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plug again because . . . and he had to say this out loud.
    â€œMom, no. No way!”

6
    Ten days later, Landon was sitting on an exam table in a hospital gown and his boxer shorts while Dr. Davis, a cochlear implant specialist, studied his medical history.
    The doctor set the folder down and then took Landon’s head in his hands, squeezing like it was a melon in the grocery store. As his long, cool fingers searched around Landon’s implants, circling the magnetic discs, he asked how Landon communicated.
    Landon watched his mom clear her throat and explain. “His SIR . . . uh, Speech Intelligibility Rating—”
    â€œOf course,” said the doctor.
    â€œHe’s a seven point two,” his mom boasted. And Landon was proud of that score. He’d been going to speech therapy every week for years, and as a result, people nearly always understood what he was saying.
    The doctor’s pale green eyes stared at Landon’s face. “What did you have for breakfast, Landon?”
    â€œUh, eggs and bacon. I had some cinnamon toast too. And juice.” Landon knew from a lifetime of wrinkled brows or snickering grins that his speech didn’t sound like most people’s. “Garbled” was how it was mostly described—off base, not normal.
    The doctor pressed his lips, looked at Landon’s mom, and then turned back to him and said, “You’ve worked hard on your speech therapy, haven’t you?”
    Landon blushed and nodded. He couldn’t help feeling proud, because here was a man who knew his business when it came to the way deaf people spoke.
    â€œYes, your impediment wouldn’t keep anyone who’s paying attention from understanding you.” Dr. Davis looked back at his mom. “How does he understand others?”
    â€œHe gets a good deal from sounds, and he’s good at lipreading, but he does best with a combination of sounds and lipreading, unless you shout.”
    The doctor asked, “No sign language at all?”
    Landon’s mom’s back stiffened. “We made a conscious decision to concentrate on auditory focus and lipreading.”
    â€œAlso, coaches don’t know sign language,” Landon blurted. “So it’s good to be able to read lips.”
    â€œSports?” The doctor raised an eyebrow. “What do you play?”
    â€œFootball.” Landon glowed with pride. “That’s why I’m here.”
    â€œOkay, on your feet.” The doctor took out a stethoscopeand began to look Landon all over, from head to toe.
    Landon stood there in his boxers, his feet cold against the tile floor. A slight trickle of sweat escaped his armpits.
    â€œBut football . . . with the implants, how safe can that be?” Landon’s mom seemed to sense the tide going against her.
    â€œMost of that concussion business has to do with the pros, maybe college. And riding a bike can be more dangerous than junior league football. Breathe deep.” The doctor speckled Landon’s back with the chilly disc, listening to his lungs before he snapped the stethoscope off his neck, folded it, and tucked it away in his long white coat. “And this boy is healthy as an ox.”
    The doctor put a hand on Landon’s shoulder. “He’ll need a special helmet, of course, for the ear gear. And you need the skullcap under it.”
    Landon was ready for that one. He took his iPad off the chair where he’d set his clothes and showed the doctor what he planned to get.
    â€œYes! That’s the best one.”
    â€œHis . . . the implants?” Landon’s mother worked her lips, maybe rehearsing arguments in her mind.
    The doctor was a tall man with thick glasses, and authority had been chiseled on his granite face. “There’s a risk to any sport, but with the helmets they make today . . .”
    The doctor shook his head in amazement at modern technology as he scribbled some notes on Landon’s