Not a form.

An email, in writing, saying: my child cannot access this, I am requesting a 504 meeting.

Maya had no 504 plan.

She had never had one.

In five years at that district, nobody had ever offered her one, and neither of her parents had ever heard the number.

What a plan would have given her, as it turned out, when she finally got one: a locker reassigned from the far end of the maths corridor to the hall by the office; permission to leave class four minutes early, in writing, so that she stopped having to engineer it with lies about the bathroom; a key to the staff lift; an instruction to facilities to replace the three-eighths-of-an-inch transition strip between the maths corridor and the main hall, which took a man ninety minutes and cost the district eighty-one dollars; and a hall pass that meant a teacher could not make her explain herself.

Every single one of those things was free.