CHICAGO _ A young man in a wheelchair is racing down a Chicago sidewalk.
His mother trots behind him, trying to keep up. Some days, as he heads to school and she's off to her job as a bank trust officer, she pushes him, over the cracked concrete or through the snow, but he's on his own this morning.
He whizzes past the cotton candy vendor, Nino's Tire Shop, Guerrero's Pizza. At a curb, he pops a wheelie, makes a fast, tight circle and steers in a new direction.
Only a couple of years ago, when he was a senior at Walter Payton College Prep, an elite Chicago high school, he was a runner and a cyclist. He still likes speed.
At the entry to the CTA station, he stops to check which elevators are out of order in the Loop _ if he's going to get to class on time, he can't afford to get stranded in a station _ then rides up to the platform, where he sits with his eyes at the waist level of other passengers.
"I spend a lot of time staring at butts," he says.
When the "L" clatters in, he wheels inside, then wedges his chair into a corner, protection against the train's bumps and turns. His mother sits beside him and braces one of his wheels with her black sneaker.
"Just in case," she says.
As the train pulls away, he grips a metal bar with his left hand, revealing the tattoo on his inner arm:
4/10/16.
April 10, 2016. The day he was shot and paralyzed.
