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Anisia pushed through the glass doors of the large bookstore at the mall. The place almost aseptic, but at the same time a warm isalnd of silence and peace in the chaos of the 3-storey mall. She wheeled herself slowly down one of the aisles, her brown and pink unwalked Western boots resting peacefully on the footrest of her wheelchair. The denim miniskirt reached just to mid-thigh, hugging the compression hose she always wore—her signature dull, golden tan pair. Today’s tee was lace and a print, breezy and soft, and it sugged her body as she moved, outlining her fit, lean upper body. She was hunting for a book she’d spotted online—a paperback with a peach-colored spine. Her eyes scanned the shelf in front of her, then crept upward. Of course. Second shelf from the top. Out of reach. Anisia sighed—softly, not dramatically, but it was still one of those sighs. She shifted slightly in her chair, puhing up on ther rims, and absently flicking a strand of chin-length blonde hair from her