Every Sunday morning, sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows in long ribbons of blue and gold, warming the dust that drifted through the sanctuary. The choir benches creaked whenever anyone shifted too quickly, and Mrs. Hargrove, the choir director, always tapped her little tuning fork against the music stand exactly three times before rehearsal began.
That was where I first noticed Charles Bennett.
I was eight years old.
And already in a wheelchair.
People always asked what happened, though never directly to me. Adults preferred whispering around children with injuries, as if pain became softer when spoken indirectly. A childhood accident had left me unable to walk, and by then I had already learned certain truths about the world.
People pitied quietly.
Stared openly.
And assumed loudly.
