"Wouldn’t they all be wheelchairs?" His brow furrows faintly. A glance up from the plates. "Whether or not you were sick?"

Healers usually don’t want you moving if you’re sick. Though it’s not like they’d get very far up stairs and snow, so maybe.

"Races, though. They could be sort of like miniature carts.”

He sets down the stack, moving to rummage in a pocket. Eventually he comes up with: a tiny carved antler, a glossy black seedpod, and a spare nail. The last he holds up for a better view.

It's a proposition. Not that he has the faintest idea how a cart is constructed.