The Future Spectrum
written by: Suzzi Harwood
“You smell fishy,” Joey says from the passenger seat.
“What do you mean, I smell fishy?”
“You smell fishy.”
“Did you go fishing with your dad?” I ask.
“No, I did not go fishing. You told me a lie, that’s why you smell fishy.”
“Oh. I think you are trying to use the idiom, ‘something smells fishy.’”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so what smells fishy to you?” I ask.
“You do. You smell fishy. Dad told me he didn’t go to a conference last weekend—so you told me a lie. Therefore, you smell fishy.”
I could tell this conversation was going to go full circle about Ralph’s change of plans, which didn’t involve me; I was trying to cover for whatever he was doing on his planned weekend with Joey. Of course, his change of plans backfired on me.
“I guess I misunderstood what your dad told me. Sorry.”
“Don’t ever lie to me again. I can smell when you’re fishy.”
“Joey, you aren’t using that idiom correctly.”
“I am too. I told dad you lied to me about his conference, and he said, and I quote, ‘Your mom smells fishy,’ end quote.”
Joey stomps his foot down in the passenger side foot well and starts pushing the automatic window opening button up-down, up-down, up-down in rapid succession. I punch the window lock button on my side, but it doesn’t engage. An error on my part, I should have left it in the locked position. Joey’s agitation is rising. I brace for the storm that is about to whirl through the car.
In a fleeting attempt to lighten the mood, and quell the oncoming storm, I laugh a little, and say, “That’s funny, what kind of fish do I smell like?”
Joey doesn’t laugh, in fact, my response seems to have had the opposite of my desired effect. Joey holds the window button down, sticks his head out, and screams. I slow the car down and pull over to the side of the road.
“Hey, Joey,” I say calmly. I remind myself to stop, breathe, and keep my tone even. I am peeved at my ex, who, in my mind, started this whole crazy, unnecessary situation, but blame is not important now. “I was kidding, I got the information about the conference wrong. You repeated what Ralph said, and because I wasn’t there to hear the conversation, I misunderstood why you said something smells fishy.”
Joey turns to me with every ounce of venom inside him, and screams, “I said YOU smell fishy.” Tears well in Joey’s eyes. He clenches his hands into tight fists and starts pounding the dashboard.
I turn the car off and watch for traffic outside of my driver’s side rearview mirror. Joey’s Mars VR case is in the trunk. I open my door, taking the keys with me, and click the car door lock button when I am out. Heading to the back of the car, I hit the open trunk button and grab the green camouflage case with MHARS in bold black letters on it.
Looking in the rear window, I can see Joey slamming his head against the dashboard.
I tell myself to hurry up. I need to get the halo on Joey before he opens the car door and bolts into the woods. Last month, we spent two hours at the water park trying to find Joey, after he got upset when some teenagers called him a retard. I don’t think it’s unrealistic for me to let Joey have the same experiences as non-neurodivergent kids, or ‘normal kids,’ whatever that means. There is no normal, but I get it, teenagers are too insecure and self-centered to have much compassion. I can get mad, or I can educate—but I can’t do both at the same time. I figure, as more and more kids are diagnosed with neurodivergent disorders, there will be more empathy and understanding in the world when everyone has a relative on the spectrum.
Waiting for traffic to clear, an 18-wheeler’s wind gust almost pushes me into the ditch just past the shoulder’s edge. After the truck thunders by me, I make it back up to the driver’s door and slip inside quickly. Joey is still slamming his head into the dash in a rhythmic rocking motion and chanting, “I just want to die” as tears stream down his cheeks.
“Joey,” I whisper. I wait one minute and repeat “Joey.”
It takes five attempts before Joey hears me, but this technique, as prescribed by his therapist, does work, without adding more triggers of escalation to the situation.
Joey slowly stops banging his head into the dashboard and stops chanting, but continues his rocking—a good sign. The rocking is self-soothing.
“I’ve got your Mars unit ready,” I state matter-of-factly, “you let me know when you’re ready to put it on.” I hold the unit in my right hand, ready for Joey to grab it and slide it over his head, just like his Meta VR gaming headset, the smart design of the Mars halo, can be worn anywhere without drawing undue attention—mostly.
After about 15 more minutes of rocking, I can hear Joey’s breathing normalize.
“Mars now,” Joey says.
He places the unit over his head, and his rocking slowly subsides.
The Mental Health Alignment Reset Sensor is an AI VR device specially tuned to Joey’s brain chemistry that resets his brainwaves to regulate mood stability without other pharmaceutical interventions. The AI part revolves around intelligence and decision-making, while the VR part immerses Joey in simulated environments, at least that’s how it was explained to me.
Joey needs to wear the device two times a day for 30 minutes as a prophylactic, but Ralph never remembers to even take the unit out of the case. Joey doesn’t want to wear it at Ralph’s house because he wants his dad to think he’s normal and doesn’t need it. Clearly, no halo time happened at Ralph’s. Joey’s off all other medicines and hasn’t been hospitalized for more than a year.
Joey rides the rest of the way home with his halo on, and life returns to “normal.”
- The Future Spectrum - May 14, 2026
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