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“So this Corvair wasn’t really unsafe,” Benjy concluded. He chewed on that thought awhile, as if he liked the taste, then circled the car, nodding. He understood it; he could feel its pain. “It’s not like it’s defective or disabled. It’s just different. Like me.”

I didn’t know if Benjy’s analogy was fair or true, and I didn’t care. All I knew was we were having a rare two-way give-and-take dialogue, and I didn’t want it to end. So I asked him to repeat his point to keep him talking.

Word for word, Benjy repeated what he’d just said, then added, “Normals put labels on things that are different, like ‘Deathmobile’. Or ‘retard’. But just because this car was different, that didn’t mean it was worse. It’s like I’m just different from normals, not worse. I’m not a retard. I do a lot of stuff better, like reading and remembering.”