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.

“It helps me,” he said. “Makes me feel less rude.”

I laughed again without meaning to.

He took my hands and moved with me, not around me. He spun my chair once, then again—slow at first, faster when he saw I wasn’t afraid. He grinned like we were getting away with something.

“For the record,” I said, “this is crazy.”

“For the record, you’re smiling.”

When the song ended, he rolled me back to my table.