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me,” I grumble.
    There’s just the hum of traffic for a minute; then she says, “Do your parents realize how depressed you are?”
    I’m quiet.
    Crippled, depressed, what’s the difference?
    “Look, you need to get out of there. We’re on half day today, so get ready, ’cause I’m coming over after school. I don’t care what you say, you’re getting in my car and we’re going out for lunch. I’ll take you to Angelo’s.”
    “I can’t,” I tell her. “I’m a mess.”
    “Yeah, you’re a mess, and we’re gonna fix that. Expect me. I’ll be there at around one.”
    “No, I mean—”
    She hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone.
    How can she possibly expect me to go out?
    How can she expect me to deal with … with any of it?
    First Kaylee and now Fiona?
    Why don’t they
get
it?
    Besides, I couldn’t go out even if I wanted to. I haven’t had a real shower since the morning of the wreck. They tried once in the hospital, but that was more awkward than effective. And now that I’m home, I’ve been getting by with haphazard sponge baths, but my hair has only been washed once.
    The only part of me that gets daily attention is my stump.
    Massage, desensitize, clean, dry, dress.
    Twice a day.
    Every day.
    The rest of me feels matted and mangy and … gross.
    Yesterday Mom offered to wash my hair in the sink again, but I told her, “Maybe tomorrow.” And besides the obvious slipping hazards of a one-legged shower, there doesn’t happen to be a shower downstairs. Just a half bathroom—a toilet and a sink.
    Fiona knows all this, so how can she expect me to go out? I know she means well, but she obviously doesn’t understand what I’m going through.
    So I’m a little mad. A little in a state of disbelief. And between Kaylee’s snippy comments and Fiona’s insisting I go to Angelo’s, I get agitated and start hopping around.
    I hop out of my wide-open room.
    Hop over to the kitchen.
    Hop all over the place.
    It’s as close to pacing as I can come.
    Finally I find myself at the base of the stairs.
    I stare up the long flight of steps.
    I count the treads.
    Fourteen, including the top landing.
    Fourteen hard hops up.
    I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I should even try. It seems an ominous stretch, and I’m already tired from all my senseless hopping around.
    But up those ominous fourteen steps is a shower.
    A hot, massaging shower.
    I think about getting a crutch, but I’d have to hop clear back to the family room for that, so I grab the handrail with both hands instead.
    One hop.
    Two hops.
    Three.
    I rest, looking up at eleven more steps, then take a deep breath.
    Four hops.
    Five hops.
    Six.
    My arms are doing a lot of the work, pulling me up as I hop. I’m panting, so I take a minute to rest, telling myself I’m almost halfway. Then I press on.
    Seven steps.
    Eight.
    My good leg is shaking, and I feel a little dizzy, so I turn around and sit.
    I’m past halfway
, I tell myself.
Almost there
.
    And then I discover something wonderful. By sitting down I’ve gained two steps! My foot is on step eight, but I’m sitting on step ten!
    I put my hands down on the tread behind me, raise my foot to step nine, and push myself up backward.
    I’m sitting on eleven!
    I push up to twelve.
    To thirteen!
    My right thigh is burning from holding up my stump as I push one more time. Then I grab the handrail, hoist myself up, and take a final hop.
    I look down at the run of stairs and feel an overwhelming sense of triumph.
    I’m upstairs.

 
    O UR SHOWER’S A COMBINATION shower-bathtub with sliding glass doors, so I can’t just push aside a door and hop in. I have to get myself over the side of the tub.
    I know from my experience in the hospital that it helps to have some sort of seat when I shower, so I take a little collapsible step stool that’s stored behind the bathroom door and place it inside the tub, opened up. It’s got rubber feet and rubber-coated steps, so it seems like