The specialists helped me understand his needs and the importance of keeping his surroundings quiet and predictable. I listened, took notes, and stopped assuming that affection meant I already knew what was best.
Then the police called again.
They had identified the men.
One had sought treatment for scratches and bruises. As officers followed up, the story of the burglary began to come apart.
There had been three of them.
They had watched my house, learned when I left, and waited until they thought they had an hour.
One stayed near the entrance while the others searched.
They emptied drawers. Opened boxes. Checked shelves.
Then one went into my bedroom.
I pictured Gus asleep in the closet, surrounded by blankets that smelled like home.
I pictured strange footsteps crossing the room.
A drawer striking the floor.
Voices he had never heard.
According to the officer, one burglar heard a low sound from the closet.
