Clara was there, her wheelchair next to the table, her plate of pancakes in front of her like a fragile shield. At sixteen, she had learned to face the stares, the whispers, and the pity. But nothing had prepared her for what was about to happen.
Nearby, a group of boys laughed cruelly. 
One of them knocked over his plate, sending the pancakes falling to the floor, syrup spilling everywhere. Another shoved her wheelchair, making it wobble.
The diner froze. Forks hung in the air, conversations died down. The boys’ laughter echoed, sharp as broken glass. Clara held back her tears, but the humiliation was stronger than the pain.
