The Running Dream Read Online Free PDF Page A

whole ride has been snail-paced. Careful turns, complete stops, below-limit speeds. I can’t decide if he’s scared of jostling me or scared of having me home.
    Finally we pull up to the curb behind my mother’s car. A flood of emotions comes over me as I look at our house and see snapshots in my mind:
    Mud castles in the flower beds.
    Hide-and-seek under the porch.
    Dad taking the training wheels off my bike.
    Kickball.
    Hula hoops.
    Running through the sprinklers.
    Sherlock as a puppy, chasing his tail.
    Fiona and me giggling, climbing out my window and dropping to the ground.
    And then I notice the ramp—the one that goes up the left side of the porch steps.
    And the guardrail made of pipe—the one attached to the right side of the porch stairs.
    They’re nasty scars across a cheery entrance.
    I face my dad. “I can do steps, you know. I don’t need a ramp.” I don’t mean to, but I sound angry.
    “It’s just temporary,” he says softly. “Until you get your leg.”
    I grab my crutches. “In the meantime, I can use crutches or hop.” I open the passenger door defiantly, then look down at the curb.
You can do this
, I tell myself.
You can do this. Down is way easier than up
.
    But the curb seems miles away, and I’m suddenly gripped with fear.
    Dad’s already around to my side, and he seems to understand that picking me up would be the wrong move to make. “Grab the handle and the frame,” he says, coaching me forward. “Do it once and you’ll have it conquered.”
    So I give up on the crutches and I do as he says, letting him be my spotter as I swing down to earth.
    “See?” he says with a smile.
    Mom’s rushing from the house. “You’re here!” she cries, but my dad gives her the take-it-easy signal as I saddle my armpits over the crutches.
    “Uh …,” she says as I swing toward the steps.
    She’s worried.
    She wants me to use the wheelchair.
    I ignore her concerns as I hobble forward, and I can sense my dad pulling her back.
    At the steps I put both crutches in my left hand, grab the pipe rail with my right, then hop up.
    One step.
    I feel off balance.
    Two steps.
    Like I should be grabbing the rail with my left hand. Three.
    I steady myself at the top, then saddle the crutches again and move on.
    To my surprise the screen door doesn’t fight me as I pull it open. Dad’s disconnected the automatic closer so it swings easily and stays cooperatively to the side.
    I push open the front door and cross the threshold. I’m shaky from the effort. My stump is throbbing. I just want to collapse.
    Then I smell something.
    Onions and oregano and garlic—Mom’s spaghetti sauce heating up on the stove.
    I crutch forward a few steps and take a deep breath.
    From behind a gate in the kitchen Sherlock lets out a happy bark.
    “Hey, boy!” I call, which makes him go berserk.
    I have no ruby slippers, and I won’t wake up from this dream, but still.
    There’s no place like home.

 
    K AYLEE AND HER PACK of friends blast through the door after school.
    Our house has always been their hangout.
    “Oh, hey!” they say, stopping in their tracks when they see me in the hallway. It’s a warm day, and they’re all wearing shorts.
    “Hey,” I say back, and put on my best smile.
    “When did you get home?” Kaylee asks.
    “A little while ago,” I answer.
    “Hi, girls!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Come on in!”
    Kaylee’s friends are trying hard not to look at my leg, and I can’t help looking at theirs.
    None of us seem to have anything to say.
    I’m a stranger.
    A freak.
    “Well, I need to sit down,” I finally tell them, because my stump is throbbing.
    I sound angry.
    Annoyed.
    They move aside as I crutch past them, and in a flurry of whispers they escape up the stairs to Kaylee’s room.
    I retreat to the family room, take my pain meds, and turn on the TV.

 
    I LEARN TO HOP AROUND THE HOUSE . I stay near furniture and walls to steady myself, and although I feel like I’m