text: "Bobby can't talk." I answer the theater ticket cashier, as Bobby's father accepted the tickets, re-pocketing his wallet. The cashier smiles down at Bobby, "Well, *Coco* is beautiful, he should enjoy the movie either way." We turn for the theater entrance and I think to myself, strictly speaking, that's not true. At five years old, Bobby *can* talk. He just never does. We've taken him to, I've lost count how many doctors, to find out what's wrong. Physically his voice is fine. He has no special irritations, or sensitivities. He reacts appropriately to all sounds and lights, and doesn't seem overly disturbed by anything. His hearing is fine. The precious few times he utters a word, it's clear, and seems to cause no physical pain. Dozens of tests later, he's not *on the spectrum*. He follows instructions to put on clothes, or pick up toys, get in the car, or to pass the salt. He tests physically healthy and typical in every other way. He just won't speak. It's all head nods, shakes, and pointing. We were at the grocery a few weeks ago picking up supplies before the Superbowl, when we where heading for the check-out lane, and Bobby began pointing. Guiding me back to the Chips and Salsa lane. Even to the particular brand his father likes. I was frazzled earlier and left it off the shopping list. But he remembered. He will answer the phone if his father and I are too far away, but, if it's someone he knows, of course, he just holds it and listens. His *memaw* will talk to him, assuming I'm on the way. If it's someone else, and he's having a good day, they might get the single word “Wait.” until his father or I can reach the phone. Maybe, or maybe they just get silence. His first and longest burst was just over six months ago, back in July, when he had a bad cold, and we visited Dr. Gruman his pediatrician, that's routed us through all the other “experts” to try and help him. After the examination was over, Dr. Gruman handed me a prescription for some cough medicine and discussed saline spray instructions to help clear his sinuses. Bobby blurted out, “Dr. Gruman, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” Now we were the speechless ones. It was the most he'd said in one string since he'd been born. It wasn't even clear until that moment that he could form a complete sentence. “Yes, Bobby. If someone were sick, I'd help them. Is there something wrong with you besides the cold?” Dr. Gruman asks. Bobby shakes his head no, and looks to the woman on his right. “Nurse Anna, if someone were sick and I asked, would you help them?” “Yes, Bobby. I would.” Anna replies softly. “Nurse Anna”??? (How the hell does he know her name? She's not wearing a name tag, and I didn't even know her name. I've seen her, but she only just started here a few months ago and this was the first time we'd actually met her assisting Dr. Gruman.) And that was that. Less than five or six single words since that July burst just over half a year ago. The movie is over. Bobby was enthralled, and silent, as predicted. We're driving back home, his father says “We need bread for tomorrow.” And pulls into a convenience store near home. When the car stopped, before his father could open the door, Bobby said: "I need a pen and paper." I look at his father, dig through my purse, handing both to Bobby. He wrote, so slowly and carefully, I began to think he had forgotten about us, and was drawing something to pass the time. A minute later, when he handed it back, the paper read: Pick 3 2 5 6 Pick 4 8 4 2 3 MaxBall $3 15 22 45 56 59 22 His father and I looked at the paper, dumbfounded. Sure, he watches TV, and listens to everyone, but with no response back, it's never clear what is and isn't registering for him. So, he could know about the lottery. I guess. Bobby's father asks, teasing with a big smile, “Are we going to win the Lottery?” Silently, Bobby shakes his head no, looking out the car window to the right. I shrug my shoulders, “It'll only be $5, he never asks for anything.” When his father is out the door, Bobby says “Phone.” Holding out his hand. I know he's watched closely as I dialed his grandparents a few times, but he's never used the cell phone himself. If you don't speak, and can't spell to text yet, why would you? A few slow, careful button presses later, “Dr. Gruman, this is Bobby. Someone is sick, will you help?” Bobby pauses to listen. “Can you call Nurse Anna, and ask her to come, and have her boyfriend drive her to your office?” Bobby asks. Then the phone is hung up, back in my hand. No explanation. His father is back with the bread and tickets. Hands the tickets to Bobby's waiting hand. In a flourish that would do Houdini proud, Bobby's popped the Child Seat latches, is out the door heading right. As I call out for him, scramble to unbuckle my own seat belt, and follow. Before I can reach him, Bobby knocks on the window of a small older brown sedan car, two empty spaces away, seemingly filled to the brim inside with luggage and boxes. The mother focused on her daughter in the back seat, spins around startled. She starts the car to roll down window. "Do you need me to move?" She asks a bit panicked. "This one will be $600. This one will be $100,000" handing her the Pick 3 and MaxBall tickets. “Dr. Gruman will meet us at his office. Follow the blue car.” Bobby says pointing to our car. Without waiting for a response, he's headed back to our car. In shock, I turn back to the woman. “Bobby never speaks. Ever. He just called Dr. Gruman our pediatrician and asked him to meet us at his office. I didn't even know he could use the phone. I don't know what's . . .” Looking at her daughter, a girl about Bobby's age, with shoulder length blonde angel fine hair, in the back seat coughing. I ask “Is your daughter sick?” The woman says, “I thought Angela just had a cold, but now she's starting a fever.” Holding a thermometer up. “Well”, looking at Bobby, then back at the woman, I shrug, “follow us.” I head back to the car and re-seat Bobby. We arrive as Dr. Gruman is opening the office, turning on the lights for Nurse Anna and a man, presumably her boyfriend. I recap briefly what happened, Dr. Gruman and Anna take Angela and her mother into one of the open exam rooms. Bobby hands the remaining Pick 4 to Nurse Anna's boyfriend, who, based on the oil stained “Roger” name tagged shirt, must be some sort of mechanic. “This will be worth $4000. Her mom needs a better car. Can you take her old car and the ticket and find them a better one?” Bobby asks. Confused, Roger looks at all of us, accepts the ticket, saying slowly to Bobby, “Sure. I can do that.” Bobby hasn't started Kinder-garden, and, with the lack of speaking, and few neighborhood kids, he's met precious few children to begin with. I look at Bobby and ask, “Do you know the little girl?” Bobby shakes his head no. He watches them through the open doorway of the exam room. As if he's seeing them a million miles away. Bobby says: “She'll have a baby one day. A son.” “He'll grow up to be a special soldier. In charge of ten men and women. A bad man will make a bomb and try to kill everyone in the city. Her son will have to make a choice. To have the time to do what needs to be done to stop the bad man, he'll have to sacrifice his friends and himself. If he flies away, his team, that he's cared for and worked with for years, will be saved. If he locks them in, and does what needs to be done, they will all die, including himself, but the city will be saved.” Bobby's father kneels beside his chair and asks, "What will the man choose to do?" "I can't see." says Bobby. "It's too close to me." Looking at Angela and back at Bobby, "Because you know the little girl now?", his father asks. "No." Bobby says. "Because he'll be my son too." We all look around at each other, not knowing what to say or do. A minute of silence later, Bobby looks at his father and me and says, “Everything is clearer now.” Bobby looks to his father, then to Angela in the next room, "I know. You didn't tell me yet, but you got a new job and we're moving closer to *memaw*. Doesn't matter. I'll meet Angela again one day. At the end of school, or just after." Dr. Gruman and Nurse Anna come out of the exam room. “Well, the swab says Angela has the flu. But her lungs are just clear enough. And the temperature's still on the low end of high. She'll be just fine. I'm here, and we were closed tomorrow anyway. They can just sleep here tonight.” Dr. Gruman continues, “It seems Angela's mother is a nurse who recently lost her husband to cancer, along with her house in the process, from all the bills. And is looking for a job. Hearing that, Nurse Anna has now informed me that Roger proposed yesterday and she will be leaving in a month. They are moving back to his home town where he's to be head mechanic at a new dealership. So it seems I will soon have an opening to fill.” Bobby hops down off the chair he was in. Looking up at me, Bobby asks, "Can we go home now Mommy? I'm tired." "Yes, Bobby.” Bending over to take his face in my hands and kissing my beautiful boy’s forehead. “We can go home now.