Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
“You mentioned something last time,” Dr. Jones said. “Something I hadn’t given much thought until…until now.”
I wasn’t sure what she was going to say. But I was aware of one thing. She is not the quitting kind. This makes her a damn fine psychiatrist and, at the same time, a thorn in my side.
“Your daughter…you mentioned swim therapy.”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of therapy?”
“She’s autistic.”
“Autistic.” Her eyes widened. “Jesus, Max. Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”
“I don’t see how it relates.”
“It gives us something…God.” She paused and then shook her head. “How could I not see this?” I shifted under the weight of her gaze. “I really wish you would have said something, Max,” she said, indignantly. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
I hadn’t volunteered
