I lie flat and look at the rafters. On the beam that runs over my cot, a spider has already rebuilt the web we knocked down this morning. I look for the spider, and I find it, suspended right over my feet. It seems to be waiting, just as still as I am. I lock my eyes on it. Which of us will be the first to move?

I think about what Sara said. A Norm in Crip’s clothing. Until I came here, I never knew any Crips. I didn’t think of myself as a Crip; I always figured that, beneath the surface, I am just like everyone else. A Norm at heart? Okay, maybe. But what’s wrong with that? Why worry about it? Why care what Crips think?

Maybe because a Crip is what I am.

The idea almost makes me sick, so I seek another idea.

It’s because I care for them. Not Crips as a group, but these particular Crips—Sara and Margie and the rest. It’s my caring that gives them the power to hurt me.

They have the power. But no right to judge.

When rest period ends, cheerful talk starts up again. I stay on my cot. I’m hot and tired and my tailbone is sore from sitting motionless all morning on that plastic sling seat.

And, still, that spider hasn’t moved.

*   *   *

Back in my chair, with Kleenex flowers pinned in my hair, I feel awfully silly. However, Margie’s pleas wore down all my resistance. My yellow flowered tent-dress feels flimsy after so many days of stiff cotton shorts. But when I see everyone gather at the top of the hill, my spirits jerk up like a reflex. They all look so festive, so festive and silly, in their Kleenex leis. I decide to use up the rest of my film. Whether I like it or not, it is good to be outside again, out in the air, out with the group. It is good, too, to feel Willie standing behind me and leaning on my push handles.

“She’s something else, isn’t she?”

He’s talking about Sara, and he makes me see it: She’s being subversive.

“Yeah,” I answer. “She’s too much.”

She isn’t doing anything that could cause any complaint; she is just—being very amiable. She’s been that way pretty much since the reverse telethon, but now she’s taking it to a new height. Her mood is downright triumphant. As Peggy Jo threads her chair through the crowd, she greets people as though she’s just back from a long and successful voyage.

“Hi, how are you? Good to see you! Looks like a great night for the ceremony!” She is a politician at the victory party, Miss America returning to her home airport, an astronaut splashing down. Victorious but humble; plain folks glad to be home.