Good Game
<p>Autumn had come late. A drought had sucked Raleigh and most of North Carolina dry. Sunburned brown, the parched grass and withered flowers had lost their will to live. Leaves still clung stubbornly to the trees, but they were shrunken shells ready to blow in the wind. The air felt as oppressive as my life had become.</p>
<p>I woke early, unable to sleep, jealous of Lauren’s quiet breathing and my dog’s snoring. Even the hum of the ceiling fan made me restless. Watching the blades turn, their shadows waxing and waning across the ceiling, I longed to turn over in bed. That simple act — now an impossible dream — might have brought the welcome release of sleep. Defeated, I reached up, grabbed the specially made bar on my headboard with both hands, and hauled myself upright with a small grunt. With considerable effort, and a somewhat louder grunt, I lifted myself into my waiting wheelchair and positioned my useless legs, all without interrupting Lauren’s sleep.</p>
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