Blix sat on her bed, playing with the special silicone-padded sleeves designed to protect what was left of her thighs.

It had taken her three years to recover from the explosion that had taken her legs, half her arm, and whatever slim hope for a normal life she had once fostered. Learning to walk on prosthetic legs had been grueling. The only thing that kept her going was her therapist’s unflagging belief that wheelchairs were to be avoided at all costs. They were a cop out. They were too limiting, a barrier between herself and the life she wanted to live. Even if they were sometimes necessary evils, they were evil nonetheless.

She glared up at the wheelchair crouched like a giant vulture beside her bed. She wanted to put her legs on. It was a new semester, a new beginning. Three new freshmen were joining the program—three potential friends that had never seen her walking independently.

But the stupid skin grafts on her stumps had gotten infected. And the only thing more evil than a wheelchair was the self-isolating comfort of a warm bed.