There’s no use crying.

He spilled milk once, just once, but he never forgot it. Maybe it was because of saying—what was that saying?—about spilled milk, or maybe because he would never be sure if he tipped over that glass on purpose. Either way, the damage was done. He had slipped on the milk, slid on the spill, and snapped his spinal cord like a raw guitar string. From the confines of his wheelchair, his head bolted upright, he eyed milk carefully while someone else poured. And they always would.

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