But in the photograph, she was standing upright, shoulders back, looking directly into the camera.
That picture meant more to me than every medal she had earned.
One evening, almost a year after the hit-and-run, Katie and I walked to the same crosswalk.
We had practiced the route in small pieces with her therapist, first from a distance, then along the sidewalk, and finally to the curb.
The light changed to green.
Katie reached for my hand.
A car slowed and stopped.
For a few seconds, she could not move.
I did not pull her forward or tell her to be brave.
I simply stood beside her.
Then she took one step.
And another.
We crossed together.
On the opposite sidewalk, she released my hand and looked back at the road.
“I thought he took this from me,” she said.
“What?”
“Going places without being scared.”
I looked at the child Andrew had underestimated—the child who had survived him, named him, and refused to carry his shame.
“He didn’t take it,” I said.
“You’re still here.”
Katie nodded.
Then she turned toward the gym, and we kept walking.
