"You're wastin' yer time, Ma'am, the boy's tetched."

"Tetched?"  Dr. Wright-Bowden queried the grizzled old man sitting in a rickety chair on the porch of the small hamlet's general store.

"Ah-yuh.  Boy's tetched. Hasn't talked since he was six years old."

Dr. Wright-Bowden regarded the tall, healthy teen with sympathy.  "Was he ill?  A high fever?"

"Nope.  He's been tetched, is all."

Dr. Wright-Bowden's eyesgleamed with zealous light.  "Where might I find the boy's parents.. . ?"

"He be Rory Tate, Ma'am.  His folks live over the other side of town.  Brown shingle with the white trim."

Dr. Wright-Bowden had a difficult time, finding the Tate home with this description.  Almost all the houses in this small town had brown shingled roofs with white trim, but Dr. Wright- Bowden was not easily discouraged.  Two hours later, she finally located the busy and crowded Tate homestead.

"I ain't sure I understand you, Ma'am."  Mrs. Tate said wearily as she deftly changed the diaper of a squiggling baby.  "You want to take Rory to the City?  On account of him bein' tetched?"

Dr. Wright-Bowden nodded vigorously. "Yes, Mrs. Tate.  I work at the University in the Phycology Department. I'd like to run a few tests . . . there maybe something we can do to help him with his mental disability."

"He ain't a Retard, Ma'am, jest tetched."  Mrs. Tate murmured, watching the baby crawl across the porch to play with the wooden blocks Grandpaw Tate had whittled.

"Yes, I believe I understand your quaint phrase.  He has not spoken since he was six years old, yes? Well, we may be able to discover the reason behind it. Wouldn't you like your son to be able to speak again?"  Dr. Wright-Bowden smiled persuasively.

Mrs. Tate scratched her head. "Well, I'd have to speak with my husband . . . waste of time, iffen you ask me.  Rory's tetched Ma'am."  Mrs. Tate looked out into the yard.  "Annabel!  Janie!  Zeb!  Caleb!  You all, stop that bickerin' or you'll get the switch for sure!"  Mrs. Tate smiled shyly at Dr. Wright-Bowden.  "Got any youngin's of yer own?"

"Me?"  Dr. Wright-Bowden shuddered slightly as she watched the grubby, boisterous, Tate multitude. "No, Mrs. Tate.  My husband and I have decided to delay procreation. Our career's are most important, right now."

Mrs. Tate's expression turned sour.  "You're gettin' on.  Children are a blessin', Ma'am. You should be thinkin' on 'em."

Dr. Wright-Bowden smiled faintly and hoped that Mr. Tate would be home soon.  She wanted to take Rory and get on the road.  The sooner she removed herself from this small waste land of ignorance, the better!

Rory Tate settled into routine at the University with little difficulty.  He seemed quite contented with his room, his new clothes and he truly enjoyed the food.  Dr. Wright-Bowden, her spouse and the rest of their research team were stymied. Rory Tate's CAT scan showed no brain malfunctions.  His testing proved that his IQ was well above normal.  His speech centre had not been traumatised.  They could find no reason for his lack of verbalization.

"I don't understand it." Dr. Wright-Bowden confessed to her husband, her gaze following Rory as he cheerfully swept the laboratory floor.  "There is no reason for his lack. He is perfectly capable of speech.  The questionnaire Mr. and Mrs. Tate filled out, does not reflect any childhood trauma, yet they maintain that he is "touched"."

Dr. Bowden called Rory over. "Son, we've tried, but we can't find a solution to your problem." Rory hung his head miserably.  Dr. Bowden reached out his hand and tousled the poor boy's hair.  "I wish you could talk, Rory."

Rory Tate's head popped up and he let out a whoop of joy.

"Thank you, Doc!  I've been waitin' ages for someone to tetch my head!  Dang stupid game! I weren't gonna break no rules!  I weren't allowed to talk until I was tetched an' the teacher never did tetch me after nap."