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Spokes flash orange under street lights. Tires rumble across pavement cracks. Andrew bats his wheelchair wheels.
The tires suck a dry track, picking up chip wrappers and leaves to scatter them in his wake. He
doesn't care that the dogs bark and snap or that children jeer as he passes.
He's headed for the fair.
Music thumps in his chest; red, yellow, and blue lights chase across his upturned face. He peers at waltzers, carousels, and bumper cars. He licks his lips at the smell of hot dogs and the sight of pink candy-floss on sticks.
He weaves amongst the crowd, his eyes fixed on the Ferris wheel with its red and yellow spokes reared up on a giant
A and decked out with lights. Gondolas grunt as they are hoisted into the crisp, cold sky.
The man with slicked back hair and tattooed arms takes his money and lifts him into the gondola.
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