Betty glanced with hatred at the Chair. (She always thought of it in capital letters.) The only thing that kept her alive since the accident that had robbed her of sensation and movement below the neck. But she wasn't grateful, she couldn't help but experience it as her prison. The utter dependency, the complete lack of privacy as even the most basic biological functions had to be handled by other people. Even moving across the room was a major project, let alone actually going anywhere. She faced maybe another 20 or 30 years in the chair, and she couldn't even commit suicide.
Few were happier than Betty to have heard of the fantasy wave. She was a fantasy fan anyway--one of her few social outlets was her regular D & D game, although even then others had to roll the dice for her--but as far as she could tell none of the new forms the wave granted were crippled (she despised the term "disabled"). It didn't matter, human/nonhuman, male/female, even smart/dumb, as long as she got the ability to move and feel again.
Betty glanced out the window. The wave was in sight. Down the street, at the next house, twenty feet away, ten feet away, actually in the room with her, enfolding her, changing her. . .