I don't really know why I'm writing this. I guess I should start off by saying that I am on the autism spectrum, and I'm also currently working in the medical field while waiting for Physician Assistant School to start in 2019. Unfortunately, I had a bit of a difficult past with my diagnosis, much like Shaun Murphy. I wanted to put into words how my brain works, how I think through things, how I see and interpret things for those who may not understand what autism is. Or what it's like to have it. I'm also hoping that this will aid me in being more open about my own diagnosis, since sometimes I'm afraid of the stigma that comes along with people knowing. Let's destroy the stigma. Please read to see Shaun's story through my own spectrum eyes.

One week. 7 days. 168 hours. 10,080 minutes.

One week since Steve didn't open his eyes on that silver table in the small white room, even though the tall doctors were giving him shock after shock on his heart.

Seven days since the nice policeman sat on the bench, offering a shoulder pat, saying "the first of everything after a death is the hardest".

One hundred sixty eight hours of being carefully observed by the quiet doctor who wasn't wearing a white coat while they were in the house and who offered to be there if there was any desire to talk about what happened.

Ten thousand eighty minutes of feeling alone, alone, alone. Guilt. Intense, squeezing, gripping fear.

Shaun lay in his new bed, staring up into the darkness, head turned slightly towards the window. He couldn't sleep. Again. He never realized that this was truly the first time in his life that he was ever sleeping alone—at home he knew Steve was right above him in their bunk bed, in their little bus he knew Steve was right there beside him on their old and makeshift mattress. Now where was he? Was he up there in Heaven, resting happily with some other kid? Was he feeling lonely too? Did he at least have their pet bunny there to hold if he was missing Shaun? He glanced at the digital clock on the little table near the bed. 9:19pm. It was the exact minute that they pronounced Steve dead at the hospital. The exact minute Shaun was whisked out of the room by a nurse and put into another, a separate one. Shaun could feel his chest start to tighten like it always did when he began to cry. But as hard as he waited for the tears to come, they never did. He felt like his eyes had dried up—like they couldn't make any more tears. Shaun gasped out to release the building pressure. The panic was coming. The fear was beginning to grip even harder. What was Shaun going to do? Would he ever have to go back and face his parents? What if they blamed him for Steve's death? What if—

The door to his room opened silently, letting a soft beam of the hallway light into the darkness. Startled, Shaun looked over wildly. It was Dr. Glassman, his new temporary caregiver. The quiet doctor looked worried in the dimness. He noticed Shaun was still wide awake. His hands were pulling on his thick brown hair, without him even knowing. Dr. Glassman slowly sat down on the bed. Shaun retracted his limbs into himself a little. The man sighed gently. "I figured you still wouldn't be sleeping." Shaun's fingers nervously rubbed against one another. Was he in trouble? "Shaun, it's understandable. You're devastated. I know. I've lost people that were close to me before too, and it's…unbearable. I know that sleep is probably the last thing on your mind." Shaun glanced back at the window, unable to fully focus on one particular place. But Dr. Glassman wasn't going to give up. "Shaun, you can talk to me. You don't have to tell me everything. But I need you to know that from here on out…you're safe here. I'm not going to let anyone come for you. You're going to stay here, in this house, and finish growing up. I'll be here for you always. I get it, it's hard to adjust. Your world turned upside down. Let me help you…reorient. Let go of the fears you've had on your mind. I've got you, Shaun."

Upon hearing this outpouring of trust, compassion, empathy, Shaun finally felt the hot tears running from his eyes. A long silence passed. "It's…It's my fault." he stammered through a strained voice. Dr. Glassman reach out and grabbed Shaun's hand, which he immediately pulled away from. "Shaun, no. No. Don't you ever think that. It was an accident, a freak accident. You had nothing to do with what happened. You actually did the right thing—you called for help. And I'm so proud of you, Shaun. I'm so glad you're so smart and so brave." he said. Shaun closed his eyes, not wanting to face the person who was telling him that he was strong and brave when deep down he felt nothing of the sort. Dr. Glassman gently touched Shaun's shoulder as he stood up from the bed. "He's in Heaven. And he'll always be watching over you. He's going to help you do great things." he told him. "He's up there…" He tucked the blankets a little closer to the boy. "…and I'm right here." Dr. Glassman stood for a moment over Shaun, holding his breath as the boy took all of this in. For a brief moment, their eyes met in the low light. "Ok," Shaun squeaked out in a whisper. Dr. Glassman sighed in relief. It was progress—he could work with that.

Closing the bedroom door softly, Dr. Glassman made his way down the hall to his office room, where he picked up the new book he'd just begun reading only a few days prior. Laid out across his usually neat and straightened desk were pages and pages of behavioral research studies, charts, graphs. A specialized neurologist, he was accustomed to reading about neurotypical functions and the prevalence of neurological abnormalities in children and adults. He just had to begin to learn how to take all of that knowledge—those skills, those figures, those studies—and combine it with applied behavioral therapy for a neurodivergent child. And so as he sat down in his chair, he opened the book to the place he'd left off. A book he never thought he would be reading at his present age; Parenting and Gaining Trust in a Child with Autism.

Shaun turned over onto his side in his bed. The digital clock now read 9:42. Thirteen minutes. Thirteen minutes had passed. The first week without Steve was over—he was moving into the second week now. It wouldn't be as hard. Would it? It had already been 10,093 turns of the little hand on the clock without Steve. Shaun was now thirteen minutes into a new week. Thirteen minutes into a huge adjustment. Thirteen minutes into new challenges, new rewards. Thirteen minutes into the beginning of a new life.