A light flashed on the dash as my car slid on the greasy gray snow on Lake Steet, on a house call for a mother’s son on the autism spectrum. He was a “runner,” escaping every day for adventure. Neighbors called police, who called social services, who called our program, who called me. “You’re our last hope, Obi Wan.”

Mom gestured to welcome me in. Our interpreter was a no show. Despite language teaching from a blind man and others, years of disuse left me unsure, embarrassed, and useless.