As he attempts to enter the wheelchair-accessible entrance of his university’s admissions building, he realizes the electric door opener is just past his reach.
As Baez leans farther, his fingers stretch just inches short of the button and he fails to touch it. He looks around for nearby students to no avail, realizing the campus is largely empty. Most students do not need to go to campus weeks before the semester starts to evaluate classroom accessibility, but Baez could not find enough accessibility information on the school’s website.
He wonders if the shiny door opener button foreshadows further accessibility issues to come. As he lunges and wiggles, he grasps the air and still cannot reach it. Trying to pull the doors open is unsuccessful too, as their heavy weight and narrow width combine for an impossible mobility puzzle.
Looking at the button, he can see his reflection overlaying the icon of the wheelchair. With enough energy for one final try, he wheels backwards and prepares for a running start. As he speeds toward it, he tosses his arm forward and just barely slaps the button hard enough to trigger it.
It makes a clicking sound, followed by silence.
He waits, and waits, and just as he thinks to himself, “F*ck, it’s broken,” the doors start to creak open. He finally enters the building, and stares at the stairs that sit before him.