At prom, only one boy asked me to dance because I was in a wheelchair. Thirty years later, I saw him again—and this time, he needed help.

“Fair point,” he said. Then he held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

I stared at him. “Marcus, I can’t.”

He nodded once.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”

I laughed before I could stop myself.

Before I could object, he wheeled me onto the dance floor.

I stiffened. “People are staring.”

“They already were.”

“That doesn’t help.”