"Cross them or fold them or something. Don't just leave them laying there like a couple of dead carp." Heath looked away from her legs. Though they were tidily covered in denim trousers and, to all intents and purposes, looked like the legs of any seated, trim, forty-one-year-old woman, she couldn't bear the sight of them."How about I pretzel them?" Gwen said, turning from the camp-ground's specially designed picnic table where she was setting out a plate on the specially designed end so Heath's specially designed wheelchair would roll under oh-so-specially. "Why don't you get Wiley to do it? He's a highly trained helper."Heath looked to where the dog lay under the table watching a momma mallard and her three late-season ducklings with an evil glint in his eyes. He was originally named Prince Theo III but she and her aunt called him Wiley because of an uncanny resemblance he bore to the cartoon coyote after a run-in with roadrunners and sticks of TNT."Wiley's off duty.""Wiley's always off duty."Heath leaned over, her belly pressed against the wheelchair's safety belt: an indignity the doctors had promised she could forgo when she got used to her "altered circumstances" and quit pitching face forward every time she leaned too far.
