He had been diagnosed with a rare form of autism, although in truth the doctors didn't know what to make of him.įortunately, he had none of the most problematic behavior associated with autism. The cause of his amusement was often internal and a mystery to his mother. He laughed, although seldom at anything that was said to him or at any comical sight. At birth and for a few years thereafter, he cried, but not once since he'd turned four years old. Woodrow Bookman, Woody to everyone, had never spoken a word in his eleven years of life. She stood in the doorway of her only child's bedroom, watching him at his computer with its array of associated equipment, as he researched whatever currently fascinated him. This current sense that somewhere bells were tolling toward her final hour would pass it always did. A love that she'd thought would endure, a man she had believed would grow old with her: All was taken away without warning. This wasn't intuition at work, but just the consequence of being widowed at thirty. Three years after the accident, Megan Bookman's heart and mind were in a good place, although occasionally anxiety afflicted her, a feeling that time was running out, that a sinkhole might at any moment open under her.
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