My boy, with his classic autism, the kind that used to be the only face of autism half a century ago, is the one who does not belong now.
There is a child at this event, as cute as any Baby Gap model, thick tufts of brown hair sticking out from under his baseball hat.
“I’m Charlie. I’m 4, ” he says to me and sticks his hand out.
I smile at him and reach my hand out too, but before he can shake my hand, he runs off to chase the other children.