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into her own container of control, she smiled down at her boy who was dragging a chain with an empty dog collar. Yanking the chain upwards, he held the collar to her eyes. Loudly, he obsessed to her that it was his new symbol of control: a seen thing that would be a memory sign for keeping anxiety controlled. He could let it off the chain if he wanted, drag it around at arm's distance if he preferred, or send it to the back veranda if he really needed to sleep. It would do as told because it now knew better. Trained, it was. He was happy. He was going to have a no anxiety' day at school because Sound liked less anxiety too: for now.

Exhausted before the day had even fully begun, his mother prepared a black coffee and sought refuge and a cigarette on the back veranda. She used the shiny cup. Interesting. She only ever used that cup when she was feeling down. As she looked into her black mirror of morning kick-start, she reflected on Sound leashed up.

Considering that, finally, sound insanity and calm anxiety were the winners; she chose to laugh instead of cry. "It worked," she swallowed her hysterical gurgles. "It worked! I am not, completely insane. It's the rest of the world who can't accommodate a child with Aspergers. Maybe we should put them on a leash too."

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