“Hey, Robert! Time to play—Let’s Make a Deal!”

His gaze remains fixed at middle distance. Even though I know there’s nothing there, I find myself imagining what he might be looking at. He could be a violin player at his music stand. His whole world is a little less than three feet away and about eight inches below his eyes.

“What do you have to trade, Robert?” Monty asks.

Robert is oblivious to all the activity around him. He stands with one foot turned out and stares to his right, at his special downward angle. He could be a shopper considering an item on the grocery shelf. He sticks out his right index finger and moves it clockwise, almost completing a small circle. Then he returns to the starting point and makes that circle, over and over again.

“Robert, do you have something?”

Robert makes those dainty little circles. Monty looks down at Robert’s left hand. “Aha! A package of Juicy Fruit gum. Stretch your coffee break, huh? Well, if you’ll give it up, I will offer you what’s in the box or what’s behind the curtain.”

“Take what’s behind the curtain,” a guy in the audience yells.

“Behind the curtain, behind the curtain, behind the curtain, behind the curtain,” Robert repeats in a hollow voice.

“THE BOX!” another boy yells.

“Theboxtheboxthebox,” Robert mutters.

“Does he know what he’s say-ing?” I ask Sara over all the racket.

“I imagine not.”

People shout out advice, and Robert repeats whatever sounds register in his brain.

The legless boy yells, “GOLDSBORO!”

“Gotta Goto Gozeboro, Baby, Heh-Heh-Heh, Gotta Goto Gozeboro,” Robert repeats, this time in bell-clear tones. Then he smiles, as though remembering some secret joke.

I raise my eyebrows at Sara. “That’s his mantra,” she explains. “He’s been saying that for years. Nobody knows what the deal is. He lives at Butner, and nobody knows of any Goldsboro connection. It might have something to do with Cherry Hospital. Or he might just like the sound. But once he starts saying it, well, we could be here all night.”

The exasperated Monty Hall tries to distract Robert. He leans into Robert’s ear and says firmly, “Robert, how about THE BOX? THE BOX!”

“The box,” Robert says. The box is on a table right in front of Robert, but he is looking at something beside it—something not there. A baby in an incubator. When Robert utters “the box,” Monty wastes no time. Ceremoniously he opens the box. Revealed is a single pinecone, unusually large, undamaged, flawless—a perfect form. It’s what Margie brought to trade.