We do the same thing on Tuesday. And on Wednesday.

Then on Wednesday evening, just as I’m getting ready to finally settle in and work a little on Mr. Milling’s project, a letter from school turns up in the mail.

Dad’s home early, and he finds the envelope in the stack of junk mail before I can intercept it. I watch him rip it open, wondering nervously if Ms. Hernandez wrote it, if I’m about to get into trouble over what we’ve been doing after all.

Dad reads the letter, and his eyebrows about climb off his face, which makes me fear the worst. Then I realize Dad looks thoughtful, not mad. Did Ms. Hernandez write to tell Dad I don’t need an aide after all?

“Hey, Emms,” he says slowly, setting down the letter. “Looks like that new chair of yours might turn up sooner than later.”

The bad news: I still have an aide.

The good news: I’m not in trouble.

The weird news: The school wants to hold a fundraiser for my new wheels.

It was all spelled out in that letter from Dr. Grayling—or his secretary. Dad and I need to let them know exactly which chair and specs we want and give them pictures and prices. Wheelchairs this specialized have tons of custom parts, so this is important—I should maybe even get on the phone with someone from the company, make sure I choose the right specs.

Then they’re going to raise the money.

And then I’ll hit send on the order for my dream set of wheels. And I’ll finally be able to show everyone what I can do. Myself included.

Dad reads the letter out loud. Then he frowns, sort of smiles, and carefully folds and unfolds the letter like it might explode. Finally, he sets it aside and looks at me.

“What do you think, Emms?”

I’m already bubbling with excitement. All those months and months of stuffing tangly Spanish moss into little bags, chopping and bundling sticky slivers of pine wood, and stitching letters and trims and patches onto chair bags—sometimes it felt like I was the tortoise, inching along toward some distant, sparkly finish line I couldn’t even quite see. Now I’m about to morph into a jackrabbit.

All at once, I can almost feel a rush of wind and sun in my face, hear the thrum of wood and concrete under those monster oversize, knobby tires, and feel those chunky handrims spinning through my fingers as I make a perfect launch into midair …

Even better, getting that chair should definitely be enough to get me out from under a babysitter at school. Even Dr. Grayling will have to realize that once he sees the chair I’ve picked out and everything I’ll be able to do with it. Liability stickler or not, nobody can help being convinced by gear this good. I might not have to get Dad involved at all, which would honestly probably be easier.

I grab the letter off the coffee table and scan it myself to be sure it’s the real deal.