Not my son.

Not me.

Not her parents, about this.

Not the school.

And her answer, when somebody finally asked her, sixteen months late, at my kitchen table, was free.

It cost nothing.

It was available every single day for four years and would have taken one child eleven minutes.

She wanted somebody to walk next to her from maths to the cafeteria, slowly, talking about something stupid, so that going down a corridor stopped being a performance.