Dr. Steingold has told her that he understands that she will not speak; instead, he has presented her with a series of puzzles, some consisting of as few as six pieces.

“My,” he says, as Isabelle completes a fifteen-piece puzzle of a clown. “You’re quick. You’ve got a good mind for puzzles.” Isabelle watches as he jots something down in his notebook. He looks up at her with an earnest expression that makes Isabelle uncomfortable, somehow, because this man is trying, she understands, yet he is so very far off track. Being in the room with him is like watching a blindfolded person trying to pin the tail on the donkey and pinning it to the wall three feet away instead. “Isabelle,” he finally says, tapping his pen to his lips. He crosses his legs. “I want you to look at the puzzle you’ve just completed. Look at it carefully.”

Isabelle looks at the clown in the puzzle. He is sitting on a milk crate, and his shoes are red and long. His pants are blue-and-white striped, held high by yellow suspenders, and there is a wilted pink flower tucked into the brim of his hat. His chin rests in his gloved hand, and his mouth is painted into a frown. He looks tired.

Isabelle looks back at Dr. Steingold with a blank expression.

“Do you notice something unusual about this clown?”

Isabelle continues to stare at the doctor.

“Anything at all? You don’t have to say it to me, of course, but maybe you could point to the part of the clown that seems strange.”

Nothing. Dr. Steingold uncrosses his legs and crosses them the other way. He licks his lips.

“Or you could imitate the expression on his face. He’s frowning, isn’t he? But what should he be doing instead? Can you show me with your own face what a clown should do?”