David, the other boy with Down syndrome, walk into the school. Mrs. Mallory, Thorin’s former case manager, came around the corner as he walked into the hall. She immediately yelled in an angry tone at him, “I bet you thought that was funny!”

Thorin turned in his seat, his mouth making a little O. She kept yelling at David. I turned to look at the receptionists who had their heads turned conveniently down toward the desk. I felt awful for David. Mrs. Mallory’s tirade seemed endless. I wanted to go to him. I didn’t; I wimped out. I took Thorin by the hand, and we left. As we were walking to our car, I saw a parent from the school. She was out of breath and holding her side. She looked like she was about to cry.

“Hey, are you okay?” I asked her.

“Oh! Have you seen a boy . . .”

It wasn’t a posse I saw; I had seen a rescue party.

“He’s inside! We saw him!” I told her.

Someone—I couldn’t see who—yelled at the parent from the front door, “He’s in here!” Then the woman went running toward the school.

I experienced firsthand a situation I found to be disturbing. A situation I could imagine happening to Thorin. And, I didn’t do anything; I was awful. I deferred to who was in charge. I did what I thought was the next best thing. I private messaged David’s mother: “I’m checking in about what happened at the school. Thorin and I were in the front office when David came back to the school. I wanted to run and hug him. If you want to call me, please do. Very scary.”

She wrote back: “Thanks for your message. I appreciate it a lot. Yes, very scary. From what I understand, though, he never got out of the Ed Tech’s sight.”

Her reply completely threw me. I wrote back: “I don’t think that version is true. Can we talk?”

When we talked on the phone, I told her what I had witnessed. She said she would contact the school for more information and let me know.

A couple days later, I discovered the parent who was so distraught as we were leaving that day was also a substitute Ed Tech. She had been David’s Ed Tech that day. He clearly had not been in her eyesight the entire time. I never heard from David’s mother; in fact, she and I never spoke after that.

I tried to imagine some alternate scenario for what I saw, but nothing else made sense. Two other parents were intimately involved in what had happened, the Ed Tech and David’s mom. Was I really the only one troubled about the school lying?

I told Ward, “I don’t know what we should do.”

“Kari, we can’t do anything. No one has a problem with it but you . . . and me, of course.”

“But the principal and the others know I was there. They have to know I saw it.”

“Exactly. If you end up dead, I will assume it was by their hand and direct the police.”

There was a bright hope in one person at the school. Ms. Alice was actually teaching Thorin. She conveyed not only to Ward and me but also to Thorin that he could learn. She learned how to sign all the key words for phonics instruction, so Thorin could sign the word and say the word. She knew signing gave Thorin confidence and talking was a fearful proposition. The multisensory instruction made a huge difference in Thorin’s reading. Thorin had stopped reading at home. I think the discrepancy between what little they expected of him at school and the more accurate assessment of him at home was too much. After Ms. Alice’s learning intervention, Thorin began pulling out books at home.

I received a lovely email from Ms. Alice recently. She was shocked I would credit her with so much of Thorin’s success. She shared that he made her a better teacher and other students continue to benefit when the phonics instruction is delivered using the multimodal approach she learned with him.

Now that Thorin’s reading seemed to be moving forward, his communication needs had to be addressed. Mrs. Holt, the speech therapist, agreed to meet with me when I talked to Craig Joyce about using a more effective and accessible device. The district finally agreed the device was not suitable but couldn’t give Thorin a new device because it was in the IEP. In preparation for the meeting, I had done research on the program. A major criticism is that the learning curve is three to four years. This application, as suspected, was never appropriate for Thorin’s immediate communication needs.

Mrs. Holt shared with me moments before the meeting in a regretful tone, “I have no backbone.”

I realized I had to boost her confidence. “No worries! I’ll present the criticisms. You just back me up, okay?”

“Okay!”

The meeting with Craig Joyce quickly devolved into him yelling at me. He was offended I would suggest he had made a mistake. He was a real prima donna.

“I am telling you we want to change course to a device that’s easier for Thorin to use.”

He went from just yelling at me to spitting unintentionally on me, due to the fact he was foaming at the mouth. I looked at Mrs. Holt to see if she was okay. If normal talking freaked her out, she must be a complete mess thanks to the yelling. She didn’t utter a word during the meeting.

As he was still yammering away, I stood up and said, “We’re done here. I’ll figure it out another way.” We weren’t getting anywhere, and his spittle was nauseating.

After he left, Mrs. Holt said, “I’m sorry! He intimidates me. I couldn’t talk.”

“It’s okay. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.”

The next week, the district found another communication specialist to say Craig Joyce was wrong. The new communication specialist recommended an application that was easier to use. She would show Thorin the application to see if he

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