Entering the city library’s vaulted space from the chaos of the street, I take out my earphones. I breathe in silence of the kind no sound disrupts. There’s a short queue at the counter and I join it. As I get books out of my bag and put away earphones I become convinced, don’t ask me how, that the woman behind the counter—who I have so far only seen in glances—is autistic. Autistic like me.