“Like Mr. Crenshaw thinks we waste time?” I say.

Bailey nods.

“We don’t waste as much time as he wastes walking around looking angry,” Chuy says.

We all laugh, but quietly. Eric is drawing curlicues with his colored pens; they look like laughing sounds.

“Does it say how it was going to work?” Linda asks.

“Sort of,” Bailey says. “But I’m not sure the science is good. And that was decades ago. What they thought would work might not be what really works.”

“They don’t want autistic people like us,” Eric says. “They wanted — or the story said they wanted — savant talents and concentration without the other side effects. Compared to a savant we waste a lot of time, though not as much as Mr. Crenshaw thinks.”

“Normal people waste a lot of time on nonproductive things,” Cameron says. “At least as much as we do, maybe more.”

“It would take what to turn a normal person into a savant without the other problems?” Linda asks.

“I don’t know,” Cameron says. “They would have to be smart to start with. Good at something. Then they would have to want to do that instead of anything else.”

“It wouldn’t do any good if they wanted to do something they were bad at,” Chuy says. I imagine a person determined to be a musician who has no rhythm and no pitch sense; it is ridiculous. We all see the funny side of this and laugh.

“Do people ever want to do what they aren’t good at?” Linda asks. “Normal people, that is?” For once she does not make the word normal sound like a bad word.

We sit and think a moment; then Chuy says, “I had an uncle who wanted to be a writer. My sister — she reads a lot — she said he was really bad. Really, really bad. He was good at doing things with his hands, but he wanted to write.”

“Here y’are, then,” Hi-I’m-Sylvia says, putting down the pizzas. I look at her. She is smiling, but she looks tired and it is not even seven yet.

“Thank you,” I say. She waves a hand and hurries away.

“Something to keep people from paying attention to distraction,” Bailey says. “Something to make them like the right things.”

“ ‘Distractibility is determined by the sensory sensitivity at every level of processing and by the strength of sensory integration,’” Eric recites. “I read that. Part of it’s inborn. That’s been known for forty or fifty years; late in the twentieth century that knowledge had worked its way down to the popular level, in books on parenting. Attention control circuitry is developed early in fetal life; it can be compromised by later injury…”

I feel almost sick for a moment, as if something were attacking my brain right now, but push that feeling aside. Whatever caused my autism is in the past, where I cannot undo it. Now it is important not to think about me but about the problem.

All my life I’ve been told how lucky I was to be born when I was — lucky to benefit from the improvements in early intervention, lucky to be born in the right country, with parents who had the education and resources to be sure I got that good early intervention. Even lucky to be born too soon for definitive treatment, because — my parents said — having to struggle gave me the chance to demonstrate strength of character.

What would they have said if this treatment had been available for me when I was a child? Would they have wanted me to be stronger or be normal? Would accepting treatment mean I had no strength of character? Or would I find other struggles?

I am still thinking about this the next evening as I change clothes and drive to Tom and Lucia’s for fencing. What behaviors do we have that someone could profit from, other than the occasional savant talents? Most of the autistic behaviors have been presented to us as deficits, not strengths. Unsocial, lacking social skills, problems with attention control… I keep coming back to that. It is hard to think from their perspective, but I have the feeling that this attention control issue is at the middle of the pattern, like a black hole at the center of a space-time whirlpool. That is something else we are supposed to be deficient in, the famous Theory of Mind.

I am a little early. No one else is parked outside yet. I pull up carefully so that there is the most room possible behind me. Sometimes the others are not so careful, and then fewer people can park without inconveniencing others. I could be early every week, but that would not be fair to others.

Inside, Tom and Lucia are laughing about something. When I go in, they grin at me, very relaxed. I wonder what it would be like to have someone in the house all the time, someone to laugh with. They do not always laugh, but they seem happy more often than not.

“How are you, Lou?” Tom asks. He always asks that. It is one of the things normal people do, even if they know that you are all right.

“Fine,” I say. I want to ask Lucia about medical things, but I do not know how to start or if it is polite. I start with something else. “The tires on my car were slashed last week.”

“Oh, no!” Lucia says. “How awful!” Her face changes shape; I think she means to express sympathy.

“It was in the parking lot at the apartment,” I say. “In the same place as usual. All four tires.”

Tom whistles. “That’s expensive,” he says. “Has there been a lot of vandalism in the area? Did you report it to the police?”

I cannot answer one of those questions at all. “I did report it,” I say. “There is a policeman who lives in our apartment building. He told me how to report it.”

“That’s good,” Tom says. I am not sure if he means it is good that a policeman lives in our building or that I reported it, but I do not think it is important to know which.

“Mr. Crenshaw was angry that I was late to work,” I say.

“Didn’t you tell me he’s new?” Tom asks.

“Yes. He does not like our section. He does not like autistic people.”

“Oh, he’s probably…” Lucia begins, but Tom looks at her and she stops.

“I don’t know why you think he doesn’t like autistic people,” Tom says.

I relax. It is so much easier to talk to Tom when he says things this way. The question is less threatening. I wish I knew why.

“He says we should not need the supportive environment,” I say. “He says it is too expensive and we should not have the gym and… and the other things.” I have never actually talked about the special things that make our workplace so much better. Maybe Tom and Lucia will think the same way as Mr. Crenshaw when they find out about them.

“That’s…” Lucia pauses, looks at Tom, and then goes on. “That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t matter what he thinks; the law says they have to provide a supportive work environment.”

“As long as we’re as productive as other employees,” I say. It is hard to talk about this; it is too scary. I can feel my throat tightening and hear my own voice sounding strained and mechanical. “As long as we fit the diagnostic categories under the law…”

“Which autism clearly does,” Lucia says. “And I’m sure you’re productive, or they wouldn’t have kept you this long.”

“Lou, is Mr. Crenshaw threatening to fire you?” Tom asks.

“No… not exactly. I told you about that experimental treatment. They didn’t say anything more about it for a while, but now they — Mr. Crenshaw, the company — they want us to take that experimental treatment. They sent a letter. It said people who were part of a research protocol were protected from cutbacks. Mr. Aldrin talked to our group; we are having a special meeting on Saturday. I thought they could not make us take it, but Mr. Aldrin says that Mr. Crenshaw says they can shut down our section and refuse to rehire us for something else because we are not trained in something else. He says if we do not take the treatment they will do this and it is not firing because companies can change with the times.”

Tom and Lucia both look angry, their faces knotted with tight muscle and the shiny look coming out on their skin. I should not have said this now; this was the wrong time, if anything was the right time.