Chapter 3

The plaster that had bound her from mid-thighs to armpits was gone, leaving her skin tender and raw in memory, but the weight of the accident remained. Every day, the wheelchair in the corner of her room seemed to mock her, polished and waiting. She refused it.

“I’ll walk,” she had told the nurses, her voice calm and resolute. “I’ll find a way.”

And she did — with crutches.

At first, they were strangers in her hands: cold, hard aluminum with grips that bit her palms. Her shoulders shook under the strain as she lifted herself upright, and the sensation of her legs below was strange, alien. Her knees bent loosely, incapable of supporting any weight. Her feet rested on the floor, toes just brushing the tiles, but they gave nothing back. There was nothing to push against, nothing to anchor her. All her weight fell into her arms, into the muscles she had honed for years on the wire.

The first steps were terrifying. Every swing of her body required calculation. She planted the crutches, pressed down, and leaned forward, letting the momentum carry her while keeping her balance through sheer effort. Her knees trembled beneath her, her toes barely grazing the floor, but her arms held firm, her core engaged, her breath measured.