it is.”

Dad looked at me.

“You store this equipment at home?”

“Only when storage messes up.”

“You have storage?”

“Very glamorous career.”

Before he could ask anything else, an older woman entered pushing a walker.

She pointed at it.

“I broke it.”

I crouched beside the front wheel.

“You didn’t.”

“It clicked.”

“Everything clicks when you use it as a chair.”

She looked offended.

“I did not sit on it.”

I stared at her.

She sighed.

“Fine. Maybe once.”

Dad almost laughed.

I tightened the adjustment knob.

Then I handed the walker back.

“Show me what they taught you yesterday.”

She positioned herself.

Too far forward.

“Again.”

She corrected her stance.

“Better.”

Dad watched carefully.

She practiced turning.

Sitting.

Standing.

I didn’t touch her once.

I coached.

When she finished, she smiled.

“I still hate this thing.”

“You’re allowed.”

She visibly relaxed.

After she left, Dad looked at me.

“