Because she was one of the very few who could understand the man's slurred speech, she was the one allowed to guide his wheelchair over the bumpy, ancient walks of the college. But she could not manage the steps. "I'll find someone to help," she said, and bent to listen to the breathy whisper. "Oh, no, "she said, "it's no trouble, Dr. Hawking!" And she meant it. Even in the sweltering heat of England's hottest August—it had to be over seventy-five degrees!—helping a world-famous scientist to navigate Cambridge's pretty paths was not an imposition. It was an honor. And a responsibility; and when she came back with a husky crew member and an eager Greats from King's College she cried out in pain. "But he couldn't have got out of the chair! "she wailed. Yet there was the empty chair, straps still buckled, footrest still set high for his shrunken legs . . . but Stephen Hawking was no longer in it.


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