It was so high-pitched, so strained, it was hard to make out any words. But it sounded something like “They’re doing it wrong!” His face was—there was no other word for it—crazy. Like he was hallucinating.

Then, abruptly, he turned and ran away. As he ran he stuck his arms out, flailing as if at invisible bees, cannoning into the displays of fruit, the proud pyramids of organic grapefruit and oranges that collapsed in bouncing cascades of tumbling colors. Then he ran down the canned-foods aisle, headbanging the tins. Next it was the turn of the breakfast cereals. Then the soda bottles. And all the while, he screamed.

People stared. And then, even worse, they looked away and pretended nothing was happening. Honey, there was a really badly behaved kid in the store today.

When you caught up with him he was lying on the floor, his body arcing in pain, bouncing off the ground like a landed fish. Was it a fit? It looked like a fit. But then he stuck his fingers in his mouth and bit them, hard enough to draw blood.

You managed to get his hands away from his mouth, then get your own hands between his fragile skull and the floor.

When Danny finally stopped crying, he babbled gibberish. You carried him back to the car and drove straight to the ER.

* * *

—

“It sounds like you have a child with a behavioral problem,” the doctor said.

They’d done some basic tests, checked his pulse. Meanwhile, Danny slowly came back to normal. No: not normal. He still wasn’t himself. But convincing the doctors of that seemed impossible.

“Will you at least order an EEG?” you asked desperately.

The doctor shook his head. “That really isn’t indicated.”

“Please.” The thought of having to go home and tell Tim that Danny had been diagnosed with—essentially—extreme naughtiness terrified you. Because you knew that, however much he loved Danny and you, he would side with the doctors. In Tim’s world, doctors were scientists, and therefore on the side of Truth. Mothers were emotional, irrational, and therefore on the side of False Intuition. He would smile that smile at you, the one that said, Your lack of logic is so cute. But now it’s time for the grown-ups to make a decision.

“You could think about seeing a child psychologist,” the doctor suggested. “For some tips on parenting.”

Then Danny started growling, deep in his throat.

“It’s moving again,” your son said to you, looking at the ceiling. “Make it stop. Please, make it stop.”

Those were the last coherent sentences he spoke. Two minutes later, he was on the floor, screaming.

* * *

—

The medical process did at least snap into action after that. X-rays, EEGs, MRIs, and an ultrasound were ordered. Nightmare scenario after nightmare scenario was raised, rat-a-tat-tat, as possibilities to be investigated and eliminated. Schizophrenia. Brain abnormalities. Epilepsy. Tumor.

By the time Tim got to the ER, they were hypothesizing Danny might have taken something—found a pill on the floor, say, or down the back of a seat. Over and over you furiously denied such a thing could have happened. But you could see them sneaking glances at you, at your ear studs and tattoo, putting two and two together and making seven.

They did a blood test. You made them do one on you as well, just to prove to them that you weren’t a junkie.

To them, but also to Tim.

For forty-eight hours they ran more tests. Finally, you and Tim were called into a room to speak to a very senior doctor.

“Well, overall the test results are good,” he said, running his finger down a list. He was in his sixties, charming and white-haired. “The EEG is normal, which pretty much rules out epilepsy. All the scans are fine, ditto the blood work. There’s no infection or any sign of toxins. And no tumor that we can detect.”

You heard that word good and fastened on it. Good was positive. Good was great news. Wasn’t it?

It took you a while to work out that good actually meant the opposite. Good results didn’t mean Danny was going to be fine. It just meant their previous theories about what was wrong hadn’t stacked up.

“That really only leaves two possibilities,” the doctor added. “Juvenile psychosis, or Heller’s syndrome.”

At the time, psychosis sounded the scarier of the two. It was only later—after more researching on the internet—that you discovered how wrong you were. Psychosis is temporary, while Heller’s syndrome—otherwise known as childhood disintegrative disorder, or late-onset autism—is a friend for life.

“If, as I suspect, it turns out to be Heller’s,” the doctor said, “please remember, he’s still the same kid now that he was before the diagnosis. Having a label like autism can be hard for parents. But that’s all it is—a label.”

And with that, he sent you away. It was kind of him to try to sweeten the pill. But for all his well-meaning words, he was wrong. Danny wasn’t the same person anymore. The Danny you knew and loved, your little boy, was gone. Autism had stolen him.

TWENTY-ONE

None of us took Mike’s firing very seriously. Tim was always firing people. Often his rage lasted no longer than it took them to clear their desk, by which time he would have gone over and said, “Forget it. I didn’t mean it.”

Mike, though, walked out and didn’t come back. We waited for Tim to call him up and apologize, but it never happened.

It was because they had insulted each other’s wives, we decided. They’d crossed a line. That was what made this argument different.

It was made even more awkward by the fact that Jenny had been sitting right there on the mathematicians’ desk when it happened. We’d all heard what Tim had called her. The chances were, she had, too. But she still showed up for work every day, just as if nothing had happened.

But then, we had all of us become adept at turning a deaf ear, working in that environment.

The standoff went on for weeks. The weeks became months. Still there was no sign of Mike. Someone heard from a friend of a friend at another tech company that he was on his fourth round of interviews there.

It was Abbie who decided enough was enough. She booked a table at Fuki Sushi for lunch. When Tim got there, he saw the table was set for three. Then Mike turned up. He looked just as surprised to see Tim as Tim was to see him.

According to legend, Abbie stood up and said, “I’m leaving you guys to it. Bottom line is, it’s my wedding in three weeks. And right now Tim doesn’t have a best man.”

To Mike she added, “You don’t have to like me or think I’m the right partner for Tim. But we both care about him. So let’s try to make this work, shall we?”

Next day Mike was back at his desk. Three weeks later, he was Tim’s best man. And when, a year later, Tim and Abbie celebrated the birth of their son, Mike was the godfather.

We heard Tim promised Mike during the lunch that, once the honeymoon was over, he’d get right back to touring investors and raising more capital. And he did. We soon had enough funding to iron out the glitches and develop new, more cost-efficient ways of manufacturing the shopbots.

Throughout all this, Jenny kept her own counsel. We still had no idea whether she’d heard what Tim had said about her.

At least she and Mike got to go to the wedding. None of the rest of us did.

60

You’re still thinking about Danny and what you saw at Meadowbank when the front door intercom buzzes. “Who is it?” you ask cautiously.

“Detective Tanner.”

The cop who was so unpleasant to you at the station house. You go and open the door partway. His big, threatening body fills the frame, and you’re reminded of the time he blocked you from leaving the interview room.

“Can I come in?” he says brusquely.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He doesn’t react to that. “I hear there are legal moves to have you destroyed.”

You stare at him haughtily. “We’re fighting them.”

“Good luck with that.” He stares right back at you. “You remember what I said to you, last time we spoke?”

“Of course. You told me you still had it in for Tim.”

He shakes his head. “I said I wanted justice for Abbie. And that if you could help me, you should. For her sake.”

You don’t reply.

“Look,” he says urgently. “Time may be running out for you. And therefore, for her. If you know anything—if he’s said anything that could help us get to the truth—you need to tell me now. Before it’s too late.”

After a moment’s thought, you pull the door all the way open. “All right. Come in.”

* * *

—

You’ve no intention of telling Detective Tanner anything, of course. But it’s occurred to you that this might be a good opportunity to find out what he knows.

“Here’s the deal,” you say. “I’ll tell you what I discover, if you point me in the right direction.”

“What do you mean?” he asks warily.

“There was evidence that wasn’t produced at the trial, wasn’t there—you hinted as much, when you spoke to the media after the dismissal. And those articles speculating about Abbie having affairs—none of that stuff even got mentioned in court. There must have been a reason for that.”

“There was,” he says after a brief pause. “A couple of reasons, in fact.”