Pitch darkness would have characterized the room if not for the marvelous computer arrangement. Little More than a crooked series of seats, wires, and converted toasters.
Crammed between the hardware of the dark tent sat an inconspicuous woman glued to her black, vintage monitor. Another stranger whose red hair gleamed under green glass, absorbed in her computational task. The sound of tapping keys persisted elsewhere, steering Jessica to a black-haired boy in a beanie. Perhaps no older than thirteen, he sequentially snapped his fingers six times then switched hands before returning to the keyboard. Likewise glued to the screen, his head persistently lulled on his shoulder.
He's autistic.
A few steps ahead of Jess, Amon peered over his shoulder at her. "The others are sleeping, but tha
