I cannot emphasize enough the importance of a good teacher.
- Temple Grandin

They'll tell you it's not true, but Spencer knows. Everyone has a little autism in them.

It's there in Derek's defensiveness, when any of them gets too close. In Garcia's single-minded focus on computers - the way it gets to her if anyone is in her space for too long. It's in Hotch's desire to stay on track. In Rossi's lack of emotion on even the most gruesome case. It's in Emily, too, though she tries to hide it. In the moments before she transforms herself into whatever a situation calls for, when she is determined to make herself fit somewhere, even it's an impossibility. It was in JJ, too, though she doesn't work here anymore. Because things got to her, but not in the way that people could understand.

Spencer also knows that just as autism is a spectrum disorder, so is not having it. Some hover a little closer to it than others. His teammates are on the low end, with hardly a trace. With so small an amount that you have to squint to pick it out, or get them in just the right circumstance. Spencer knows that he is on the higher end. Closer to kids like Sammy.

Its echoes remain... Its subtle, and the not-so-subtle ripples... It's there when he finds himself avoiding eye contact with Garcia because she's dressed too brightly and it hurts his eyes. In the way he keeps explaining something even though people are done listening, but, as usual, Spencer misses the social cue that signifies they are bored. It's there in the way he fidgets, bounces on the balls of his feet or repeats himself when he gets excited about some piece of information. It's there when he answers a rhetorical question and then is genuinely confused by people's laughter.

It's there on the way to Louisiana, when Spencer is expounding on Dr. Who versus Bill & Ted and Ashley says, "I'm sorry."

He asks, "For what?" and he is serious.

When she says, "Asking," Spencer is confused, and vaguely hurt. Why would she ask if she didn't legitimately want to know?

With Sammy, Spencer knows exactly what he is getting. Well, not exactly, but Sammy makes more sense to him than 99% of the population. All Spencer has to do is frame Sammy's behavior in the right context.

When the officer touches Sammy on the shoulder and Sammy screams and jerks away, Spencer just looks on. He gets it. Sometimes, especially now, dealing with his headaches, the world is too much. Sometimes, touch hurts.

Spencer instinctively lowers his voice, but talks to Sammy like the 10-year-old he is. Spencer might pause a little more frequently, to give Sammy time to process it, but he never loses sight of the fact that, first and foremost, he is dealing with a child who has been through something difficult.

Even if Spencer can't decode what Sammy is trying to say right away, he isn't afraid to say, "I don't understand." He says, "Are you trying to tell me something?"

The answer is in Sammy's gaze, landing everywhere but Spencer's face:

Everything means something.

At the piano, before taking a seat beside Sammy on the bench, Spencer asks if it's okay. Because there's no obvious shift in his behavior to indicate a negative response, Spencer sits down. He is aware of Rossi and Sammy's aunt, Lizzie, watching them, but it's as if they are far away. Right now, all that exist are himself and this boy.

He plays a scale.

So does Sammy.

He plays one backward.

So does Sammy.

Rossi asks a question and Spencer answers it. While he's speaking, pieces come together in his brain. They look like matching Tetris squares. This piano is like Sammy's voice. Spencer is convinced he isn't just imitating what he hears, but maybe, trying to connect. He asks if Sammy can play a specific note for "yes" and a lower note for "no".

"Yes."

"Do you remember when the man came and took your parents away?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes..." and, with so much fluidity and grace that Spencer is amazed, Sammy falls into playing a melody, as if it's the second part of his answer.

Scanning his brain, Spencer tries frantically to put the song into any context he can that might mean something to Sammy. Finally, he gives up and asks. He doesn't say, "Answer my question," because Spencer is aware that maybe, Sammy is answering his question.

"Does this mean something to you?"

Then, he waits as the music goes silent...as Sammy's hands drop from the keys onto his lap. Then, hesitantly, reaches for Spencer's hand, placing it on the piano keys, several octaves down from where Sammy likes to play.

It has been so long since Spencer has been taught anything that the thought of learning something new sends a jolt through him. All his senses are sharper and he lets Sammy press Spencer's fingers to the correct keys.

Then, they are playing, side by side. It sends a shiver up Spencer's back. Sammy wants him to understand. He is telling Spencer exactly what the song means to him. It's up to Spencer to figure out what.

Spencer shadows Sammy, walking several steps behind him. It hasn't escaped him that Rossi seems to have a certain insight and knowledge here. It's Rossi who warned the officer early on that some kids with autism don't react to touch well. It's Rossi who figures out that the "L" Sammy has been drawing isn't a letter, or even a Roman numeral but a symbol for 3:00 PM.

Why, then, doesn't Rossi understand him? Spencer isn't stupid. He knows you don't get insight like that unless you have some personal ties to this disorder. Then again, maybe it's one of those strange social conundrums. Like when Ashley asks him a question and doesn't really want to hear the answer. Maybe Rossi knows the answer, but he is just afraid of the questions.

Back home, Spencer buys a keyboard. It has been so long since he has been excited about something. So long since he has been a student of something. So long since he has been able to be taught something he genuinely knew little about.

Though he does not tell anyone else, Spencer has gotten contact information from Sammy's mother. He wants, more than anything, to stay in touch with this incredible boy. Since he knows it will not do any good to have a phone conversation with Sammy, Spencer teaches himself a song. The first one that comes to his mind is a strange choice, since he is not a fan of movie soundtracks. In fact, he rarely watches movies in English. But he had once found JJ in her office - pregnant to bursting with Henry - leaning back in her chair, her feet propped up on the desk, and this gorgeous piano melody playing in the background.

He recalls her telling him the name of the movie it is from. That is all he needs. He buys the soundtrack, and learns the piece by rote. Though he isn't an expert in the least, and it takes him longer than he likes, he learns the piece.

Then, he records it. Just his hands - that's what will matter the most to Sammy anyway. He puts the DVD in a small manila envelope, and addresses it to Sammy. The DVD is labeled:

Finding Neverland: Piano Variation in Blue

There is no message. The song is the message. This brilliant Kaczmarek song that he just happened to find because of JJ.

Before he can think better of it, Spencer walks a couple blocks down, and mails the package.

When he returns, he sits back in the chair, letting the darkness settle around him.

Maybe everybody is on the spectrum...and maybe it doesn't matter. The lesson Sammy has taught Spencer rings in his ears like beautiful music.

Everything means something.