Another way of limiting noise annoyance was to place pairs of bedrooms on opposite sides of the house, instead of in a dormitory-style row. Ms. Maytum had an additional consideration here, too. “What happens when people fall in love as the years go by?” she said. “These private spaces also provide for the possibility for a couple to have their own wing.”

Ultimately, she doesn’t really know which, if any, of these strategies will make a significant difference. And given the newness of autism architecture, neither does anyone else. As Ms. Sheerin, Sweetwater’s executive director, said, “I often liken it to sailing a ship while we’re still building it.”

Returning to the finished site after a few months away, Ms. Maytum expressed an eagerness to see how the residents had started to personalize and occupy their spaces. But at this point, it is still hard to say. For much of the day, Sweetwater can appear almost deserted, like an office park on a Sunday. Most of the residents depart around 8:30 a.m. for school or life-skills training. When they return, they often withdraw to their rooms.

Dr. Ahrentzen, who visited the nearly three-acre site during construction, said: “It’s very spacious for 16 people. If it was half the size, it might not look as void during the daytime.”

More than an acre has been given over to the organic farm, which a solitary staff member, Rachel Kohn Obut, has filled with thriving row crops, a u-pick garden and the beginnings of an orchard. The idea is for the residents to participate in a market operation, perhaps as a vocational opportunity.

Over the summer, however, the farm did not prove a popular destination. “They didn’t seem to like getting their hands dirty,” said Ms. Kohn Obut, 30. “So it’s all gloves, all the time.”

In truth, many of the other common areas have a vacant feeling as well. On Sunday evening, Christopher Kite returned from an overnight visit with his sister, Nicole, to find his home empty. Most of the time, he said, “It’s like I’m in my own 3,250-square-foot house.”