She had used a manual wheelchair since early childhood following a serious automobile collision on the highway outside our county.

I did not know the intimate details of her family’s financial situation, nor had I ever pried into their personal business.

I only knew that Autumn was always cheerful, waving politely to neighbors whenever her mother pushed her down the sidewalk.

My thirteen-year-old son, however, had clearly been paying far closer attention to her daily struggles than anyone realized.

“Her current chair is practically falling apart, Mom,” Noah explained, finally slipping his other sneaker off to stand in his socks.

“She has had the same small frame since fourth grade, and the front wheels constantly jam on tiny pebbles.”