"I told you to stay away from us!" Sarah shouted, her voice shaking across the silent hall. "You and your gang have caused enough pain in our lives! Get out of here!"
"Mommy, no!" Chloe gasped from her chair, her wide eyes instantly filling with tears of pure excitement and wonder. "Don't make him leave! He actually came! It's mine!"
Hammer stopped in the center of the linoleum floor. He set the heavy trunk down with a solid, echoing thud right in front of Chloe’s chair. He didn't look at Sarah with anger; his weathered, stone-cold face carried an expression of deep, solemn respect.
Reaching into his inner vest pocket with grease-stained fingers, Hammer pulled out a worn, spiral-bound notepad. He turned it around and handed it directly to Sarah without a word.
Sarah snatched the notepad, ready to tear it in two, until her eyes locked on the page.
Drawn in colored pencil was a detailed, imaginative sketch of a wheelchair. But it wasn't a drab medical chair—it had purple metallic racing spokes, miniature chrome dual-exhaust pipes, leather padding, and an LED underglow. Scrawled across the top in child’s crayon handwriting were the words: Things My Chair Needs If Grown-Ups Would Listen. In the corner of the page, sitting proudly in the seat with a silver helmet and a beard, was a cartoon drawing labeled Hammer.