Tuesday I bring something to the clinic I’ve never brought before. Something that means I need to leave the top of my backpack unzipped, and instead of swinging it to my shoulder, I carry it gingerly in my arms.

Jason is already there when I arrive, his wheelchair parked next to my usual spot on the couch.

“Hi.” I sit beside him, arranging my backpack on my lap. “Thanks for the carrots.”

Did? Guinea pig. Like.

“They thought they were awesome. In fact —” I pull my backpack zipper all the way down.

A furry, eager face pops out. What’s up? And more to the point, what’s for lunch? Pellets? Carrots? Ooh, is that carpeting down there?

“This is Nutmeg,” I say, cradling her against my chest. “And she says, ‘Thanks for the carrots.’” Nutmeg has chocolate-brown whorls of fur, glossy black eyes, and a friendly personality. Of my two guinea pigs, I figured she’d be more tolerant of Jason’s sudden movements and noises.

Jason’s mouth hangs slack.

“Would you like to pet her?” I ask. “She might squeal, but she doesn’t bite.”

Awesome!

Nutmeg walks across Jason’s communication book. She sniffs the air and poops on Van.

“Sorry!” I jump to grab a tissue from the box on the receptionist’s desk. “Nutmeg! What kind of ‘hello’ is that?”

Gross! Hello.

I clean Jason’s book. “You can say that again.”

Gross! Hello.

“Very funny.” I reach into the front pocket of my backpack. “Speaking of jokes, I made words for you.”

When I look up, Jason is stroking Nutmeg’s back with his fingertips. I can see by the clench of Jason’s jaw how hard he’s struggling to control his movements to not frighten her. When he brings his hand away, he’s trembling.

I pretend not to notice, afraid it’ll embarrass him. “This first card is ‘joke.’ I thought you could use this word when you’re telling a joke or being sarcastic, to make sure the other person knows you’re kidding.”

Like. Word.

“And this is ‘whatever.’” I lean over to whisper, “It’s good for annoying your mother; at least, it has that effect on mine.” I demonstrate, swinging my gaze to the ceiling. “Whatever.”

Jason grins. Good job. Whatever.

I move Nutmeg over so I can slide the cards, word after word, in Jason’s book. “And this is ‘secret.’ I thought sometimes we might want to talk without everyone hearing us. When one of us taps ‘secret,’ we’ll switch to only using your cards. Want to try it?”

Yes.

I look around for something to talk about. Out the window a man hurries across the parking lot, his beagle on a leash. “Do you see that guy?” I ask, pointing. “Let’s imagine who he is.”

The man dashes past the windows. The beagle trots beside him, head down, sniffing.

Jason taps, Late. For. Dog. Show.

I give Jason a thumbs-up. Good job. My. Turn. I imagine the man and his dog as a perfect spy team, too ordinary to be noticed.

But Jason doesn’t have “spy” or “secret agent” or even “mysterious.” Searching Jason’s book, Man. Is. A. Secret. is the best I can do.

“I was imagining them a secret agent team,” I say finally. “Maybe we can talk about music, instead?”

Yes.

I pull my CD player from the front pocket of my backpack. “This is my favorite CD.” Putting the headphones over Jason’s ears isn’t as awkward as last time, but I still fight the urge to shiver as his hair brushes my fingers and the backs of my hands.

Who? Music.

I check his book, but of course, there’s no card. “It’s —”

Jason taps, Secret.

I clamp my hand over my mouth. Don’t speak.

Catherine. Make. Word. Who?

I don’t have a blank card, so I remove Good-bye. from Jason’s book and draw on the back. It’s not a great picture of Avril Lavigne, but I’m in a hurry.

I don’t bother to slide it in Jason’s book, just lay the card on top. It’s a temporary word, and he’ll need “good-bye” more.

Jason studies the picture, headphones on, music playing. Avril Lavigne. Stupid.

“What?” I startle Nutmeg into skittering across Jason’s book.

Jason grins. Joke.

I dip my head in my best imitation of Mom’s no-nonsense look. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” I lift one side of the headphones, so he’ll hear me better. “My next card is going to say ‘you big jerk.’”

Secret.

I spoke again! I bite my tongue to keep from using it and scan my word choices, lifting Nutmeg to see what she’s sitting on.

Jason taps, Like. Avril Lavigne.

Me, too. is all I can find to say.

“HI, JASON!”

Jason scowls as I take the headphones off his ears. Speech. Woman. Yell. All the time. He taps. I. Can’t. Talk. But. I. Hear. Fine.

“HI, JASON!” his therapist repeats, louder. “How’s his day been going?” she asks his mother.

Jason’s hand moves. Loud. Day.

“What a sweet little animal!” the speech therapist says. “But what’s it doing?”

I glance at Nutmeg busy chewing the edge of Good-bye.

I lunge for her. “I’m sorry, Jason.”

He smiles. od-bye. Guinea pig.

Watching his therapist push Jason’s chair down the hallway, I hold Nutmeg against my chest, stroking her back with my fingertips. “Could we stop at the mall on the way home?” I ask Mom. “I need card stock and a paper cutter.”

Jason needs so many words.