He has made a believer of me—the man who enters my classroom preceded by a low buzz, a stop-and-go whir from the motor of his wheelchair. He glides through the door and into place about five minutes after class begins. People have learned to leave a space for him at the table near the door because the room is small and he can't negotiate turns past book bags, coats, and umbrellas.

The motor is attached to the right side of his chair and has four buttons: forward, back, on, and off. I'm not sure yet how he handles turns. Watching, I step over the arcs his wheels seem to etch on the marble floors as he exits. I try never to leave the classroom before him. Several times when I've hurried away to a meeting, I feel I have abandoned him.

He carries his notebooks in a large square woven bag that hangs from the back of his chair handles. It fits exactly as if someone made it for him. I picture a wife perhaps, measuring the chair with a yellow tape, describing a design as he pivots to determine if he will be able to reach it himself. He practices the twist of his shoulders, the lurch of his arms over the top, his hand dipping down to bring up his supplies.