5000 words! WUUT

well i ahve to edit this and put 5000 words in it so heres a fun little storyMy son Anthony died in 2005. He was born with Down Syndrome. I began thinking about what this story became when the genetic counselor discussed chromosomal abnormalities with me, saying that a cure for them was a long way off, but other genetic illnesses would soon be cured. Every therapy mentioned in the story is currently being developed. The story is fiction; the feelings are real.PERFECT STRANGERby Amy Sterling CasilThe rain falls in sheets across the yard, another pane of glass beyond our windows.Would you like it warmer, Mr. Gill?The house pings once. Twice.“No,” I say. “It’s fine the way it is.”Thank you very much, the house says.Just like anybody else, the house likes to talk to somebody. I imagined this as a great feature. I’m an ergonomic architect; I designed it.Denny is asleep in his room. You’d think at fifteen, he’d be too old to take a nap. But he’s wiped out after soccer.Carolyn threw Denny’s football out today. The foam rubber football I gave him when he was four years old.It was old, she said. Falling apart. He didn’t want it any more. I thought, if he really doesn’t want the football, maybe he could say. I tried asking.But right then, Denny was off to soccer practice, then a study session, then the game. Now, he’s sleeping. This is what happens when they’re in high school.Carolyn says I should be proud. Proud he’s such an athlete. And a scholar.PERFECT STRANGERAnd I guess I’m a gentleman.The rain comes down like liquid leaded glass.The gardeners have taken the trash all the way to the curb once again.It’s a very long way to the end of the driveway.I return with half of Denny’s football.She must have taken shears to it. A lightning strike of rage flashes. If she were home right now . . .Your body temperature is lower than normal, Mr. Gill, the house chimes in its chimey voice.“I’ve been out in the rain,” I mutter.Would you like some soft, fluffy towels? the house asks. I want the other half of the football. I’ll glue it back together. But I smile and grunt an assent, to which the house responds.Outside, the rain sleets down, a thousand tiny sticks pattering on a thousand tin drums. Nah, not drums. It’s just our solar panels.Denny was born with HLHS. That’s an acronym for hypoplastic left heart syndrome. Hypoplastic left heart syndrome is universally fatal, if left untreated. Even now, there are babies that do not survive, even with full-length clone DNA therapy administered in-utero.When at five months of pregnancy, Carolyn went for a high-level ultrasound that determined Denny had HLHS, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to try gene therapy. The doctors explained how the heart healed itself as the baby grew.It was raining that day.Pouring outside while we listened to the neonatal geneticist explain how the procedure worked. We were so lucky, she said. Before gene therapy, babies like Denny could only survive with full heart transplants.She told us about a doctor that had tried baboon hearts to replace broken baby ones.Apparently, some parents aborted babies diagnosed with HLHS.“I’d never accept that,” I said.“What?” Carolyn snapped, her hand over her swollen belly. “You’d rather let my baby suffer?”I guess I hadn’t thought of it that way.The geneticist explained in the past, babies born with this heart defect were simply left to die. Their hearts barely pumped blood. And they would just fade away.Maybe that could be less humane than an abortion.315AMY STERLING CASILAt least that was what we discussed on the way home.It was a miracle that we had the gene therapy, and that Denny was born whole. And totally healthy.It was the best moment of my life.The rain rattles the solar panels as I sort pictures on the computer. Denny in his baby swing. Denny playing with blocks.I should be working. But I can’t focus on the Recreation Center today.There was one of him holding the fuzzy book he got from his grandmother. She was so frightened— my mother— when I told her aboutDenny’s heart problem. She didn’t understand gene therapy.Carolyn got on the phone and explained it to her. When Denny was born perfectly healthy, I don’t think any of us gave it much more thought.My mother and Denny sat for hours, reading that little book. Pat the Bunny. Her favorite— she insisted on buying it. I have it in my study, in the right drawer of my desk.At one past garage sale, it had been another item bound for the dumpster.I put the half-football with Pat the Bunny.Denny was about three when he learned to read.I sorted those pictures, too.They say a man’s not supposed to be interested in pictures. Mementos.The man lives his life, and the woman saves it.Well, what they say is true and what happens are sometimes two different things.There was another book Denny liked. Stan the Hotdog Man. We read it over and over.And one day, Denny started talking about Stan. It dawned on me that he was reading.“Carolyn, come here!” I called.She came running in from the kitchen, alarmed.“Honey, I think he’s reading.”Her face changed. “Horse manure,” she said.“No, really,” I said.Denny then read a whole page of Stan the Hotdog Man in his small voice. He beamed proudly up at me.“See?” I said.“You’ve read it to him so many times, he’s memorized it,” she said.“Oh,” I said.It was some time later when I learned that by memorizing the book,Denny was, indeed, reading. By that time, he was in kindergarten.I sorted some more of the pictures from later years, and looked pensively out at the rain. Denny was still sleeping.I think I always hoped that my son would play football.Back before I met Carolyn, I played ball. Played all the way through sophomore year in college. Sidelined by a knee injury. I guess I was a pretty good running back, if a little bit underweight. The guys were all into steroids back in those days. There was no such thing as gene augmentation. All we had were good, old-fashioned workouts and protein shakes.And maybe a shot in the butt for guys that were really dedicated. Or crazy.You could blow your heart out on steroids. They made you break out all over. Gave you erectile dysfunction. Made you crazy.Happened to a lot ofmy friends. It’s a good thing I figured out that trap before I fell into it.I guess I did try it a few times.Drops of rain dappled the window.Your heart rate has increased, Mr. Gill, the house chimed. Your core body temperature has dropped.“So turn up the heat,” I told the house.I had to say something. Otherwise, it wouldn’t leave me alone.I folded the blue ribbon neatly into my desk drawer. For math excellence. Why they’d give a math prize to a kid in second grade was beyond me.When Denny hit second grade, his teacher pointed up that he was reading like a pro, but having trouble with his figures.“I was never too good with math,” I told her. Wasn’t that great in reading, either, but I didn’t feel compelled to share.“You might want to look into some tutoring,” she said.“He’s in second grade!” I said.Carolyn hushed me. “How far is he behind?” she asked.“Behind?” the teacher asked. “Oh, no— he’s not behind.”“Well, there’s no reason to worry,” I said. “He’ll pick it up.”“His times tables,” Carolyn said. “Next year he’s got to learn the times tables.”“Oh,” I said.It was some time later when I learned that by memorizing the book,Denny was, indeed, reading. By that time, he was in kindergarten.I sorted some more of the pictures from later years, and looked pensively out at the rain. Denny was still sleeping.I think I always hoped that my son would play football.Back before I met Carolyn, I played ball. Played all the way through sophomore year in college. Sidelined by a knee injury. I guess I was a pretty good running back, if a little bit underweight. The guys were all into steroids back in those days. There was no such thing as gene augmentation. All we had were good, old-fashioned workouts and protein shakes.And maybe a shot in the butt for guys that were really dedicated. Or crazy.You could blow your heart out on steroids. They made you break out all over. Gave you erectile dysfunction. Made you crazy.Happened to a lot ofmy friends. It’s a good thing I figured out that trap before I fell into it.I guess I did try it a few times.Drops of rain dappled the window.Your heart rate has increased, Mr. Gill, the house chimed. Your core body temperature has dropped.“So turn up the heat,” I told the house.I had to say something. Otherwise, it wouldn’t leave me alone.I folded the blue ribbon neatly into my desk drawer. For math excellence. Why they’d give a math prize to a kid in second grade was beyond me.When Denny hit second grade, his teacher pointed up that he was reading like a pro, but having trouble with his figures.“I was never too good with math,” I told her. Wasn’t that great in reading, either, but I didn’t feel compelled to share.“You might want to look into some tutoring,” she said.“He’s in second grade!” I said.Carolyn hushed me. “How far is he behind?” she asked.“Behind?” the teacher asked. “Oh, no— he’s not behind.”“Well, there’s no reason to worry,” I said. “He’ll pick it up.”“His times tables,” Carolyn said. “Next year he’s got to learn the times tables.”317“Oh,” I said.It was some time later when I learned that by memorizing the book,Denny was, indeed, reading. By that time, he was in kindergarten.I sorted some more of the pictures from later years, and looked pensively out at the rain. Denny was still sleeping.I think I always hoped that my son would play football.Back before I met Carolyn, I played ball. Played all the way through sophomore year in college. Sidelined by a knee injury. I guess I was a pretty good running back, if a little bit underweight. The guys were all into steroids back in those days. There was no such thing as gene augmentation. All we had were good, old-fashioned workouts and protein shakes.And maybe a shot in the butt for guys that were really dedicated. Or crazy.You could blow your heart out on steroids. They made you break out all over. Gave you erectile dysfunction. Made you crazy.Happened to a lot ofmy friends. It’s a good thing I figured out that trap before I fell into it.I guess I did try it a few times.Drops of rain dappled the window.Your heart rate has increased, Mr. Gill, the house chimed. Your core body temperature has dropped.“So turn up the heat,” I told the house.I had to say something. Otherwise, it wouldn’t leave me alone.I folded the blue ribbon neatly into my desk drawer. For math excellence. Why they’d give a math prize to a kid in second grade was beyond me.When Denny hit second grade, his teacher pointed up that he was reading like a pro, but having trouble with his figures.“I was never too good with math,” I told her. Wasn’t that great in reading, either, but I didn’t feel compelled to share.“You might want to look into some tutoring,” she said.“He’s in second grade!” I said.Carolyn hushed me. “How far is he behind?” she asked.“Behind?” the teacher asked. “Oh, no— he’s not behind.”“Well, there’s no reason to worry,” I said. “He’ll pick it up.”“His times tables,” Carolyn said. “Next year he’s got to learn the times tables.nvm copy and paste is to gey hope this counts as 5000 words sldasd asd as s sd as das a s sasa as as as as as s as as as as as as as sa as as a s as as as as a winning... so boring well whatever if u read this far . Good for u :D <3 u to. GO TEAM!316