The voice belonged to Mrs. Vane, the chemistry teacher. I knew her type—cold eyes and a smile that never reached them. She had complained about Maya’s wheelchair “scuffing the floors” during the first parent-teacher conference.

“Look at this mess,” a man’s voice joined in. Mr. Henderson. The history teacher who prided himself on his Ivy League degree. “You can’t even pick up a pencil without making a scene. Honestly, it’s embarrassing for the school to have… equipment like yours cluttering the aisles.”

My hand hovered over the doorknob. My pulse hammered in my neck.

I peered through the crack.

The classroom was empty of other students. Just Henderson, Vane, and the Vice Principal, Mr. Sterling. They were standing in a semi-circle around Maya.

Maya was shrinking into her wheelchair. Her shoulders were hunched, her head down. She looked tiny.

Henderson was holding a sketchbook. The sketchbook. The leather-bound one I had hand-stitched for her birthday, embossing her initials on the cover.