Chapter 17

“But you know all that, huh, AC?”

“Yes.”

* * * *

Atticus’s last experience with a neurologist had not gone so well. At age ten, he and his parents had headed down to New York City, to the best of the best, supposedly. After an hour and a half in the waiting room and just as long with the doctor, and then another twenty-minute wait in the fancy office for the final report, Atticus’s father was not happy with the results.

“That’s it? After all the money, all the time, all the stupid tests, you’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”

“I didn’t say that, Mr. Maughan. Keep trying what you’ve been trying, and—”

“And the kid will still sound like an engine that won’t start.”

“Cornelius!” Atticus’s mother stood and glared at his dad.

“There will be new advances, and techniques that do work,” Dr. Spinell claimed. “When he whispers—”

“So, my kid should just go through life whispering? That will work out well giving oral reports, on the debate team, in court.”