Page 127 of Halo

Easy enough.

Then he asked for ten more.

And ten more after that.

We were literally calculating skin-to-core ratio and measuring negative space. The point, according to my prof, was that most people stop looking long before they stop seeing.

Kindergarteners do not suffer from this limitation.

I’m sitting cross-legged on a brightly colored rug in the middle of Leah’s classroom, a picture book balanced in my hands while twenty-two five- and six-year-olds study me with the unnerving concentration of a firing squad deciding where to aim first.

A little boy in the front points at me. “You have a crooked tooth.”

I run my tongue over my incisor. “Thank, pal.”

“And a worry line.” A kid announces from my right, tapping between his eyebrows. “That’s what my mom calls Daddy’s.”

Before I can defend my rapidly deteriorating appearance, a little girl squints at me. “You have really hairy arms.”

Jesus Christ. My diagnostic professor would’ve loved these kids.

“Now friends,” Leah calls from behind me, “remember, some thoughts are inside thoughts. We don’t have to let every thought come out of our mouths.”

“But it’s true,” the crooked-tooth kid argues. “It's right there.”

I glance back at Leah. “Strong classroom culture you’ve built here.”

She stifles her laugh, covering her mouth.

Every Friday, Leah invites a parent in to read to the class, and honestly, I’ve been looking forward to it all school year—not just because I get to invade Leah’s little world for an hour, but because I get to see Grady interact with other kids. He’s still fairly introverted and prone to hyperfixating on whatever catches his interest, but over the past several months, he’s flourished in ways that make me damn proud of him.

I reveal the last page of the book, where an elderly cartoon penguin proudly holds what might be the worst pizza ever concocted.

“Okay, friends,” Leah starts, “Papa Penguin has made his party pizza. I need y'all to put on your thinking caps.”

Every student quickly taps their fingers to their temples, their restlessness melting away.

“Dr. Crawford is going to point to the ingredients in the picture. I’ll say each word out loud, and I want you to listen for what they all have in common.”

They all eagerly nod, leaning forward to watch me.

“Pepperoni … parmesan cheese … pineapple—” this earns a few giggles—“pickles … pasta …”

One little girl holds up her hand and blurts out, “They all start with P!”

The other kids immediately chime in, cheering that she got it right.

“You're right! They all start with the letter P.” Leah claps. “What do y’all think? Does it look yummy?”

A chorus of ewwws and giggles fill the room.

“I’d eat it!” One boy shouts, waving his arm.

“We eat that at my house all the time—”

“You do not!”

“Do too!”