The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen Page A

, so we know we’re in the right place; it just feels wrong.
    My mom unstraps her seat belt. “Let’s just go in and see what we think, okay?”
    I nod and work myself and my crutches out of the passenger seat. I feel strange in shorts.
    Vulnerable.
    “If you don’t like it here,” she whispers as we near the entrance, “we’ll take you someplace else.”
    I know she’s just being nice and that I don’t really have a choice. Still, I’m glad she said it.
    The waiting room is set up like a doctor’s office, only the chairs are plain molded plastic, and instead of carpeting there’s chipped linoleum. There’s an odd smell to the place, too. Not bad, just sort of … industrial.
    An elderly couple is already in the waiting room. The man is in a wheelchair, and he’s holding a fake leg across his lap. His wife is sitting beside him with her purse in her lap. They look us over without smiling or saying hello, and the old man seems very unhappy. Like he’d sooner hurl his leg than wear it.
    We go up to the reception counter and I try to ban thoughts of my future from my mind.
    I do not want to be a crabby old lady holding a leg in my lap.
    I just don’t.
    The receptionist is younger than my mom. Actually, she’s not that much older than I am. Maybe in her early twenties?
    “Hi!” she says across the counter. “You must be Jessica!”
    She’s like sunshine through my cloud of uncertainty. I smile and nod, and since she’s wearing a name tag, I say, “And you must be Chloe.” We both laugh, and suddenly I feel more at ease. Nothing’s changed but the vibe in the room, but it helps.
    She gives my mom a clipboard with paperwork to fill out, then leans forward a little and says to me, “Hank will have you walking again in no time. He’s really good.”
    I nod and smile, and in that moment I believe her.
    Then my mom and I sit in the hard plastic chairs, and I’m confronted with the reality of the old man and his leg again.
    He just sits there, sullen.
    His wife just sits there, quiet.
    Mom’s completed about half the paperwork when Chloe appears in the waiting room. She’s not wearing a nurse-type smock or shoes, just regular clothes—jeans, a knit top, and flats. The only thing that gives away that she works there is her name tag.
    She smiles at the old man and says, “You can come on back, Mr. Benson.”
    His response is a frown and a grunt. It is also, apparently, a signal for his wife to roll him out of the waiting room.
    Chloe tosses me a little shrug and follows them.
    Then we sit there for what seems like an eternity. Chloe splits her time between the desk and … somewhere in the back. She apologizes several times for how long it’s taking and finally comes out into the waiting room and sits beside me. “He’s almost done.” She looks at my mom. “I really didn’t think it would take this long. I’m sorry.”
    “That’s all right,” my mom says. “I appreciate you working us in.”
    Chloe looks at me, looks away, looks at me again, and finally says, “Things will change. From here on, they’ll get better.”
    She seems to be choosing her words carefully. Like each one carries a meaning beyond its definition.
    She gives a nervous laugh. “I don’t usually come out and accost the patients, sorry! It’s just that Hank told me about you and … and I can relate.”
    Again, there’s more to these words than I can puzzle out. I’m trying, but I’m not quite there.
    My mom’s trying too. “Was somebody in your family in an accident?”
    Chloe shakes her head. She knocks on her leg with a solid
clunk, clunk
. “I’m a BK amputee too. I lost mine to cancer when I was a kid.”
    From the hallway we hear, “Chloe?”
    She jumps up and hurries across the room, and in the blink of an eye she’s gone, leaving me with my jaw dangling.

 
    M R . B ENSON LEAVES IN HIS WHEELCHAIR , his leg still in his lap. He looks even grumpier than he did before.
    “Remember to practice with it,