Jason and Sookie were playing in the sprinkler, in the yard of a modest home, while Dad worked on the car himself, and Mama sat sunning herself in a lawn chair. Sookie knelt to play with her dolls, and her mother worried. (How can our car insurance go up so much after just one ticket? Damn it all to hell, I hate having to ask Mama for money...) "Damn what all to hell?," Sookie asked into the silence. "I can break open my piggy bank if you need some money." Dad asked her who said they needed money, and Mama swore she hadn't said a word. Mama and Daddy stared at their daughter; Jason watched them stare.
Sookie sat in a school classroom with a psychologist, staring at her amazing face. "Sookie, Do you know why you're here? Your parents, they're concerned about something that can't possibly exist. But you and I are gonna put all this silliness to rest today. Now, can you tell me what I'm thinking? (I'm thinking about the color red, and the number nine.) "The color red and the number nine." The therapist stared at her.
Sookie and Jason sat at a picnic table, and Mama brought their food, explaining that Sookie was just adept at reading body language, and highly observant. "That's a relief," Daddy said. That's bullshit," Daddy thought. Jason asked what body language was; one day it'll be the only language he speaks. (Why was that doctor so scared? Because she was lying to me, that's why. Because there is something to be scared of inside my little girl.) Sookie looked at her Mama, listening; Jason paid attention to the body language without knowing that's what he was doing, and learned a thing about normal and about what is acceptable, and what we do when the secret truth invades. ...Oh my God, she knows everything I'm thinking, Mama thought, and was running away before she knew what she was doing. Oh, sweet Jesus. What do I do? Poor child. She can't... And Sookie watched, and word by word she learned what she was.
"I was diagnosed with ADD. They tried to put me on drugs, but my Mama wouldn't let them. She knew that wasn't it. She tried to protect me. Even though I scared her." Bill asks when Sookie lost her mother, and she explains: "Just before I turned eight. Both my parents. Flash flood." They keep walking; Bill tries to identify. "I lost my wife and my children. Everyone I knew from my human life... Most of them are buried here in this cemetery." Sookie looks at him, trying to figure it out: "You really don't consider yourself human at all?" He's not. It's pretty simple.