2 septembre 2026

A single mother working as a small-town…nurse watched helplessly as her autistic son collapsed on the crowded clinic floor.

The repetition.

Predictability.

Every time the train whistle sounded, he tapped the dinosaur twice against his knee.

Tap. Tap.

That was his way of saying he was okay.

“You’re doing great, kiddo,” I told him once, brushing his hair back.

He didn’t answer, but he glanced at me for a moment, which was enough.

The Flicker

Problems rarely announce themselves with a warning.

They slip in quietly.

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