He looks good. He’s clean, save a smear of ketchup on his cheek, but we did arrive just as they were finishing lunch. Someone tucked his T-shirt into his pants, which I think looks silly. It’s just a small thing, and it’s not nearly as important as his being safe and well cared for, but all the ways we’ll be relinquishing control of his life . . . The realizations keep piling up, and no matter how small or inconsequential they are, they stab at me a little. It feels like more than the sum of the tiny parts. How can a tucked-in T-shirt feel tantamount to leaving Jonah alone in the wild?

But somehow it does.

As my parents discuss Jonah’s adjustment, programs, seizure reports, and so forth with the residential supervisor over in the kitchen and work out plans to bring him home for my birthday, which is next weekend, one of Jonah’s apartment mates paces around, twiddling his fingers in front of his face. He stops in front of me to lean close, coming almost nose-to-nose with me.

“Hi,” I say, not sure what else to do. I notice he has something chocolate on his shirt, which comforts me a little. I hope Jonah is getting treats, too.

A staff person named Delores calls from the dining area, where she’s cleaning up from lunch. “That’s Jonah’s sister, Austin. You leave them alone.” She says it kindly, though. Austin makes a noise like a machine gun and spins away.

“Bao Bao!” Jonah says again. He’s smiling and making happy noises. I imagine that if he could talk, he would want to know if we’re all going home now. The thought snakes tight around my heart.

Jonah holds up his hands and touches one fist into his other hand. It looks kind of like the way he signs bathroom, except that’s usually a one-handed sign. He turns to the dining area, where Delores is wiping the table. She is in regular clothes, but in the spirit of Halloween, she has cat ears on and whiskers drawn on her face. She glances up from her cleaning and says to Jonah, “What do you want, sweetie?”

Again, Jonah taps one of his hands into the other.

“Aw, you already had your cookie,” she says. “You have to wait.” She holds up her hands, palms facing in, and wiggles her fingers, signing wait. “But good signing, Jonah.” She winks at me.

“That was ‘cookie’?” I ask in surprise, warming rapidly to this woman, whose smile could light up a stadium.

She nods and demonstrates. Her version is a little different from Jonah’s, but it brings a lump to my throat to know that she understands his sign, and that she responds to it and praises him for it.