Just as we’re about to exit the house, I lose control of my head for the third time: it drops to my chest, I lose contact with my headswitch, and my wheelchair slows to a stop halfway over the threshold of the door.
I let out a long breath, staring down at my lap as my head lolls, and feeling the pressure of anger building in my chest. “Joel,” I say, “can you go and get the neck brace, please?”
“Okay,” he says, but before he goes, I see his square fingertips approaching my chin, to help me tip my head up again.
“No,” I say, before he can make contact, “I’ll try myself.”
His fingers withdraw, he says “Okay” again, and I hear his footsteps receding toward my bedroom.