Chapter 1

The alarm trilled far too cheerfully for Rachel Mears’ liking. She opened one bleary eye and groaned. Her arms ached, her shoulders felt tight, and even the pillow had turned against her, wedging awkwardly beneath her neck. The after-effects of yesterday’s bush walk—or more accurately, bush push—still clung to her like a damp towel. Her wheelchair fitness wasn’t in question, but even the most well-conditioned arms had their limits after two hours of trail, tree roots, and gravel ruts. And then there was the late-night debrief over hot chocolate with her friends. Worth it? Absolutely. Wise? Debatable.

Rachel blinked dispiritedly at the ceiling of her Christchurch unit.

“Right. Up, soldier,” she muttered to herself, flinging off the covers. Her legs stayed inert beneath her, as always, but her arms got to work. She reached for the overhead grab bar and transferred smoothly into her chair. Mornings like this made her grateful for the previous night’s text from her three-day-a-week assistant saying she would be late arriving this morning. She didn’t feel like chatting, not even with kindly Mara.

Bathroom. Breakfast. A quick glance at her emails. Then into her modified Mazda Axela, gifted to her on her twenty-first birthday by her parents—back when they still spoke civilly to each other. The hand controls felt like second nature now. Freedom compressed into a steering wheel and a series of levers.

The drive to Ara Institute – the city’s main polytechnic -- was short and calming. She slid into her usual staff car park and wheeled herself inside, nodding to the receptionist, then catching the lift to the design floor. Her first class was a mixed bag of energetic second-years. Their creative chaos gave her energy. Today, she demoed some layering techniques in Illustrator and helped one student troubleshoot a perspective grid that had gone rogue.