Wordlessly, he hands me over a piece of paper in his trembling hand. Part of me knows I have no business at all accepting the paper, or reading it, but the curiosity burns so deep in my gut that I shamefully accept the page and unfold it. Dear Thor, This is Matthew, or Matty. He’s your son. He’s autistic. And while he’s an amazing child, I just can’t do it anymore. Please don’t try to look for me. I need a break. There’s a notebook in his backpack with further information about him. Good luck. Caz
