That was the laminated sheet. It had landed on the table in front of Celeste. She looked down at it. There was the photograph of Theo, smiling the way children smile when they've been told to. Underneath it, in large clear type:
HI. MY NAME IS THEO. I AM 9. I AM AUTISTIC.
I LIKE AIRPLANES, RIVETS, AND THE NUMBER 7.
LOUD PLACES HURT MY EARS. I WEAR HEADPHONES.
WHEN I AM SCARED I HUM. HUMMING HELPS ME. PLEASE DON'T ASK ME TO STOP.
MY FOLDER IS VERY IMPORTANT TO ME. PLEASE DON'T TAKE MY FOLDER.
I AM GOING TO BOSTON TO GET MY HEART FIXED.
Celeste's hand had gone out to pick it up. She stopped with her fingers an inch from the plastic.
Ferris reached past her and took it. He did not look at her while he did this, either. "About Me," he said. "Check."
They went on. Drawings: a Citation with the tail number lettered carefully on the side, then another, then another, each from a different angle, each with every line of rivets indicated in fine pencil. A drawing of a heart, a real anatomical heart, copied from some textbook, with arrows showing which way the blood went and one part shaded red with the word HERE. A letter on the letterhead of the Boston Pediatric Heart Center about a surgery scheduled for Tuesday, October thirteenth, at seven a.m., Dr. Amara Osei. A consent form. An insurance statement with a column of numbers and a large sum circled twice in ballpoint.
Theo said what came next each time, and each time his voice was a little steadier, and Ferris said "Check," and Marcus slid the page into the folder, which Celeste had handed across the table without a word and which Marcus had taken without a word.
There was one page left. It was folded in half and it had landed in Celeste's lap, and she had not noticed it there until now. Lined notebook paper, written in pencil in big careful letters. She unfolded it without thinking, to see what it was. That was all. To see what it was so she could give it back.