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THE SCREAM sounded far away. The first time. The second time it was right in the dining room. Right behind us.
Hesitant to turn around, I look at my husband, who looks as confused as I feel.
More screaming. Far away again, then behind us. Again.
My boys seem oblivious to it. To any noise in general, it seems.
A moment later, a waiter arrives at our table, waving a bottle of ketchup frantically. He announces something that I can’t really understand, but the last word sounds like beer.
Our waitress comes over and nodds at him, and he walks towards the kitchen. Murmering something else, he screams again, before he goes in.
He emerges a few moments later, and I see his body twitch, repeatedly, as he yells again.
Suddenly, I understand.
“He has Turrets,” I whisper to my husband.
“What?” He replies, louder than I’d like.
“Tur-rets,” I say, no longer whispering, a little more slowly.
“What?!” My husband scowls, still unable to hear me.
I don’t say anything, I really don’t want to be rude.
“You mumble,” he mumbles.
“He has Turrets syndrome,” I say again, willing him to hear me.
“Turrets!” I blurt out, in frustration, much louder than I intended, shaking my head, suddenly feeling like I have it myself.