By the light of the moon

harness,
drew her legs under herself, leaving potted Fred in full possession
of the passenger's foot space, and turned half sideways in her seat
to watch over Shep, making it possible for his brother to pay more
attention to the road.
    Dylan had left a first-aid kit with Shep. Much to Jilly's
surprise, the young man opened it on the seat beside him and made
proper use of its contents, although in a state of such intense
concentration and with an expression of such blank detachment that
he seemed to be machinelike. With swabs soaked in hydrogen
peroxide, he patiently removed the obstructing clots of blood from
his left nostril, which had played like a whistle with each breath
he took, proceeding so delicately that the crimson flow did not
resume. His brother had said this was a mere bloody nose, not a
broken one, and Shep seemed to confirm the diagnosis, tending to
his injury without one wince or hiss of pain. Employing cotton
balls moistened with rubbing alcohol, he scrubbed the dried blood
from his upper lip, out of the corner of his mouth, and off his
chin. He had skinned a couple knuckles on his teeth; he treated
these minor abrasions with alcohol followed by dabs of Neosporin.
With the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, he tested his
teeth, one by one, molar to molar, top and then bottom; each time
he confirmed that a tooth was firmly in place, he paused to say,
'Quite as it should be, m'lord.' Judging by every indication
– by his refusal to make eye contact; by his otherworldly
air; by the absence of any nobleman in the SUV, either lord or
duke, or prince-in-waiting – Shep wasn't speaking to anyone
present. 'Quite as it should be, m'lord.' His ministrations were
methodical to the point of robotism, and often his movements had an
awkwardness that suggested a robot from which the mechanical kinks
and the programming errors had not yet been entirely
eliminated.
    More than once, Jilly tried to chat with Shepherd, but every
effort at communication failed. He spoke only to the Lord of Teeth,
dutifully making his report.
    'He's capable of conversation,' Dylan told her. 'Although even
at his best, what he lays on you isn't the kind of sparkling
repartee that'll make him a hit at cocktail parties. It's his own
brand of conversation, what I call Shepspeak, but it's not without
interest.'
    In the backseat, Shep tested a tooth and announced, 'Quite as it
should be, m'lord.'
    'But you won't be able to get a dialogue going with him anytime
soon,' Dylan continued, 'not when he's rattled like this. He
doesn't handle commotion well, or deviation from routine. He's best
when the day goes exactly as he expects it to, right on schedule,
quiet and boring. If breakfast, lunch, and dinner are always
exactly on time, if every dish at every meal is on the narrow menu
of foods acceptable to him, if he doesn't encounter too many new
people who try to talk to him... then you might make a connection
with him and have yourself a real gabfest.'
    'Quite as it should be, m'lord,' Shep declared, ostensibly not
in confirmation of what his brother had said.
    'What's wrong with him?' Jilly asked.
    'He's been diagnosed autistic, also high-functioning autistic.
He's never violent, and sometimes he's highly communicative, so he
was once even diagnosed with Asperger syndrome.'
    'Ass burger?'
    'A-S-P-E-R-G-E-R, emphasis on per . Sometimes Shep seems
totally high-functioning and sometimes not so high as you would
hope. Mostly, I don't think easy labels apply. He's just Shep,
unique.'
    'Quite as it should be, m'lord.'
    'He's said that fourteen times,' Dylan noted. 'How many teeth in
the human mouth?'
    'I think... thirty-two, counting four wisdom teeth.'
    Dylan sighed. 'Thank God his wisdom teeth were pulled.'
    'You said he needs stability. Is it good for him to be bouncing
around the country like a Gypsy?'
    'Quite as it should be, m'lord.'
    'We don't bounce,' Dylan replied with an edge that suggested he
had taken offense at her question, though she intended none. 'We
have a schedule, a routine, goals to be attained. Focus. We have
focus. We drive in style. This isn't a horse-drawn wagon with hex
signs painted on the sides.'
    'I just meant he might be better off in an institution.'
    'That'll never happen.'
    'Quite as it should be, m'lord.'
    Jilly said, 'Not all those places are snake pits.'
    'The only thing he's got is me. Drop him in an institution, and
he won't have anything.'
    'It might be good for him.'
    'No. It would kill him.'
    'For one