He walked with a slight hitch in his right leg, the legacy of an injury he never fully explained, and his left wrist sometimes stiffened when the weather changed, but he never complained, never asked for sympathy, just adjusted and kept moving like he had been trained to do long before I was born. I was cutting through the cafeteria on my way back from the guidance office when I saw him step into the lunch line, still in his navy-blue maintenance shirt with his name stitched above the pocket, tray balanced carefully in his hands, scanning the menu board like the choices mattered more than they did. For a split second, I considered ducking into the hallway before anyone noticed the connection between us, but hesitation cost me, because at that exact moment his toe caught on the edge of a curled rubber mat near the soda machine, and the stumble that followed unfolded in slow, terrible clarity, the tray tilting, the milk carton bursting, mashed potatoes sliding like wet cement before gravity pulled him down onto one knee, one hand slapping hard against the tile to keep himself from falling completely.
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