Mid-thirties.
Dark hair.
Navy dress.
I didn’t recognize her.
Mason did.
He stood so quickly his chair nearly tipped over.
That alone told me she mattered.
The woman smiled.
“Hi, Mason.”
He stared at her.
“You came.”
“I promised.”
They hugged.
The audience applauded.
I leaned toward Hannah.
“Who is she?”
Hannah looked confused.
“I don’t know.”
That was strange.
Hannah knew everyone connected to the diner.
The woman sat beside Mason.
“My name is Rebecca Shaw,” she said.
“Fifteen years ago, I was a graduate student studying urban accessibility.”
She explained that she’d met Mason seven years earlier at Miller’s.
She had been doing research on public spaces.
Mason, eleven years old, objected to nearly every question in her survey.
The audience laughed.
Rebecca smiled.
“He told me my questions were bad.”
Mason nodded.
“They were.”
“They were.”
Rebecca redesigned the project.
Instead of asking how autistic people could become more comfortable in existing environments, she asked what environments could do differently.
