That night, Priscilla’s wheelchair rolled to a stop just inside Becca’s door. Becca lay on her bed with her face to the wall.
“Becca? You know what you said about me being mean?” Priscilla asked.
Becca suddenly turned over and sat up. “I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Don’t let your mother send me back to Germany.”
“I wanted to say, without my legs, I’m not special anymore. I feel mad all the time.”
“But legs don’t really matter. My Papa’s legs didn’t work either,” Becca said, “and he was very special.”
“Really?” Priscilla paused. “I don’t actually want you to go.”
“Danke. Thank you,” Becca whispered, air escaping as if she had been holding her breath.
“Maybe we could be friends,” Priscilla offered.
Becca looked at the girl who had made her life in England miserable and saw her for what she really was: a sad, lonely little girl, a lot like herself. Becca nodded.
“Good, then,” Priscilla said, smiling.
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