Dear Betty: It's a wheelchair, I realize. A fancy one, not like the kind that they pushed you around in in the hospice. Motorized, computerized. My eyes focus.

"10 years," said the man. "In case you're wondering."

"Excuse me?" my voice sounded dusty and remote.

"I've been in the chair for 10 years, since I tried to do what you tried to do."

"How do you know what I tried to do?"

The Man in the Wheelchair smiled.

"We have something in common, Kate. We planned and plotted, and failed."