school; most of that stuff was prepackaged anyway and in dire need of salt.

Mother had returned from running errands. Usually, she drops me off, then leaves for a few hours, then picks me up once class is over. But today she came back early due to us meeting with the specialist after lunch. I'm suddenly not as hungry as I was a few minutes ago. I wish I could freeze time or avoid that meeting altogether. My throat threatens to close up every time I think about it.

Mother tells me to find us a seat while she waits in line for our order. I choose a table two down from an elderly couple; a husband and wife I presume. The husband is in a wheelchair just like me.

I wonder if he's a plegic.

The wife lifts a wrinkled hand towards his lips, gently feeding him spoonfuls of chicken noodle soup. He doesn't look capable of expressing too many emotions, like he's in some sort of vegetative state, but that doesn't seem to deter her from caring for him. I guess some people still do honor for better or for worse. My heart warms at the thought.

Some time passes before mother comes over carrying a tray full of food. She places a plate full of penne pasta with white sauce in front of me. I stir it around with my fork for a while, taking a bite here and there, but mostly stirring.

"Kenzie, sweetie, is something wrong? You've hardly touched your food."

I shrug in response, not sure I want to tell her what's on my mind. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure I even know what's on my mind.

The elderly wife finishes feeding her husband. She pulls the napkin out from inside his shirt and then dabs the corners of his lips. She speaks softly to him. He doesn't seem to notice her presence, but she keeps on despite the conversation being obviously one-sided.

If I never get my legs back, will someone do that for me? Will they care for me, love me, help me to survive each day? Or will I be alone, forgotten, left behind?

And then it hits me! That's the reason why I'm afraid—I don't want to be alone.

I lift my head. "What will happen if I don't get my legs back?" I say to mother. "I mean, like, ever get them back."

It takes her a good fifteen seconds to respond, as if she's carefully considering her words before answering. "Well, I suppose you'll live with your father and me until the day you get married and live with your husband in a house of your own."

"But what if—what if no one wants me? What if they can't see past these ugly wheels and my disability?"

She puts down the plastic fork and sighs. "McKenzie, love is an unconditional commitment to an imperfect person. Don't worry yourself with problems that haven't yet occurred. Now, eat your food before it gets cold."

* * *

An hour after lunch, I find myself begrudgingly sitting in a heptagon-shape room, devoid of any wall furnishings or picture frames. Aside from two loveseats and a red overstuffed chair, the only other decor is a pair of black drapes, which are currently drawn resulting in a darkly lit room. The Center's president, Jamal, is here, too. I'm not sure why. It's not like he's an expert on paraplegia—at least I don't think he is. I really don't want to discuss my gloomy future with him or with anyone else for that matter. It's just awkward. Somehow, I don't feel as if I have a choice.

The specialist arrives, straightway apologizing for his tardiness. I hadn't noticed he was late, but to be honest, my mind is more focused on the conversation that is about to take place. Mother introduces herself, shaking the specialist's hand, who then discloses his own name as Eric. I find it interesting that he doesn't refer to himself as Doctor or some other formal forename. He must prefer a casual title. Mother then casts an open palm in my direction, informing Eric of who I am as well as the reason for our visit. I'm glad she's carried the conversation thus far.

Eric flashes a warm smile and extends a hand towards me, which is cold and moist, as if he's just washed them, followed by a healthy grip. I should expect no less from a world-class surgeon. He takes a seat in the overstuffed chair opposite from me, crossing a dark denim pant leg over the other. His features are fair; his ebony-colored slick back hair and almond-shaped eyes remind me of someone on the cast of Grey's Anatomy. He's younger than I envisioned; though, I'm not entirely sure who or what I was envisioning. He's American and looks to be in his early thirties. His well-tanned skin gives him a youthful appearance, but considering the extensive years of education it requires to become a surgeon, he's probably closer to age forty. I suddenly feel a little more complacent knowing the fate of my walking life will be in his hands.

Eric turns his attention towards me as we discuss my candidacy. But first, we delve into the backstory of how I became a plegic. I feel like I've told this story a million times before, so I give mother a helpless glance; she fills him in for me. He nods every so often as mother explains, but doesn't take his eyes off of me. Once mother had finished, he clears his throat and scoots to the edge of the overstuffed chair. "Yes, as you probably already assumed, you are indeed a candidate for surgery, Miss Barlow." He clasps his masculine hands together, seemingly studying me for a response. I'm lost for words as to what I should say.

My nervous stomach relaxes just a little as mother speaks for me. "When is your earliest availability?"

Eric tilts his head back, as if mentally evaluating his schedule. "We can do it as early as next week."

My heart gallops to my throat at his answer.

Next week! That soon? I wasn't prepared for that answer. Oh, I think that penne pasta might come back up!

Mother looks me over, no doubt waiting for some sort of reaction. I can't locate the energy to lift my head, so I simply stare at the swirly patterns in the beige carpeting below our feet. My mouth opens, then quickly closes; I'm still unsure as to what I should say. My mind is a foggy mess. "May—may I be excused?" I shift my eyes over to mother.

"But Kenzie, aren't you excited to hear that? It's good news."

"Please!" My hands start to tremble.

"I guess that would be alright. I'll meet up with you in a bit, okay?"

I nod weakly, then place my hands over the wheels and hurriedly leave the room.

* * *

It takes me a good twenty minutes before I feel my anxiety subside. I had found a quiet spot behind the Center next to a wooden bench that looks as if it's been here since the Center's grand opening. The wood planks are all worn and faded; some are even cracked.

The sidewalk is slightly elevated, overlooking the hedge maze. In the distance, I can vaguely hear the soft trickle of the fountain flowing at the core of the maze. A man and a woman are holding hands as they saunter down each grassy aisle, listlessly trying to find their way out of the maze. Nothing but the tops of their heads can be seen above the hedge wall.

The sound of plastic being scraped against concrete comes into earshot. Shifting my head, I see Calix strolling down the sidewalk with a long pole held loosely in his right hand; a red tip is on the end of it. His head sways from side to side, seemingly in sync with the sweeping motion of his walking stick.

The end of the stick bumps into my wheel and his face lights up with a small grin. He moves passed me and takes a seat on the rickety bench, using the stick to lower his body towards the seat, much like an elderly person would use their cane for the same purpose. The bench creaks as his weight settles on it.

An irritated sigh escapes my lungs. I really don't feel like talking to anyone right now. I just want to be left alone.

"Did you know that Pluto is no longer considered a planet?" he says.

I shoot him a quizzical look, not that he can see it. What a weird conversation starter. "Um. Yeah. I think I remember reading about that somewhere." I try to keep my answer brief in hopes that he'll take the hint that I'm not in the mood for stupid conversation. He doesn't.

"I mean, what kind of a person does that?" He seems genuinely hurt by such facts.

"It's tragic," I say.

"We should do something about it."

"We?"

He snaps his fingers together. "We should protest! We'll find a street corner, craft posters and banners, get a megaphone. Do you think we can rent a plane and have the pilot spell out letters in the sky with those smoke signals thingamajigs? You know the ones, right? We can have him spell something like 'Save Our Pluto' or 'SoP' for short."

I can't suppress the sarcastic chuckle that's halfway up my throat. "I don't quite understand your specific kind of crazy, but I do admire your commitment to it."

"Right-O! That's the spirit."

"So I guess there's no getting rid of you, huh?" He faces the sound of my voice, then shakes his head from side to side. It's kind of creepy not being able to see past those dark glasses of his. "Very well," I say. "How'd you know where to find me?"

"A little birdie with one ear told me you were out here all by your lonesome; said you were lookin' a bit glum. And so I intend to fix that and make everything all cheery again." He may be a strange guy, but his English accent is pleasant to listen to. "How may I be of service, Milady?" He says that with a smile.

I sigh irritably, not feeling like explaining my problems to him. "I don't have the crayons, nor the patience to explain it to you."

My retort doesn't faze him. "I happen to have a whole box of crayons right here in me pocket." He reaches into his crème-colored cardigan and withdraws an imaginary box of crayons from its deep pocket.

"Those better be the ninety-six count because the twelve count is just offensive."

"Only the best for you, Milady."

"And the white one is useless. I mean, really; who colors with white? White!"

"I must respectfully disagree. White is far from useless. In fact, it may be the most important color of all."

My brow furrows. "How so?"

He leans his walking stick against the bench's armrest. "White is the end result of all colors blended perfectly together. Without white, all you have is darkness. And then you'll be known as a white hater, and you'll be grouped amongst the Pluto haters. You don't want to be known as a Pluto hater, do you?" The corners of his mouth curl into that goofy smile I've grown accustomed to seeing.

"Fine. You win." I figured this was all just a ruse to get me to open up to him. "But you first. What's your story, huh? How'd a guy like you end up in a place like this?"

"Ah! 'Tis a long story, that one."

"Does it look like I have anywhere else to be?"

"Fair point." He leans deeper into the bench—the rusty joints creaking with his motions—and clasps his fingers together behind his head. "I was born and raised in Wales until age eight when mummy and daddy decided they wanted to escape the life of monarchs and over fried fish and chips. So one day they came to me and said we were moving to a place that I had previously believed to be a fairytale: America—the land of the free, movie stars, and human obesity. A few days later, we packed up the few belongings we owned, and with aeroplane tickets in our hands, we headed for New York City." He sweeps his hand in a circular motion at our surroundings. "Clearly, we never made it."

"What happened?"

"Can't really remember all the tiny details. Something about an engine not working properly, so we had to make an emergency landing here in Maine. We loved the quiet countryside of life so much we never got back on that plane. Before too long, I came here to White Guard where I met Mav and earned me my very own Teddy." He pats his walking stick trustingly.

"I'm sorry. Teddy? What's a Teddy?"

"Teddy is what I call my white stick in honor of your lovable former president: Theodore Roosevelt. His most famous words were 'Speak softly and carry a big stick'. Well, Teddy here is my big stick."

"Then how come I haven't seen you use Teddy until now?"

He shrugs thoughtlessly. "I've been here for so long, I know those corridors like the back of me hand. Don't really need it, I guess. Only when I'm outside do I use it."

So long? He's been here for "so long"? Those words strike my curiosity. "How long have you been here exactly?"

He smiles mischievously. "I think we've chatted enough about me. Now, it's your turn. What's your story, eh?"

"My story? Uh . . . it's complicated."

"I like complicated."

I swear he's staring directly into my eyes from behind those sunglasses, and for a moment, I question if he is truly blind. Has everything he's told me been true or is it just one big lie? I shift uncomfortably in my wheelchair at the thought. "In order to tell you correctly, I'd have to detail everything that's happened in my life. Like, everything, and that'd take a really, really, really long time." Maybe he won't be interested in a long story?

"Does it look like I have anywhere else to be?"

I laugh lightly. "Fair point. Well, I, um, come from a small household—just the four of us: me, my mom and my dad, and my little brother August. I was head cheerleader at the high school that I attended where I spent the next couple of years cheering for my favorite basketball team alongside my best friend. And, yeah, that pretty much sums this girl up."

He leans over and gives my wheels a good shaking. "Doesn't very well explain how you got these, now does