Alexander wanted to sit in the cool shade of a sycamore tree in the park across from the museum. The summer heat shimmered off the high-rises in waves, making the cityscape ripple like a mirage. Beneath the tree, though, the shade offered a refreshing oasis to read and eat lunch.

Unfortunately, a steep stone staircase barricaded the sycamore and any other patch of shade. The only ramp was at the far end of the park. Alexander told Ms. Overlocker he could wheel himself there alone. He had seen the longing look his teaching aide was giving the cigarette slung from their teacher, Mr. Valdez’s lips, and knew it was futile to make any serious effort to convince her. 

Alexander clenched his teeth and didn’t object when Ms. Overlocker pointed to a table in the sun. His hands squeezed the wheels until he felt the metal frame cut into his palm. I don’t need anyone to say anything or offer to help, and I certainly don’t want their pity.

Inside the museum, Alexander managed to break away from Ms. Overlocker. The soaring ceilings and echoing halls were filled with dazzling distractions: Roman and Greek bronzes, Renaissance masterpieces, and glass cases housing fragments of ancient lives. He drifted from exhibit to exhibit, losing himself in the stories each artifact told.

Eventually, Alexander found himself in a room littered with sarcophagi. It looked like a crowded room of giants facing in all different directions. The air felt cooler here, and a faint smell of dust lingered. He wandered between the elaborately carved coffins, pausing to read the descriptions on small bronze plaques.

One sarcophagus caught his eye. It was smaller than the rest, encircled by towering neighbors. Its intricate carvings seemed ordinary at first, but along the edge of the lid, something stood out—next to some sort of symbol was the word HOME, etched in bold, uneven letters.

“That’s not an Egyptian hieroglyph,” Alexander muttered, frowning. He ran his finger over the rough stone as though he was trying to uncover its meaning. 

The thought of home immediately made his finger tremble. He heard Ruth’s laughter, clear as day, like she was right beside him. He saw her running through the halls, seamlessly part of the daily symphony of shouting, slamming doors, and his father and uncles muttering under their breath. But then he heard her screaming, a sound etched on his brain. Alexander’s breath was ragged and in rhythm with Ruth’s final breaths. Her eyes closed and the expression of fear frozen.

Home. The accident that took his cousin Ruth’s life and gave him a wheelchair to memorialize his blame had twisted the word. His family’s anguish was raw, their glances heavy with unspoken words. He knew what they saw—that he was disappointed to be alive, and that some part of him wished he could trade places with Ruth.

I survived, and Ruth didn’t. A wheelchair and a lifetime of pitied stares are what I deserve. Ruth was more like a sister than a cousin. They were born six weeks apart sixteen summers ago. He sighed, realizing he’d been holding his breath, his trembling finger still tracing the word etched on the sarcophagus.