Nothing beats a great pair of legs. Wasn't there an ancient commercial that said something like that? I'm not sure because I'm not a hundred years old, but I agree with the sentiment wholeheartedly.

I stare up at the shelf where the new box of cereal sits, a location I was able to reach just fine last year. Despite there being no windows in this domicile, the full-spectrum lights overhead illuminate the yellow box, helping it to mock me with its cheerfulness. It's not even the top shelf, but today it might as well be Mount Rainier. I should ask for help, but it's cereal, damn it. I'm not going to bother my parents over a box of Cheerios. I can do this myself.

I brace my hands on the wheelchair and push myself to my feet. Yes, that's it. My weight shifts forward and I wobble. A hand flies to the counter to steady my equilibrium. A little more balancing. Good. Shuffle a little closer. I'm almost there.

Now reach.

I concentrate on lifting an arm above my head.

I said reach, noodle arm!

It climbs up a few inches higher.

Almost there. I can almost taste the unbridled carbs waiting for me in that box.

My fingertips brush the box and my mouth curves into a smile. I knew I had this. No problem.

I grasp the box and pull it off the shelf, but it slips out of my weak grip as soon as gravity tugs at it. My other hand instinctively tries to catch it, causing me to lose my precious balance. One shoulder teeters to the side, and the rest of me lurches after it. I command my feet to compensate, to step out and restore equilibrium, but they are lead weights. My ankle turns as my traitorous foot catches the floor instead of my fall. Sharp pain shoots up my leg as I collapse in slow motion, hitting the wheelchair on the way down.

The cursed cereal box decides to add insult to injury by smacking me in the face before sliding to the floor.

Thanks a lot, Cheerios.

"Elara!" Mom calls out from the other room as her feet thump across the lacquered concrete floor.

I try to get up before she gets here. To at least be in my chair when she arrives. She doesn't need to see me like this. I don't want her to see me like this. She's got enough to worry about. But everything is a mess. My legs are at odd angles, my hip hurts, and I'm barely strong enough to push myself off the ground.

"Elara, honey, what happened?" Her blue eyes are round with worry. She sets down the tablet she's been reading to crouch next to me. "Here, let me—"

"I can do it!" I slap her hand away and attempt to straighten myself.

It takes all my strength.

Mom hovers a moment, wanting to respect my independence but also wanting to help her only daughter from becoming a throw rug. She picks up the box of cereal instead. "You know, you could have asked me to get this for you. It's not a big deal."

"I know," I say through gritted teeth, trying hard to arrange my body into a sitting position. "It's not a big deal. That's why I wanted to get it myself."

Mom busies herself with fixing me a bowl of cereal while I struggle in silence. She knows how willful I can be. How much a seventeen-year-old girl doesn't want to need her mother anymore.

But I do. I need her. I need them both. Five minutes of grunting and sweating have only proven that I can't pick myself up off the floor like I used to. The disease has progressed farther than I want to admit. Transformed me into this helpless bundle of withering muscle tissue.

I blink away the unwanted sting of tears. I will not cry over this. I knew this was coming. Since the day my parents explained to me what Pompe Disease was, I knew my body would betray me a little more each day. First my muscles, then eventually my organs. It's actually a miracle I've lived this long.

Okay, not really a miracle. I've endured countless procedures, surgeries, and therapies. I've seen more needles than a porcupine rancher. They've managed to slow down the ravaging, but there's no stopping it. No cure. Pompe Disease is always fatal. Then again, isn't life? Isn't the difference between me and the next guy just a shorter timeline? Better to just accept that and get over it.

I should write greeting cards.

My lungs wheeze and my heart thumps erratically from my efforts to drag myself onto the wheelchair. They're fine, though. It's totally normal for lungs and hearts to strain a little with exertion. My muscles are just weak, that's all. I tell myself I've got strong organs and double my efforts to rise.

It doesn't work.

I slump back against the cabinets and sigh. "Mom."

She's by my side so fast, I suspect she's been tensed this whole time, waiting to spring into action. She drapes my arm across her shoulders and hauls me into the chair, all without lecturing me.

Once I'm settled, I feel normal again. What passes as normal for me anyway. I pull the chair's control stick back to roll away from her. "Thanks, Mom."

"Here's your cereal," she says, cheerily sliding the bowl across the table. She's doing a heroic job of making light of this, but I know it kills her to see me like this.

I lose my appetite. Thank you, guilt.

"I changed my mind. Thanks, though." I roll out of the spacious, concrete-walled kitchen before she tries to cheer me up some other way. It's not that I want to wallow in despair, but what's the point in sugar-coating things? This is my reality, and it's okay. I am making peace with it, and they need to do the same.

I can't imagine it being easy for them, though. Did I mention I live in an underground bunker? They had this place built for me, to spirit me away from a world they saw as increasingly ominous. More on that later.

I have this faraway memory of trees and grass and sunshine. I remember blowing on dandelion fluff and watching the seeds float away like little parachutes. I remember running. I fell a lot, but I'd get up and chase those little dandelion parachutes, trying to catch them again.

I don't remember how old I was when my parents said goodbye to the outside world and moved us down here. Don't get me wrong. It's nice. We have everything we need. But I haven't seen the sun since we started calling this place home.

I'd say I miss being outside, but honestly, I can barely remember it. My parents keep me busy with lessons, activities, and movies. I love getting lost in movies. My parents have endless boxes of archaic DVDs they used to collect. So instead of storming outside like a normal kid might, I roll down the wide corridor to my room and stick Wonder Woman into the aging DVD player so I can admire Gal Gadot being a badass.

That evening at the dinner table, Mom awkwardly pushes the broccoli around on her plate. My elbows are planted on the table, allowing me the leverage I need to feed myself. Dad eagerly shovels ham into his mouth, apparently starving after spending breakfast and lunch inside his lab.

"Ethan," Mom puts her fork down, "I think we should talk about the thing we were talking about."

Dad pauses his chewing. "Yeah?"

"Thing? What thing?" I look at the two of them as they carefully avoid eye contact with me. "It's me, isn't it? I'm the thing."

"Honey, stop calling yourself a thing," Mom admonishes.

"It's okay, you don't have to tip-toe around me. I'm a big girl now."

Dad reaches over and pats my hand. "Yes, you are." His brown eyes beam with pride. "Which is why we think you're ready."

I glance from him to Mom. "Ready for what?"

"Prosthetics." Dad's eyes take on a different gleam. The kind that makes him practically vibrate with excitement when he talks about his work. "But not just any prosthetics. State of the art, bleeding edge stuff. Advanced cybernetics, actually. I can show you if—"

"Bleeding edge?" Images of bloody, hacked-off limbs being replaced with clunky hydraulics fill my mind, causing me to shudder. "Uh, no thank you."

Mom shoots him an exasperated glare. "Way to sell it, Ethan."

He shrugs. "What? It is bleeding edge! I'm a scientist, not a salesman."

Mom gives it a try. "Honey, your father has been working on some rather amazing technology. You'd be able to walk again. Reach the shelves without help."

My mouth twists at the reminder of my fun morning. Even so, the thought of someone chopping off my arms and legs is too horrifying to consider. Dad's big brother, Robbie, lost his leg during some military thing gone wrong. When I was little, he used a detachable prosthetic to walk around. He didn't like showing it to people. I think it made him feel like less of a man or something. But one time I caught him removing the prosthetic on a particularly bothersome day. The artificial limb sat on the guest bed next to him while he rubbed what was left of his right thigh. Angry red blotches marred the uneven stump, and he looked so tired then. Almost helpless. Definitely sad.

That prosthetic has since been replaced by a cybernetic leg that dad designed, but the image of that angry red stump and Uncle Robbie's sad face stayed with me a long time. "Losing a limb sucks," he'd said once. "I don't recommend it."

And now my parents were suggesting all my limbs get hacked off? An image of a quadriplegic version of me has my mind backpedaling with great urgency.

"I'll start using one of those grabby sticks you got me," I proclaim. "I can hang it on my chair like a hood ornament." I give them what I hope is a convincing smile.

"But this would be so much better." Dad waves his fork around for emphasis. "You could walk, run, dance like Kevin Bacon in Footloose. Heck, I'll even let you punch me if you don't like them."

I giggle at the thought. "I'm not going to punch you, Dad. And Footloose was a cheesy movie."

He clutches at his heart and tells Mom, "I don't think she's related to us."

Mom chuckles before turning her attention to me. "Elara, I don't think you understand how massive an improvement this will be for you."

Massive improvement, huh? Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, Mom. The more they push, the more I want to dig in with my refusal. I convince myself I'm doing just fine.

"But it's ready," Dad says, his face turning somber. "And you're ready. I've been working on this for years. Years, Elara. It's time."

"But I don't want to be a stand-in for the Tin Man on the Wizard of Oz."

"You won't be! If I could just show you—"

"I might be defective, but you don't have to replace me. I'll do better. You'll see. Watch, I've been working on a better way to stand."

He reaches over again to stop me from rising. "Sweet girl, no one is trying to replace you. We're trying to help you. This disease... we've done all we can. It's not going away."

"Then we'll double the treatments." I look to Mom. "That should work, right? You're the doctor. Tell him."

She shakes her head sadly. "Honey..."

I used to be fascinated by Dad's work. He showed me prototypes of his early prosthetics. Computers would articulate fingers so realistically, you'd think they were real. Then one day, in a fit of excitement, he showed me pictures of the people he was helping. Grim-faced people with stumps for arms or shredded knees. Those images stayed with me too, the thought of such a thing ever happening to me terrifying me to no end.

I've had my whole life to accept what's happening to me. I'm okay.

"Just the legs, then." Dad's face is earnest, pleading.

Mom gasps. "Ethan. We—"

He squeezes her hand to silence her.

"Elara, think about it. New legs. You could walk where you want. Whenever you want. You could sit, stand, whatever. Going to the bathroom wouldn't be a grand production anymore."

That gets my attention. Using the toilet really is a huge pain in the ass. So to speak.

Maybe this is a good idea. Just the legs. I'd be okay with that. I'll just look at my lovely arms and not think about the stumps-for-legs. The thought of sitting and standing wherever I like gets me excited. When was the last time I enjoyed that cushy couch anyway?

Dad keeps talking. "You wouldn't have to worry about falling anymore. You could—"

"I'll do it."

He blinks. "You will?"

"Yes, Dad. I will."

He turns a two-hundred-watt grin to Mom.

She looks pleased too, but not as thrilled for some reason.

"This is good," Dad tells her. "Everything is going to work out."

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