“I guess she was. The brain sends electrical impulses through the nerves down to the muscles. She got too much current. You know, this place is full of electrical problems. Like you: With CP, your brain doesn’t regulate the current right. With me, my brain generates fabulously well, but there’s some kind of short where the signal hits the muscles. The muscles get corroded from lack of use. Maybe we all need rewiring. Hey, if we got rewired, do you think we’d be the same people?”

I shrug. All around beds are squeaking. The screen door slams behind Sue and Mary, the eyebrow tapper, as they leave for the bathroom. People are talking. Talking about things of no consequence.

“Sorry,” Sara says, still flat on her back. “A little too philosophical for this hour of the morning.”

As Sue dresses me, I ponder Sara’s question. I stick out arms and legs to sleeves and pants, I lurch onto the toilet, and I wonder. Would I be the same person without CP? My parents always say CP doesn’t matter. I am just like a normal girl. But I wonder.

*   *   *

We wait outside while black women put breakfast on the tables. When the call is given, we enter, cabin by cabin, filling the lodge from back to front. I’m ravenous. Watching the flow, I fall into a daze.

“It’s kind of hypnotic, isn’t it?” Sara makes me jump—to her obvious amusement.

“About four years ago, I was watching this completely autistic guy staring at everyone coming in to eat, like you were just now. He seemed to be looking right through them. But really he was perceiving something. The movement I guess. Because all of a sudden, without unfreezing that aussie statue-face, he says, ‘Head ’em up—mooooove ’em out.’ So perfect!”

True. It is like a cattle roundup. We join the slow-moving herd inside, and I am corralled with Sue on one side, Sara on the other.

At the table are ten identical plates of grits, scrambled eggs, and toast. Sue fetches three mugs of coffee—one for herself, one for Carole, and one for Sara. The rest of us get milk. Dolly addresses the ceiling, and my ears catch scattered phrases from the outpouring, “Coffee … I COULD SURE USE … get moving … VERY late … I stay up with JOHNNY.”

Sara whispers, “At Butner I bet they start putting people to bed when the three P.M. shift comes on.”

I raise my eyebrows at Sara’s coffee, and she explains, “They don’t give coffee to campers, but my doctor lets me fill out my own medical form. I write up everything I want. Under a question about constipation—positively an obsession around here—I put ‘Laxatives only upon request; A.M. coffee for regular bowel function.’ They never question a doctor’s order.”