His father sits him down on Saturday.

"You're going to fill out ten scholarship applications," he says. "If I have to move halfway across the country myself to get you through college, I will. Stop trying to solve your own problems." He stops, rolls up his sleeves, and fixes his son with a glare.

"Why the hell do you think I decided to have children? So I could help, kid."

August claws the keyboard. "I can't even eat a piece of pizza. You want me to write an essay?"

"No," his father says. He props open the cardboard takeout box. "Learn how to eat the pizza, and I'll write the essay. Then we'll switch."

"I'm not trying solve my own problems."

"Really? So you haven't been avoiding your girlfriend? Or the shower? Or the dinner table? Or any place where you're forced to acknowledge the newness of your situation, and the fact that you don't quite have a grip on it yet?"

Sauce burns his fingers. He strains to curl them around the crust, forcing the muscles to contract until pain shoots through his knuckles. "I'm trying to hide from them," August says, "and I'm doing a damn good job."

His father stops typing and turns to look at him. Just stares, for a moment. His jaw is heavy. Darkness circles beneath his eyes. "Top ten," he says after a long pause. "Yale, go."

"No Yale. Top three."

"Apply to ten and cut to three."

"I'm a quadriplegic," he mumbles. "Scouts aren't breaking my door down."

"You're a smart kid, August. A little fight in you and they will be." His father picks up a notebook and lays out a stack of folders. Baseball hats line the top of his desk. Empty promises.

"I want you on the field again. Doesn't have to be this year, doesn't have to be next. Hell – you can be out there in a wheelchair. I just want to see..." he stares at his hands. Then his son. "I just want to see all that heart you put into high school go somewhere. It feels like a waste of time right now, but it won't – it doesn't – it doesn't have to. You can...you can beat this, August."

Halfway to his mouth, his fingers give way. The slice of pizza slaps against his plate and spatters grease on his jeans. August clenches his fist in frustration. Oil stains his palms.

"That's not serious. That's not a serious statement. I can't even reach the alarm clock."

"Well," his father says, "I suggest you stretch farther."

"Don't push me past..." he searches for the word. "Past the point of recovery."

"They teach you that in therapy? Nice little catchphrase."

"Keeps my teachers off my ass."

"It's going to keep a diploma out of your hand, too, if you don't...stretch yourself...a little bit further." His father pulls up an application. Continues typing, eyes focused on the screen. "I've seen you pine after the girlfriend of yours. Kaydance, right? You don't want to give up on that, do you? You can't pick what you keep going after. You either ditch everything – all of it, and do nothing – or you commit to your grades, your therapy, your girlfriend, and you figure out how to reconfigure things."

August thumbs grease off his pants. "Kaydance doesn't want to date a cripple."

"Well," his father says, "it's a good thing this is only temporary, isn't it?"