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new flavor, in which case you substitute the new flavor for whichever flavor on your list has the most letters in its name. If there’s a tie, you cross out whichever one comes last alphabetically, unless the Thursday falls on the last day of the month, in which case you reverse the alphabetical order and…I forget the rest.”
    “So you will understand why—”
    “The Peppermint Pop is a seasonal special, Darcy. It won’t be here next week, and it’s delicious. So even though Praline Lovers’ Delight has more letters in its name, you need to try it today.”
    “But—”
    “Darcy.” I looked at him, not harshly, but firmly.
    And to my happy surprise, he took a bite.
    It may seem like a small thing, but it reminded me just how far Darcy had come in the relatively short time since I met him. Darcy was diagnosed at age three as an autistic savant, but his father—Police Chief O’Bannon—had undertaken constant therapy and consultation with behavioral intervention experts at the Lovass Center in L.A. and had worked wonders. Slowly but surely he’d left his autistic world and entered our own. In time, his compulsive obsessions began to fade, though they were never extinguished, and he developed relatively normal speech ability. His inflection was askew, unless he was imitating someone, which he could do flawlessly, and he often didn’t understand what people were saying, particularly if they spoke euphemistically or idiomatically or sarcastically, but he was still light-years ahead of most autistics, even other savants. His problems with language were understandable; he didn’t understand why one word should have multiple meanings and had difficulty gathering which one to apply in context. Metaphors were beyond him; tell him that the sun was a glistening incandescent orb and he would politely tell you that the sun was a thermo-nuclear reactor processing helium and hydrogen. Jokes—especially word-play—similarly escaped him.
    His appearance was perfectly normal; autistic kids are renowned for their angelic appearance. He was sweet as a baby and kind and incurably gentle. He hated to see people in pain. He had a genuinely sympathetic nature and cared for others. But you didn’t have to be around him long to know there was something different about him. Part of it was his reaction—or lack of reaction—to what went on in his environment. He never made eye contact, couldn’t read facial expressions or take cues from them. Non-verbal language was a form of expression he would never master. Some theorists believe autistic persons don’t really see faces at all, which would explain why Darcy was often confused about whether he had met someone before, unless he was able to pick up on some other clue—the sound of their voice, a scent, even the familiar squeaking of a shoe. He didn’t understand people, their motivations, what made them do the things they did. But that was okay. Because I did.
    After his father was shot—and my niece, Rachel, was taken into a foster home—we began to spend time together. He enjoyed the company, I think—you can never really be sure of anything with Darcy. He had profound tactile defensiveness; he didn’t like to be touched and shunned signs of affection. Even though you suspected he wanted them, something inside just wouldn’t let it happen.
    “I think that actually this is kinda good,” Darcy said, as he gobbled the custard down.
    “Five stars?”
    He stopped eating and reflected a moment. “Two point seven five.”
    “And that makes it…”
    “Number seventeen on my list. Just beneath Rocky Road Almond with Skittles. But that is still very good.”
    “I’d say so. Especially since your list includes…how many flavors?”
    “Two hundred and seventy-four. Would you like me to list them all for you in order?”
    “Thanks, I’ll pass.”
    On the other hand, his savant gifts were astounding. He remembered virtually everything he had ever read—sometimes he could