As I was running back down from the Berkeley hills, I saw a woman in UC Berkeley sweats walking a beagle. I veered across the street and heard her say 'Come on, Sebastian.'
Sebastian, tow-headed and wearing a little fleece (he must have been about 3) was plucking and patting a low-lying hedge. His voice warbled sounds.
Or rather, his voice sounded in the way that Charlie says many things: Warbly voicings without words.
Sebastian's mother called him again, gently, and I saw her walk back down the hill a ways.
I snuck a few more glances, long enough to see Sebastian move away from the hedge and turn up the hill and then put his hands back out to it and stay there.
Later as I was loading a large amount of citrus fruits, half a pineable, on-sale Australian yogurt, brownies and tuna wrapped in seaweed for Jim into our recently-arrived from New Jersey (and covered in Jersey City dealership dirt) silver car, I saw the name 'Temple Grandin' on a book atop a plaid blanket in the banged-up, creamy tan, older model Volvo stationwagon parked beside me.
A second look revealed it to be 'The Autistic Brain.'