’ve never in my whole life eaten an artichoke,’ Guard Number One says. ‘I don’t know why.’ He digs around on his plate for low carbs. ‘I used to weigh one-fifty-eight, waist thirty-four.’

‘Try power yoga,’ Guard Number Eight suggests. He is gleeful because his earring has gone undetected by wardrobe.

‘I strained a groin muscle doing Pilates,’ the Prisoner says. ‘My ex made me go.’

‘You’ve got to quit doing what your ex tells you,’ Number One says. ‘That’s why she’s your ex, got it?’

The Prisoner receives regular text messages from his ex. They meet for brunch on Sundays, even though she’s balling the forklift driver.

‘Guys don’t twig to the fact they can’t eat like they did when they were twenty,’ Number Eight says. ‘Result: flab fest. Start running, do some core strengthening.’

‘What are you, a fucking personal trainer?’

‘Power yoga instructor.’ Number Eight lifts his leg and pushes his foot behind his head.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Number One says. ‘We’re trying to eat here.’

Why all this hostility? Milo can’t understand the neuro-typicals, full of bluster and bile, insincerity and lies. Tanis wants Robertson to be normal. Must those with ASD mimic the neuro-typicals – keeping in check their appreciation of detail and patterns – and adopt the mindless behaviour of the majority?

He showed Gus the photo from his wallet this morning. The old man held the picture of the small boy looking like a beaver, nodded politely and handed the shot back. It’s as though it never happened. Milo never sat on his knee with a candied apple while Gus appeared to be waiting for a bus. Gus didn’t argue himself out of a business and a wife. He is a Polish farm boy in a new land, dancing jigs and discovering new words like okay. He said it several times this morning while Vera made him oatmeal. She said she didn’t have the strength for a fry-up. She washed the dishes and went back to bed, leaving Gus and Pablo exchanging okays.

Number Eight has taken his foot from behind his head to study a newspaper. ‘“International experts,”’ he reads, ‘“were asked to characterize the traits of intelligence, wisdom and spirituality.” What do you think they said?’

‘Like I give a fuck,’ Number One says.

‘Here’s a hint,’ Number Eight says. ‘What did the wise men have?’

‘Wisdom?’ the Prisoner guesses.

‘No shit, Sherlock,’ Number One says.

Number Eight assumes the Lotus position. ‘They say wisdom can be learned, increases with age and can be measured.’

‘How do they measure it?’ the Prisoner asks.

‘They say it is a form of advanced cognitive and emotional development that is experience-driven.’

‘So I guess what they mean is,’ the Prisoner says, ‘live and learn.’

‘A friend of mine,’ Milo offers, ‘believes that life’s challenges are lessons and sometimes we have to learn the same lessons over and over.’

‘Sounds like a major sad-ass.’ Number One chews on a carrot stick.

‘He isn’t, actually. He is pathologically positive.’

‘Must be retarded.’

Milo finds a phone and calls home. Pablo answers.

‘Is my father okay?’

‘More than okay, Milo, he’s helping me with the deck. He’s fixing it in places I never even noticed.’

‘Are you going to pay him?’

‘Sure.’ He doesn’t sound sure.

‘If you don’t pay him, that’s exploitation.’

‘Of course I’ll pay him, when Tanis pays me.’

‘Is she around?’

‘She went to the centre.’

‘Is she going to bring Robertson home?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘About what?’

Milo would like to say ‘me’ but knows this would sound absurd. ‘How’s Vera?’

‘I don’t know. She’s in her room.’

‘She hasn’t come out?’

‘Not since breakfast. She says she’s feeling under the weather. An Indian came by looking for you. A girl, like, a real Indian. Long shiny black hair, like Pocahontas.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said, “Is Milo home?”’

The second assistant director signals that it’s time to march prisoners. ‘Chop, chop,’ he says.

Christopher is no longer on the geriatric floor. Milo tracks him down on the orthopedic floor in a semi-private room.

‘You again,’ Christopher says.

‘It’s nice you have a window.’

Christopher’s purple bruises have turned ochre. ‘How’s my family?’

‘I was hoping you’d call Robertson.’

‘I can’t call Robertson without calling Tanis and she doesn’t want to talk to me.’

‘Actually, you can. Because he’s not at home, he’s at the Child and Parent  Resource Centre.’

‘Why?’

‘They had a fight.’

‘What do you mean “a fight”?’

‘It got physical.’

Christopher tries to sit up but can’t. ‘What did he do to her?’

‘She’s fine but she needed a break.’

‘What did he do to her? Milo, don’t fuck with me.’

‘He tried to strangle her. Because she locked him up and put bolts on the doors. He was going nuts.’

‘Why did she lock him up?’

‘To keep him from running away. He ran away.’ And out the sad story tumbles: Billy bouncing the basketball off Robertson’s head, Mrs. Bulgobin and the hamster, the Robertson-blows-Mr. Hilty note, the ravine, the debris hut, the cops. Christopher doesn’t move while Milo paces and gesticulates. He omits telling him about Billy’s death because he fears Christopher won’t let him near Robertson if he finds out about his child-killing capabilities. ‘I really think it would help if you call him. He needs to know you care.’

‘No, Milo, you need to know I care. Robertson needs anti-psychotic medication. He’s in good hands there.’

‘But they don’t love him. We all need people who love us. Antonio Banderas said that Melanie Griffith made it through rehab because of the power of the heart.’ Milo can’t believe he is quoting a Spanish movie star. ‘Antonio said there is nothing in the world that cannot be cured by love.’

‘Or plastic surgery,’ Christopher says. ‘Have you seen Miss Melanie lately?’

‘Anyway, it’s not just him. Everybody knows that love is the most important thing.’ And everybody knows nobody loves Milo. Which must be why he thinks he needs someone to love him – that without strong personal attachments human existence is a dry bone waiting to be buried. But experience has taught him that relationships complicate, are messy – you get hurt. No relationships equals no complications, no mess, no hurt. Caring about Robertson has only caused Milo grief. He stands unwanted in a hospital room, or on a deck, when he should be out playing the field. Enough of this trying to heal other people’s wounds, the world’s greatest loiterer and avoider has had it. He’s outta here.

‘Do you have the number?’ Christopher asks.

‘What number?’

‘For the centre.’

He knows it by heart, has been dialling and hanging up before anyone answers, fearing they will inquire about his relationship to Robertson, and he knows he can’t lie. Or more to the point, Robertson can’t lie. When told Uncle Milo is coming to see him, he’ll say in that too-loud voice of his, ‘Who’s Uncle Milo? I don’t have an Uncle Milo.’

‘416-778-4923.’

Christopher dials and waits. ‘Yes, good evening, I’m wondering if you can help me, I’m trying to talk to my son, Robertson Wedderspoon. Is he still in isolation? … I see … Well, visiting is a problem for me because I’m in the hospital myself, bedridden, in fact … Yes, well, she didn’t mention it because she doesn’t know yet, we’re separated, didn’t she tell you? … Yes, I understand that but policies waste time and I’m short of it. Can I speak with your supervisor?’

It takes ten minutes for Christopher to convince the staff at the centre to put Robertson on the line. ‘Hey, buddy, how are you?’

Milo lingers by the curtain, waving vaguely at the neighbouring patient who is watching hockey and calling players cocksuckers. ‘Their goalie’s fucking killing us,’ the patient exclaims, possibly to Milo. ‘That guy’s a fucking god. A fucking god!’

‘Robby,’ Christopher says, ‘listen to me, I’m not angry with you … no, I’m not, I’m angry with myself. Robby, I need you to listen to me … Please, buddy, calm down … None of this is your fault … Okay, yes, well, that was your fault. What happened to stopping and thinking before you hurt somebody? Remember we talked about how you’re getting bigger and you can hurt somebody by mistake? … I know … I know … I understand that.’

‘He’s fucking superhuman,’ the sports fan cries.

‘I’m sorry too,’ Christopher says. ‘Yeah, well, Mum and I have stuff to work out … Yes, we’re going to try but you have to stop attacking her, bud … I know you don’t mean to … Robby, you have to calm down, bud. You’re freaking yourself out, stop and think, take a breath.’ Christopher holds the receiver away from his ear and Milo can hear Robertson, in his too-loud voice, struggling to explain himself, talking too fast and stumbling over words. ‘Buddy, listen to me. It’s not your fault … Can I talk for a minute? … Will you let me talk? … I know, bud, I’m sorry, but listen to me … I can’t talk to you when you’re excited. Please take a breath and listen … I know all that, Milo told me … He’s here, he told me everything, so you don’t need to worry.’

‘Cocksuckers,’ the sports fan scoffs.

‘Robby? Robby, are you there? Bud? Who is this? … I was talking to my son. … Yes, I understand that, but I am not ambulatory at the moment. … Is she there? … When do you expect her? … Is she taking him home tonight? … All right, well, have her call me, please. I’m at a new number, 416-668-4267, extension 209 … I understand that, just please, let her know.’ Christopher hangs up and folds his hands on his stomach. ‘That went well.’

‘He needed to hear from you.’

‘She won’t call.’

‘She will.’

‘He sounds terrible. That’s why she’s leaving him there. She’s scared.’ He covers his face with his hands. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘You’re doing just fine.’

Christopher watches the phone and Milo digs around in his bad acting box for something encouraging to say. ‘It said in the paper that wisdom is a form of advanced cognitive and emotional development that is experience-driven.’ He can’t believe he is repeating this drivel when he knows that experience burns you, covers you in scars so thick you can hardly move. You’re too scared to move anyway because you know it will hurt. ‘When do they expect Tanis to be back?’

‘They don’t. She’s been in and out. She wanted to take him home yesterday but they discouraged her. Sometimes there are other ASD kids there. I think he feels less like a freak around them.’

‘He’s not a freak. We’re the freaks.’

‘Oh, shut up, Milo. Listen I … I don’t know what she’ll say, if she does call, or if she’ll even let me see him. But legally she can’t stop me. The thing is, I can’t move. Could you bring him here? If I give you cab fare and a letter, and whatever they need to grant permission, will you pick him up? I’m only asking because you keep hanging around.’

As a coaster and avoider, Milo’s first instinct is to bolt. ‘Shouldn’t we wait and see if she calls?’

Christopher looks at him with the same how-could-I-possibly-have-thought-you-were-anything-but-a-piece-of-shit expression so commonly used by Gus. ‘I forgot. You want to fuck my wife.’

‘Unreal,’ the sports fan says.

‘Vera?’ He knocks again. ‘Vera, Pablo says you haven’t eaten since breakfast. How about a spot of cheese with some sherry?’ Pablo and Gus are below stuffing tacos with whatever they can scrounge in the fridge. Gus became very excited when he discovered a cabbage, ‘Kapusta!’ he said and began slicing it thin and tossing it into the tacos along with leftover animal parts and grated cheese. Milo has never seen Gus eat a taco. Gus distrusts foreign food.

When Vera doesn’t answer, Milo gently pushes the door open. A pile of darned socks, some of them Milo’s, sits on the dresser. She has fallen asleep in the chair, Annie’s chair, by the window. At Vera’s feet lie her glasses and the wedding photo of Milo’s parents. He sets both back on the dresser. He has avoided this room because the decor that Gus described as candy dish is oppressive. Did the floral wallpaper offer Annie solace or amplify her loneliness? The rest of the house, ruled by Gus, remained beige and brown, although he allowed her to paint the bathroom Citrus Zest Yellow. Milo remembers his mother’s excitement as she dipped her brush and began transforming the dull walls that had stood passively while she hemorrhaged babies. All would be better from now on, Milo felt. She died three weeks later, without finishing the baseboards. Gus painted them in the same demented yellow.

What were her true feelings as she lay day in and day out on the marshmallow bed? When the ambulance and fire trucks arrived it was all very thrilling until they took her away on a stretcher and Mrs. C. started mashing parsnips. When she let Milo stay up to watch TV, he knew something was wrong. Halfway through Hill Street Blues, Gus came home, turned off the TV and sat Milo down at the dining room table. ‘I’m very sorry, son,’ he said. ‘Your mother has passed.’

‘Passed where?’

‘She is no longer with us.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘She’s dead, son. She had a heart attack.’

Milo knew about heart attacks, had seen them on TV. Men clutched their chests and fell to their knees. Women didn’t have heart attacks. And anyway, his mother was sleeping.

‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘I’m sure.’

‘Because she could just be sleeping. She sleeps a lot. You don’t know because you’re at work.’ He wanted his father to say, ‘You’re right, son, she’s probably just sleeping.’ He wanted today to be like yesterday and the day before that.

‘She’s dead, son, and I need you to be a big boy about it.’ He patted Milo’s shoulder.

Vera wakes abruptly. ‘What’s all this then?’

‘Hi, Vera, I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Well, you’ve stayed in your room all day.’

‘Have I? Heavens.’

‘Why don’t you come downstairs and have a bite with us?’

‘Is Wally back from the office?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Awfully busy, that accounting business, isn’t it? Have you seen my cardy?’

‘You’re sitting on it.’

‘So I am.’ She pulls the cardigan from under her. Milo helps her put it on.

‘Would you like me to bring you up a tray?’ he asks. ‘Pablo and Gus are making tacos.’

‘You have to be patient with him, Milo. Alfie and Zikie would get into the blackest of moods. Lost in their own worlds, they were.’

‘Fortunately I don’t think Gus remembers anything about the war. He seems pretty happy, all things considered.’

‘He’s just not letting on, just like Zikie.’

He hands her her glasses. ‘Thank you for darning my socks.’

‘It’s no trouble, I enjoy it.’ She takes the wedding picture from the dresser. ‘Did you forget about this? You told me you didn’t have any photos.’

‘Yeah, well, I never come in here.’ He can’t admit he didn’t show it to her because having his mother judged, alive or dead, by strangers has always made him flinch and, occasionally, punch walls.

‘What a looker she was,’ Vera says. ‘And what a kind, intelligent face. Thoughtful. Do you miss her?’

‘I didn’t really know her. I was only six.’

‘She’d be very proud of you.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re an actor, acting in a movie. Very impressive.’

Vera picks up her mending and starts checking a pair of Wallace’s socks. ‘Have you ever hired a prostitute?’

‘No, but people do it all the time.’

‘Where’s your girlfriend that Pablo mentioned?’

‘I don’t know. She’s changed her number.’

‘You could find her, if you set your mind to it. Youngsters give up so easily these days. If we lot had quit at the first sign of trouble, where would you be?’


Milo picks up Annie’s burgundy and gold hand mirror. When she wasn’t sad she would hold it at the back of her head to check her hair in the dresser mirror. Milo loved lying on the marshmallow bed and watching her do her hair and makeup. If he stayed very still she would forget about him and not tell him to stop mooning and go play.

‘What do you think of my mother’s decor?’

‘A bit of a chocolate box, isn’t it?’ She’s fastened the cardigan’s buttons off-centre but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her.

‘Wouldn’t it be great,’ he says, ‘if someone was proud of us for who we are, not what we do?’

‘Actions speak louder than words, Milo. My nephew, Gilly, was always trying to impress his mum, talking about the poor Africans and how he wanted to dig them wells. He was always down the pub fundraising for his wells, and she always believed him because she loved him. The poor sod was living off the well money. Broke her heart when Ettie found out.’

Maybe now is the time to come clean about Wallace’s line of work. Maybe it’s none of the avoider’s business.

‘But Gilly wouldn’t have made up all that stuff about wells in Africa,’ Milo says, ‘if his mother had been proud of him for who he was.’

‘What’s to be proud of? A grown boy sitting around watching telly?’

‘He wasn’t always a grown boy watching telly. Once he was a little boy doing little-boy things. Did Ettie love him for who he was then?’

Vera fingers her cardy buttons. ‘He was an odd little boy, always wore his knickers under his pyjamas. Drove Ettie round the bend because then he’d forget to put clean ones on in the morning.’

‘Why was he wearing his knickers under his pyjamas?’

‘He said if he was kidnapped, he wanted to have his knickers on.’

‘Why did he think he might be kidnapped?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest.’

Would it be hard to be proud of a son who wore his knickers under his pyjamas for fear of being kidnapped? Or who coloured outside the lines, or who pissed himself rather than brave the bathroom where he might find a bloodied fetus in the toilet bowl?

Maybe it’s better that Gus has forgotten about the boy who looks like a beaver.

•••

Pablo holds up an apple. ‘You know what this is, Milo? Yaboowco.’

Gus nods, smiling his doltish smile. ‘Jabłko.’

‘In English,’ Pablo says. ‘Come on, Gussy, say it in English.’

‘Ap-pehl.’

‘See, he’s totally learning English.’

‘Two words don’t equal totally.’ Milo shoves a taco in his mouth even though he isn’t hungry.

‘He’s trying though, Milo, that’s the important thing.’

‘Is it? I thought love was the important thing.’ Grated cheese falls from his taco onto the floor. Gus grabs the dishrag and wipes it up.

‘He really likes apples. He’s eaten, like, four. We’ve got to get some more.’

‘We?’

Gus starts doing dishes, a task he always left to Milo once Mrs. Cauldershot was no longer on the scene. During a garbage run, he found an old dishwasher that he insisted he would fix but never did.

‘You should see what Gussy did to the deck, you wouldn’t believe it. It’s like he’s a carpenter or something.’

Milo taps Gus’s shoulder, startling him. ‘You don’t need to do those. Pablo can do them.’

‘No prah-blum,’ Gus says.

‘See, I taught him that too. Way to go, Gussy, no problem.’

Milo takes the dishrag from Gus and hands it to Pablo.

‘Why do I have to do them?’

‘Because you’re the martyr.’

‘But he likes doing them.’

‘How do you know, do you speak Polish?’

Gus, backing away from Milo, fills the kettle and puts it on the stove. ‘Nie przejmuj się,napij się kawy.’

‘Would you quit that?’ Milo says, more loudly than he’d intended. ‘Nobody speaks Polski around here.’

‘He’s just trying to communicate, Milo.’

‘Oh, so he can’t figure out that none of us know what the fuck he’s talking about? How stupid are you, old man?’

‘Nie rozumiem.’

‘Here we go again. Fucking mind games. Shut up, all right, just shut up.’

Gus cowers by the stove. Milo has never seen him cower. Terrorizing his father sparks electricity in Milo’s fibres. Pablo pushes him into the living room.

‘Are you crazy, man? What do you think you’re doing? You’re scaring him. He don’t know what you’re saying.’

‘How do you know? How do you know he isn’t stringing us along so he doesn’t have to take responsibility for his shit-can life? Why do you think he took off in the first place?’

‘He didn’t take off, Milo. He got hit on the head or had a stroke or ­something.’

‘So he says.’

‘He don’t say nothing. He don’t speak English.’

Admittedly there is the so-called proof in the CT scan, but scientists are the first to admit that we know very little about the brain and understand a fraction of its capacity. So what if his hippocampus and medial temporal lobe look a bit funny?

‘You don’t know my father. This is bullshit, total bullshit.’ Milo storms out as his father used to do, leaving Milo alone in the creaking house. Gus wouldn’t return for hours and Milo, fearing that something had happened to him, would become increasingly agitated and convinced that his father had been hit by a truck and that he, consequently, would have to go into foster care. He knew a boy called Ernie Batty in foster care who loathed his foster mother but would stop at nothing to please her, so fearful was he of being sent to yet another foster home. Ernie massaged Mrs. Vanelli’s fat shoulders and scaly feet and acted happy when she gave him a used train set for his birthday.

When Gus returned, Milo would act suitably repentant, although he’d have forgotten what he was supposed to be repentant for. Father and son would go to bed wordlessly and in the morning Milo would rush off to school, practising avoidance. In the evening he would try even harder to be helpful and respectful.

‘Fuck that noise,’ Milo says to the night air. He hears footsteps behind him and whirls around expecting to see Pablo, but it’s Tawny.

‘You told me to drop by if I came to the Big Smoke.’

‘Did I?’

‘Did you find your father?’

‘I did, and he’s still an asshole.’ He walks fast, forcing Tawny to trot beside him. He stops and faces her. ‘What can I do you for?’

‘Why are you angry at me?’

‘Am I?’

‘You shouldn’t answer questions with questions.’

‘Why not?’

‘It means you’re hollow, like a dead tree.’

‘Maybe I am,’ Milo says. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of cheese?’ He shouldn’t be venting at this poor child.

‘Elvis says you spend too much time being angry.’

‘He does, does he?’

‘A lot of white-asses are like that.’

‘Has he shown you his model airplane collection yet?’

She starts to walk away.

‘Sorry, Tawny, I’m sorry. It’s been a bad day.’

‘That’s what my father always said. It makes no sense. I didn’t make his day bad so why did he hit me?’

‘Because you were there. And because you would take it.’

‘That’s no reason to hit somebody.’

‘I agree.’

‘I think it was because he was really sad underneath.’

‘Lots of people are really sad underneath and don’t go around hitting people.’ Or roughing up little boys.

‘Yeah, but he was put in a res school and all that. All kinds of weird shit happened there, like they buried babies in tunnels. He hardly ever talked about it. Sometimes at dinner, to make us appreciate our food, he’d tell us about how the teachers got good meals while the students ate crap. His brother talked about it more, like when he was drunk, but my dad didn’t want us to know what went on there. He was trying to shield us from it. One time he went back to look for a girl’s grave, some girl he knew there who died.’

‘Did he find it?’

‘I don’t know. He was drunk when he got home and then it was like he forgot he even went. Anyway, maybe your father is trying to shield you from shit that happened and that’s why he acts like an asshole.’

By forgetting Milo’s entire existence?

‘If my father was still alive,’ Tawny says, ‘I’d make him tell me about it.’

Why bother when you’re hollow, like a dead tree?

He gives Tawny his room and takes the couch, knowing he won’t sleep because he hasn’t slept properly since he killed the boy.

‘She’s cute,’ Pablo says from the La-Z-Boy. ‘I never seen a real Pocahontas up close. Nice hair.’

‘She’s a child, lay off her.’

‘Take it easy, Milo. You act like I’m a sex addict or something.’ He unwraps a stick of gum and pops it in his mouth. ‘Tanis was looking for you.’

‘When?’

‘When you were out.’

‘Does she want me to go over?’

‘It’s a little late. Call her in the morning.’

‘How did she look?’

‘Tired. She don’t sleep even with the pills. She paid me so I gave some cash to Gussy. We’re going shopping tomorrow to get some more yaboowcos and some kleb rah-zoh-vyh. He likes dark bread. And he wants some mas-woh.’

‘Which is?’

‘Butter.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘You people who only speak one language don’t get it. You figure it out, you keep trying and pretty soon you’re talking. You don’t talk, period, Milo. If you talked more, you’d figure stuff out.’

‘Would you shut up for one minute? Where’s the remote?’

Pablo points to the armrest beside Milo’s head. He grabs it and presses the power button. The earthquake victims are old news. An oil spill steals the headlines. Pelicans, coated in crude sludge, struggle to fly.

Why does Tanis want to talk to him? Did she call Christopher? Is she furious with Milo for keeping the accident a secret? Will she forbid him from seeing Robertson, who has become the only light in Milo’s darkening sky, in fact, all the stars in his firmament?

She bangs on the back door with her crutch. ‘You told me you wouldn’t do anything without my consent.’ She leans on her crutches, looking, in the half-light, like some strange three-legged creature.

‘What am I doing without your consent?’ He honestly can’t remember, so entangled is he in the lives of others.

‘Taking Robertson to see him.’

‘Oh.’ Milo still hasn’t made up his mind about this. He has Christopher’s authorization and cab fare in his pocket, but as far as he can remember, he made no promises. ‘Why wouldn’t you give me your consent?’

‘Because it will destroy him.’

‘Who?’

‘Robertson.’

‘Interesting you should say that because Christopher thought learning about the accident would destroy you and here you are, swinging crutches around. When did you talk to him? Did you call him?’

‘It’s over, Milo. I’m not going to be forced back into a destructive marriage because my husband got hit by a cab. I’m sorry it happened and I’m glad he’s receiving medical care but that’s it, I’m done. I have a son who requires my full attention.’

‘Does he? Couldn’t you hire a guard so you, personally, wouldn’t have to keep him locked up 24/7? How ’bout paying Pablo on an hourly basis to check the bolts? Although physical activity could be a problem. You might want to get an indoor mini tramp so the kid’s muscles don’t atrophy. And, of course, make sure he takes lots of vitamin D, you don’t want his bones going soft, or do you? An invalid would be a lot easier to control, heck, just don’t build ramps. He’d be trapped on the ground floor at all times so you could really give him your full attention.’ Reading her expression in the poor light is impossible. He waits for a tirade, or a blow from a crutch.

‘There was a mother there,’ she says, sounding only weary, ‘whose son punches her, kicks her, knocks her down and pulls out her hair. She’s so desperate she contacted her MP to protest funding cuts for the autistic. You know what he said? He said her son would get better treatment in jail. Her Member of Parliament said she should charge her son with assault so a judge could order treatment, or sign custody over to Children’s Aid. So you tell me, Milo, you tell me who will take care of my son when he is the size of a man.’ She’s getting loud again. ‘The reality is no one gives a fuck. Her son has been on a waiting list for a group home for nine months. Nine months. He’s on antipsychotics that make him clumsy. He slams into things. He’s stopped speaking. She’s terrified all the time. No one gives a fuck!’

He has never heard her say fuck. It scares him.

‘If I told Christopher about this boy, you know what he’d say? He’d say, “It’s only a matter of time.” He’s given up. He can rot in the hospital, for all I care. It’s over.’ She starts to hobble to her deck.

‘Did you bring Robertson home?’

‘That’s no concern of yours. And don’t say you love him. You don’t even know him.’

He climbs his stairs and knocks on the wall, pressing his ear against it, listening for the shuffle of big slippers. He knocks again, harder, and waits. Until his father screams.