The wheels twist when I hoist the rollator out of the trunk. I steer over cracked sidewalks and head toward the restroom. Where there’s an accessibility sign. But no button. The wheels twist as I open the door with one hand. Twist my body to push through with my butt. I steer over mosaic tile to the accessibility stall. Where some student holes up. Some student who doesn’t need the handrails. I twist my body to sit down on my rollator. I wait until she finishes. All the other stalls remain empty. I twist and turn to see the stalls are empty. Except the one I need. I want her to feel guilty. I want her to know my twisted body could be hers someday. Maybe someday soon. The wheels twist and I push through the stall doors. Hold onto the handrails with both arms and lower myself. No toilet paper.