September 21st, 1891

"…and then John told me that he was going to ask Millie to go to the concert with him, and I almost didn't believe him but then…" Clara's voice trailed off in the middle of her story as she noticed Andrew's head slowly dip to his chest. His eager nods turned from a sign of affirmation that he was, indeed, listening to her, to a sign that he was, indeed, falling asleep. She gave a small sigh of resignation and poked him in the leg with the eraser end of her pencil. She'd joined him on the sofa in the parlor after supper to tell him about her day at school and the escapades of their classmates, but the clock already told 8:00pm and he couldn't keep awake.

"wha?" He started awake and leaned forward. "I'm listnin' go ahead."

"You're sleeping again, Andrew. Why don't I ask my father to take you back upstairs to your bed?"

"I'm ok," he muttered. He rubbed the spot where she'd poked him as if it itched and leaned his head back against the back of the couch again, eyes squeezed shut and nose crinkled up that way he always looked when he didn't want to talk about something.

Clara squinted at him in suspicion. "Are you alright?"

"Just a little tired, that's all. I'm ok. You can keep talking." He didn't open his eyes, and Clara guessed that, despite his protests, he was more exhausted than he was letting on. No matter. She could always finish her story tomorrow. Hadn't she been instructed to let him get his rest so he could heal faster? After all, his family would be waiting for him, and when they sent word for him to meet them in their new home, he had to be ready.

"I'm getting Father," she announced.

"mmhmm."

"I'm glad we agree."

Clara scrambled down from the couch and fetched her father as promised. Clara supervised the process of moving him upstairs and once he was settled in, waited in the hallway until her father finished checking him over and tucking him in before he closed the door quietly behind him as he left. Clara followed him back down to the parlor where they took up their spots on the couch again to read their respective books for the evening. Clara didn't get very far with hers. Her thoughts wandered back to Andrew, and the last months, back to him, and after two pages, she put it down and nudged her father with her foot.

"Yes, Clara?" He asked looking up.

"When is Andrew going to be better?"

Mr. Lemay's eyes widened in surprise at the sudden question, before he gave his daughter a comforting smile and pulled her closer. She leaned up against him and played with a loose string on her sleeve.

"He's doing much better already – you've seen how much of an improvement he's made, and you've been such a large part of that. It must be exciting to see him doing so well…"

"But he's not well. Not yet, at least. He's always sleepy, and I think he's not telling me that he's really not ok. He won't even get out of bed. He used to play tag and climb on things and stuff and now he just… sits there." She gave her father a sobering look. "What's wrong with him?"

Mr. Lemay gave a long sigh and rubbed his head. "The sickness, Polio… it's a very dangerous disease, and it can leave its victims very weak for a very long time. Andrew is really very fortunate – many don't make it, and his breathing is strong and normal. This is all good, you understand?"

"Yes," Clara paused and looked up at her father again. "But when will he be better? Like walking and playing better?"

"I'm sorry, Clara, I don't know." He turned her around so they faced each other. He could look her in the eye now and held her hands in his. "His legs are crippled – he might not walk again."

Clara gasped and pulled away. "No! That's not fair!" She shot to her feet and threw her book to the floor, staring at her father in wide-eyed disbelief.

"No," he admitted tiredly, "No, it's not."

"But you're a doctor! You have to fix his leg! You can heal him! Can't you?!"

"I'm afraid there's nothing more I can do at this point, Clara!" He argued back, "I want to help him just as much as you do but-"

"You can't just GIVE UP on him!"

Andrew groaned and rolled over in bed – his legs were too sore to sleep, though laying down seemed to help a bit, and as he stared at the ceiling, he couldn't help but catch the faint sounds of arguing through the thin floor-ceiling dividing his room from the parlor below.

Might not walk again.

No. No. It couldn't be. Could it? He had to walk again. He HAD to.

Andrew threw the covers off of him and pulled his legs to his chest. Maybe he was just being a baby. Hadn't Peter told him to get strong? Hadn't he promised James to get better? He could walk. He could prove it. He put one foot to the ground.

You can heal him! Can't you?!

They Lemay's did so much for him already… He had to try. He had to at least try for them. Next foot. The hardwood floor felt cold on his bare feet and sent a shiver up his spine.

You can't just GIVE UP on him!

He wouldn't give up on himself either. With a final burst of energy, he pushed himself off the bed and onto his feet. He teetered for a second, grabbed the bed frame for balance. He did it! He was standing!

The pain shot up through his right leg. He tried to take a step, but his legs wouldn't move where he told them to go. His ankle twisted beneath him, and he hit the ground hard.

Clara stopped shouting and her father stopped his attempts to reason with her when they heard the thump, then cry of pain from upstairs. Both rushed upstairs to the room, only to find a teary-eyed Andrew curled up on the floor, holding his right leg to his chest. Clara rushed to him, tears pricking at her own eyes, and tried to pull him up.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered and swiped the tears from his eyes.

"What are you apologizing for?" Mr. Lemay asked. He scooped the smaller boy into his arms and placed him gently back in bed. Clara sat next to her friend with a protective hand on his shoulder and an expectant stare fixed on her father.

"I just wanted to walk. I thought I could do it…" His voice was cut off by a small sob. "I just want to walk."

Mr. Lemay looked from Andrew to his daughter and back to Andrew – the two small, scared kids looking to him for help and comfort and looking to each other for friendship and strength – and made his final decision.

"You will, Andrew." He grasped the boy's hand in his own. "I promise you, you will."

And with this simple assurance, and a hug goodnight, and the hope that everything would somehow be better in the morning, both children quietly went to bed.

September 30th, 1891

Clara wandered slowly home from school chatting quietly with Hannah about the events of the school day and their most recent scheme to start a charity clothing drive at their school. As a follow up from their first conversation with Andrew, the girls took it upon themselves to organize something that could help other recent immigrants and poor workers in their area and decided on the idea after one of the weekly meals hosted by the orphanage. They'd been working on it for months now, on and off. The logistics of such an ambitious scheme had to be detailed and well planned, and it would take an adult, or several, to launch the project. They wanted to make sure their idea was foolproof before they pitched it to any grownups, but the other students had been more than enthusiastic when Clara announced the idea to her friends at recess so both girls were hopeful for the success of their event. They even hoped to offer a prize too, for the class that donated the most clothes, and when Clara parted ways with Hannah, she continued meandering towards home, turning different options over again in her head as she considered what could be the best plan.

She almost missed the massive package sitting by the front door of the apartment building near the mailboxes as she walked past. She pushed the door open and started two steps up the first flight of stairs before realizing something was amiss and making an abrupt about-face to investigate. The package was long and light and wrapped in heavy brown paper. The label was addressed to her father. That was curious. He rarely got mail like this.

Her previous thoughts of the clothing drive temporarily forgotten, she grabbed the parcel and hurried up the stairs to throw open the front door. Andrew, who was sitting on the couch in the parlor doing a puzzle, looked at her curiously as she rushed past

"Are you ok? You're pretty late. What's that?" He asked, straining his neck from his seat to see.

"Sorry! I'll be right back," Clara answered shortly, before dropping her schoolbag unceremoniously on the ground and heading for her father's office. Her mother's request to please stop doing that and to place it neatly on their new coat rack by the door instead faded behind her, unheeded.

"Da! Da!" Clara sprinted up the stairs two at a time, careful not to bash the package against the walls in her excitement. "What's this?!"

Her father looked up from the desk and smiled as he took the parcel from his daughter. He set it down gently on his desk and reached for a pen. Very slowly and deliberately, he crossed out his name on the label and wrote in Andrew's. Clara's eyes grew wide as she watched over his shoulder, and she silently followed him back downstairs to the parlor. Andrew sat up straight as he saw them coming back. Mr. Lemay gave him the parcel, and he looked blankly from the label to his friends and back to the label.

"This is for me?"

"Well, Open it!" Clara yelled, overwhelmed now with curiosity. Andrew grinned and tore into the paper wrapping before shouting in excitement as the gift was revealed. It was a beautiful and sturdy wooden crutch. He ripped it from the rest of the wrapping and launched himself off the couch without a moment's hesitation as Clara shrieked in delighted surprise. He lost his balance with the momentum of his first exciting movement and took a few clumsy steps before stumbling. Mr. Lemay caught him and steadied him on his feet with a pleased grin.

"Careful, boy," he laughed. Andrew beamed up at him and threw his other arm out to steady himself as he searched for better footing. And there, for a split second, he forgot about the fatigue. He forgot about the pain. And he stood.

His next steps wobbled and his legs shook uncontrollably but supported by Clara and his new crutch, he learned how to lean on it and support himself. Without having to balance his weight on his right leg which dragged uselessly on the floor behind him, he could stand easily on his own without falling over. Soon enough, with more practice, he slowly but surely limped in a full lap around the room. Balance, step off with the crutch, push forward with the good leg. Balance, step, push. Balance, step, push. He couldn't do anything about the fact that his right leg just refused to move for him, but his left, though weakened from the sickness and the long time spent bedridden and inactive, could still function and it was only a matter of time before it would relearn to walk again.

I'm walking again.

Clara couldn't stop laughing in excitement and delight at seeing Andrew so happy for the first time in months. Even with each shaky step, he gave her a wild excited smile that seemed to say "Look at me! I did it! I'm doing it again! Look!"

"Ah, careful! Don't step on my toes!"

"I can step on your toes!"

"I know!"

"There you go!" Mr. Lemay cheered from the side. Andrew flashed him a grin before turning back to Clara and giving her a mischievous smile.

"I bet I'll win all our games of tag from now on," he joked, sending Clara into another fit of laughter.

"Absolutely! You'll be the star of the track team!" She agreed. He pushed off again, and with the adrenaline and excitement, he pulled ahead of Clara by just a hair. "Hey!"

"Keep up, slowpoke!" He laughed. Clara let go of her tight grip on his arm and let him walk alone for a few steps before he started to tip over again and she rushed to steady him.

Another lap and the pain started to return, but it couldn't hurt the high spirits of the room. He made his way back to the couch to stand next to Mr. Lemay, and once he was close enough, he dropped the crutch to the side and fell into his friend, flinging his arms around the older man in a hug.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispered. When he pulled away and sunk back into the couch, his eyes were wet with tears of joy. "Thank you."

A/N: This is my take on how Crutchie got his namesake, and in an upcoming chapter, you'll also see how Andrew gets his eventual nickname! Thank you again to everyone who reads and reviews! I love seeing your reactions :)