The author's son, Justin, was diagnosed at the tender age of 17 months with Pervasive Developmental Disorder, the gentler label that generally indicates an autism referral will eventually come. In time it did, just after his second birthday, when he was termed a moderately autistic, non-verbal child. The author realized about the only thing all disparate factions of the autism community seem to agree upon is that intervening early is a child's best chance at the elusive brass ring of recovery, or at least of significant progress. She discovered she could conduct 30 hours a week of therapy with her own two-year-old despite the frustration, anger, and exhaustion of both mother and son, and survive. He slowly became the boy she knows today, the child who rushes to the school bus every morning, yet still shyly waves at her as he departs. He grew into the son who may not play with his little brother, but treats him with courtesy. Eventually, he became the boy who willingly welcomed most of his therapists with a mighty embrace.