Who even flipping cares?

I feel so stupid for believing a frame color or killer suspension would ever matter. That wheelchair could be made of enchanted metal, with goblin-forged wheels and handrims glazed with fairy dust and unicorn tears. Wouldn’t matter.

Wouldn’t make the front door—or any other door—at E. L. Pinckney magically turn automatic. Wouldn’t fix that stupid-steep, splintery ramp or the cramped bathroom stalls.

Won’t make people look at me and actually see me before they see my wheels.

Won’t change the fact that I’m just some redneck kid out in the middle of South Carolina, dreaming of something so stinking far away—in every way—that maybe it’s foolish to even let myself dare.

It wouldn’t bring back my ramp—the one place I had where I could actually practice.

Everything is rushing at me like a freight train. I almost break down and talk to Dad, but he’s stayed gone even more than usual since our showdown. I woke up early on Saturday morning to the clank-clank of the trailer being hooked to his truck—then the crash and scrape of twisted metal as he hurled the broken pieces of the ramp onto it to be hauled off to the scrapyard.

He hasn’t come in from the shop before I’ve gone to bed one single night since our blowup.

In the mornings, I stare out the truck window and count mailboxes as we ride silently past houses and trailers and wide-open fields to school. Dad chugs coffee like he’s drinking magic elixir and stares blearily at the road, gripping the wheel like he’s trying not to fall off the edge of a cliff.

Nobody ever tells you that one day you’ll wake up and realize your parents are just flailing along, faking it like everybody else. If they’re even still here at all.

All my life, I had two heroes. I thought I’d always have two heroes. But then I lost one two years ago, and now the one I have left is melting away a little more each day.

It hurts to even look at my dad right now.

So I don’t.

Later that afternoon, the desperation to talk to someone reaches a breaking point, and I call Pop-Pop to ask for a ride and not tell Nonny where he’s going.

“How long you want me to stay gone, Biscuit?” he asks once we arrive. I tell him about an hour, and he gives me a hug before he gets back into his car.

“Take as long as you need,” he says. “Might take more time than you think. Or less.”

With that confusing advice, Pop-Pop pulls away, and I roll up the path under the iron HOLY CROSS arch. For the first time I can remember, I don’t even feel tempted by all the smooth, crisscrossing walkways or the low, hoppable steps tucked around the cemetery.

Mom’s grave looks as peaceful as ever. The headstone is covered with little golden patches from the sun shining through the trees. Nonny and Dad must not have completely stomped the new flowers during their epic face-off, because I see blossoms—purple and yellow—starting to uncurl. They were Mom’s favorite colors, I remember.