Everything’s changed. The thought resonated as he scanned the landscape of the town below. From nought to eighteen he lived there with his mother and three siblings in a dilapidated terrace before events would see him don a uniform and travel halfway around the world to kill people of a similar age but who spoke a different tongue. At twenty five he returned with his brothers, one in a coffin, before at twenty six he left for good, returning only to see his brother married and his mother buried. Now at seventy after his younger brother’s death he returned to the town more often, mainly to act as surrogate grandfather to his great niece. She was eight and rarely spoke but would draw the most amazing pictures of animals. Forty years ago they would have called her creative and said no more of it. Now they called it Autism and approached the matter with clinical opaqueness.