She sat in a metal wheelchair that looked like it had seen some years.
The handles of the wheelchair were wrapped in tape, and the cushion was somewhat sunken.
Margaret held a freshly filled cup of hot coffee, trying to turn the wheels and get out of the corner.
But in front of her, there was a threshold.
It was a wooden strip connecting the lounge area and the main hall, only about an inch or so high.
For an able-bodied person, it was nothing—a simple step over.
But for Margaret in her wheelchair, it was an insurmountable mountain.
She pushed hard on the handrims. The front wheels hit the threshold and bounced back. Some coffee spilled, scalding the back of her hand.
She frowned but didn't cry out. She just gritted her teeth, adjusted her angle, and prepared for a second attempt.
Frank had clearly seen it too. He strode over, wanting to help give her a push.
"Don't touch me!"
Margaret yelled stubbornly, her voice sharp.
