something
amazing
to show you!”
“What?” I demand.
“Stop asking! This is his surprise.”
From the buildup I’m expecting a room full of people, but it’s just Kyro.
Kyro and his laptop.
Kyro has ancestors from Poland and Ethiopia. He has dark skin and light eyes and the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. The fingers are long and graceful, and they do a little flip upward near the tips. But the overall impression is one of strength; that his hands could move mountains.
Kyro’s hands are busy on the keys of his laptop when Fiona and I come in. “Jessica!” he says with a smile, then hits a few keys and turns to Fiona. “How much did you tell her?”
“Nothing!”
He grins. “I’m impressed.”
“You should be!” she says with a laugh.
“Will one of you
please
tell me what this is about?”
He motions me over. “Have a seat.”
So I sit in his seat and watch his computer screen as he activates a YouTube video.
It’s footage of a track. A race. Some big event.
The commentator is speaking in a language I don’t know.
Italian?
“What is this?” I ask.
“Shhh,” Kyro says. “Just watch.”
There’s a close-up now. A close-up of something I don’t recognize. It’s got little nails sticking out of a rubberized pad, and the pad is connected to a long, dark piece of curved metal.
And then the camera pulls back and I see that there are two of these spiky padded pieces of curved metal and that they’re attached to … legs.
It’s a runner?
Yes.
A runner on curved, spiked feet.
“That’s Oscar Pistorius,” Kyro says softly. “He’s a four-hundred-meter sprinter, and a
double
below-knee amputee. Those are running prostheses.”
“He
runs
on those?” I gasp, because it doesn’t seem possible. His legs are sickles. Hooks. I don’t understand how he can even stand on them, let alone run.
And yet he walks along the track, and then … he gets down in the starting blocks.
I hold my breath, not believing my eyes.
Kyro leans in and points out the other runners. “Look what he’s competing against.”
Every other runner getting into blocks has two legs.
Two flesh-and-blood legs.
The runners are set and the gun goes off, and the guy with hook legs fires out of the blocks just like the rest of the runners.
I watch, my heart pounding.
He can run!
He can
run
.
And not only can he run, he’s
fast
. While other runners struggle through Rigor Mortis Bend, he gains ground, finishing the race in second place.
My jaw drops when the screen displays his time. “A forty-six nine?” I gasp.
Kyro grins. “Impressive, even on regular legs.”
Kyro shows me two more videos—one with a womannamed Amy who’s missing one leg below the knee just like me and runs
marathons
, and another with an amputee my age racing for her track team.
When they’re done, he closes the laptop and looks right at me. “What do you think?”
“What do I
think
?” Thoughts race through my head.
It’s amazing.
Unbelievable.
And freakish.
These people look like
cyborgs
.
Since I lost my leg, I’ve wanted to cover up. Hide what I’m missing. Make others forget there’s something different about me.
There’d be no covering that up.
Is running worth becoming a cyborg?
Kyro gently prods me for an answer. “What I’m asking is would you want one?”
My heart races at the thought of being able to run again, and my moment of doubt vanishes.
“Yes!”
He nods. “Okay, then, here’s the situation: Running prostheses are expensive. We already have plenty of problems with insurance companies covering your basic medical issues, but even if we didn’t, getting them to pay for one of these is almost certainly out of the question. So we had a team meeting yesterday and formed the Help Jessica Run campaign. Every runner volunteered for at least one of four committees: Bake Sale, Raffle, Car Wash, and Community Donations.” He takes a deep breath. “Our goal is to buy you a running legso
amazing
to show you!”
“What?” I demand.
“Stop asking! This is his surprise.”
From the buildup I’m expecting a room full of people, but it’s just Kyro.
Kyro and his laptop.
Kyro has ancestors from Poland and Ethiopia. He has dark skin and light eyes and the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. The fingers are long and graceful, and they do a little flip upward near the tips. But the overall impression is one of strength; that his hands could move mountains.
Kyro’s hands are busy on the keys of his laptop when Fiona and I come in. “Jessica!” he says with a smile, then hits a few keys and turns to Fiona. “How much did you tell her?”
“Nothing!”
He grins. “I’m impressed.”
“You should be!” she says with a laugh.
“Will one of you
please
tell me what this is about?”
He motions me over. “Have a seat.”
So I sit in his seat and watch his computer screen as he activates a YouTube video.
It’s footage of a track. A race. Some big event.
The commentator is speaking in a language I don’t know.
Italian?
“What is this?” I ask.
“Shhh,” Kyro says. “Just watch.”
There’s a close-up now. A close-up of something I don’t recognize. It’s got little nails sticking out of a rubberized pad, and the pad is connected to a long, dark piece of curved metal.
And then the camera pulls back and I see that there are two of these spiky padded pieces of curved metal and that they’re attached to … legs.
It’s a runner?
Yes.
A runner on curved, spiked feet.
“That’s Oscar Pistorius,” Kyro says softly. “He’s a four-hundred-meter sprinter, and a
double
below-knee amputee. Those are running prostheses.”
“He
runs
on those?” I gasp, because it doesn’t seem possible. His legs are sickles. Hooks. I don’t understand how he can even stand on them, let alone run.
And yet he walks along the track, and then … he gets down in the starting blocks.
I hold my breath, not believing my eyes.
Kyro leans in and points out the other runners. “Look what he’s competing against.”
Every other runner getting into blocks has two legs.
Two flesh-and-blood legs.
The runners are set and the gun goes off, and the guy with hook legs fires out of the blocks just like the rest of the runners.
I watch, my heart pounding.
He can run!
He can
run
.
And not only can he run, he’s
fast
. While other runners struggle through Rigor Mortis Bend, he gains ground, finishing the race in second place.
My jaw drops when the screen displays his time. “A forty-six nine?” I gasp.
Kyro grins. “Impressive, even on regular legs.”
Kyro shows me two more videos—one with a womannamed Amy who’s missing one leg below the knee just like me and runs
marathons
, and another with an amputee my age racing for her track team.
When they’re done, he closes the laptop and looks right at me. “What do you think?”
“What do I
think
?” Thoughts race through my head.
It’s amazing.
Unbelievable.
And freakish.
These people look like
cyborgs
.
Since I lost my leg, I’ve wanted to cover up. Hide what I’m missing. Make others forget there’s something different about me.
There’d be no covering that up.
Is running worth becoming a cyborg?
Kyro gently prods me for an answer. “What I’m asking is would you want one?”
My heart races at the thought of being able to run again, and my moment of doubt vanishes.
“Yes!”
He nods. “Okay, then, here’s the situation: Running prostheses are expensive. We already have plenty of problems with insurance companies covering your basic medical issues, but even if we didn’t, getting them to pay for one of these is almost certainly out of the question. So we had a team meeting yesterday and formed the Help Jessica Run campaign. Every runner volunteered for at least one of four committees: Bake Sale, Raffle, Car Wash, and Community Donations.” He takes a deep breath. “Our goal is to buy you a running legso
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