The thing is; I don’t set out to write neurodivergent characters. I write people – fictional people who are drawn from the people around me, the way I experience the world, and my understanding of these experiences. Too bad if other people refuse to afford my experiences as being real or relatable.

These nights, when Gramma fell asleep in her rocker, Luba knelt on all fours to press her ear to the rug; she heard the Undersea rising, the roar of the sea-lions, a faint song of sirens luring ships to invisible rocks. And just last night she heard beneath the rug the faint deep sound of a cello.

Uncle Rod came back from Vietnam, broken like they all were, and danced.

We didn’t want your nail clippings or your blood. Your laughter, or tears, would do.

This is a city of many faces. It folds itself into dark corners. It stretches out its fingers of neon signs and asphalt. It unrolls itself like a magic carpet. It changes from day to day.

A smile spread on she beautiful brown face, like when you draw your finger through molasses on a plate. “Sit down nuh, doux-doux, you in your nice clean pressed white shirt? I glad you dress up to come and see me.”

When she was four he found her in the back yard, holding a brick unsteadily above her head, poised to bring it down on a small heart-shaped clock he had bought her for her bedside table.

But he’d never been just an arm’s length away from a spaceship before, the way he was now. And that’s why he felt like crying.

She put a slice of bread on the long fork and began to toast it over the gas flame. The gas, at least, was fairly dependable, and the water.

Pero nunca habia tenido, como ahora, una nave espacial al alcance de la mano. Por eso sintió ganas de llorar.