CHIP IN MY BOX v (Autistic author) As Chip watches, Plankton's body starts to twitch, his snores growing louder and more erratic. Chip's heart leaps into his throat, his stomach clenching with fear. Is he having another episode? Karen notices the shift in his breathing and gently squeezes Chip's hand. "It's okay," she whispers. "He's just waking up." Plankton's eye flutters open, his gaze unfocused. For a moment, he seems lost, then his gaze sharpens as he sees his wife and son. The fear and anger from before are replaced with a weary resignation. He sits up, rubbing his eye with the heels of his hands. "I'm sorry," he murmurs to Karen, his voice thick with sleep and regret. "I didn't mean to scare you." He looks at her, his eye searching for forgiveness. Karen's eyes are filled with compassion as she nods. "It's okay," she whispers, her hand still in his. "We just need to find a way to help you through these moments." Plankton takes a deep breath, his shoulders dropping. "I know," he says, his voice a mix of exhaustion and resignation. Chip's eyes are glued to his father, his curiosity a constant thrum. "But why do you have these moments?" He asks, his voice laced with concern. Plankton sighs, his eye dropping to the floor. "It's complicated," he says, his voice heavy with weariness. Chip's curiosity doesn't waver. "But what causes it?" He asks, his voice persistent. He wants to understand, to help, to be there for his dad in a way he never has before. Plankton looks at his son, his eye filled with a mix of pride and frustration. "It's my brain," he says, his voice strained. "It's just... wired differently." His antennae twitch nervously. "Sometimes, it gets too much, and I need to step back, to find a way to... recalibrate." Chip frowns, his curiosity deepening. "But what happens when you have those moments?" He asks, leaning in closer. Plankton's gaze is on his sensory box. "It's like... everything's too loud, too bright," he says, his voice barely audible. "I can't... I can't filter it out." Karen's eyes are filled with understanding as she nods. "It's like your brain is a radio," she says, "And sometimes all the channels are on at once." Chip's eyes go to Plankton's box. "So, the box..." Plankton nods, his antennae drooping slightly. "The box helps me focus," he says, his voice still quiet. "It's got things that calm me down." He sets the box down next to himself. Chip's eyes light up with renewed interest. "Can I see?" He asks, leaning in. Plankton hesitates, his hand on the box. It's his sanctuary, his shield against the world's assault on his senses. But he sees the earnestness in Chip's eyes, the need to understand. With a sigh, he opens the box. Chip's eyes widen as he takes in the contents: a velvet curtain, a weighted blanket, a stress ball. "What are these for?" He asks, his voice filled with wonder. Plankton's antennae twitch nervously. "The velvet's for touch," he says, his voice still low. "It's soothing." He picks up the weighted blanket, his hand shaking. "This one's for when I get overwhelmed, it grounds me." Chip's eyes widen as he looks at the items, his fingers itching to touch. He looks at the fidgets. "And these?" He asks, his voice hopeful. Plankton watches his son, his antennae still. "It's for when my hands need to do something," he says, his voice a whisper. "When I'm... overwhelmed." Chip's hand reaches out, his curiosity overruling his fear. He grabs the fidgets, his eyes wide with wonder. He turns one over in his small hands, feeling it's texture. Karen watches them both, her heart in her throat. Chip picks up some of the fidgets, his thumb tracing the smooth edges. He looks up, his eyes shining with determination. "What if... what if we could make a game out of this, li—" His words are cut off by a sharp clatter as the fidgets slip from his grasp. They hit the open sensory box, landing on the other items with a series of clinks and cracks as every thing inside shatters into tiny, unrecognizable pieces. The room seems to hold its breath, the echoes of the destruction hanging in the air. Plankton's eye widens. Karen gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as she sees the shattered remnants of Plankton's coping mechanisms. Chip's eyes fill with horror as the reality of what he's done sinks in. The fidgets lie scattered, broken and useless, a stark reminder of his own carelessness. His hands are shaking as he reaches for the box, his heart racing with regret... Plankton's eye widens, his body going rigid with shock. He's seen his sanctuary desecrated, the one thing that brings him peace shattered under his own son's curiosity, a knife cutting through the thick silence. The room feels like it's spinning, his senses bombarding him with the sight of the destroyed box, the feel of his heart racing, the sound of his wife's stifled gasp. He can't breathe, his chest tight with an unspoken rage that builds with each passing second. Plankton's expression is unreadable. "Chip!" Karen's voice is a desperate whisper, a plea for their son to understand, but Plankton's mind is a whirlwind of chaos. "Dad, I'm sorry," Chip stammers, his eyes wide with fear as he looks at the wreckage before him. Plankton's breathing is quick and shallow, his eye darting from shard to shard of the broken fidgets. He can't speak, the words trapped in his throat by the onslaught of sensory assault. His mind races, trying to find a way to escape the chaos that's invaded his safe space. Karen knows what this means for him, the turmoil that must be raging inside. Plankton's breath comes in short, sharp gasps, his body trembling with suppressed fury. The world around him is a cacophony of sounds and lights, his sensory overload reaching a new peak. He can't focus, his mind a blur of images and emotions.

CHIP IN MY BOX ii (Autistic author) As they wait, Chip's curiosity is obvious. "What's wrong with Dad?" he asks, his brow furrowed with concern. Karen sighs, sitting down beside him. "It's not that something's wrong, exactly," she starts. "Your father has a... condition. It's a bit like when you get overwhelmed by noise or too much to do and you need to go to your room to play with your toys by yourself, right?" Chip nods, still not completely sure. "It's like he has a... sensory processing thing," Karen elaborates, her voice soft. "Sometimes the world is just too much for him, so he needs these special tools to help him cope." Chip's eyes widen as he looks from the sensory curtain to his mother. He's heard about kids in school who have to wear noise-canceling headphones or sit in quiet areas, but he never thought his dad might be like that. He opens his mouth to ask more questions, but Karen puts a hand on his arm, her grip firm but gentle. "Let's give him his space," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Chip nods, his mind racing. He's heard of people who need breaks, but not like this. "What happens if he doesn't use it?" Chip whispers, his eyes flicking to the sensory box and back to Plankton. "Well," Karen starts, "he can get pretty anxious and overwhelmed. It's like his brain can't keep up with the world around him. It'd just take longer for his brain to wake.." But Plankton's eye starts to twitch, then blink rapidly. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and the room seems to snap back into focus for him. His gaze shifts, first to the box on the table, then to Karen and Chip. "What... what happened?" he stammers, sounding groggy and disoriented. Karen smiles warmly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You had a little moment," she says, using the term they've agreed upon to describe his episodes. Plankton blinks rapidly, his eye adjusting to the light. He looks around, noticing the sensory curtain lying in his lap, the open box. "Ah," he says, his voice a little hoarse. "I see." Embarrassment floods his features as he realizes his son has witnessed his episode. He's always tried to keep it from Chip, his pride not wanting his son to know. He doesn't like being seen this way, vulnerable. It's a side of him he's never shown to anyone outside of Karen. But his son's to curious and wants to ask, as he can't help his curiosity. "What was that?" he whispers. Plankton's face tightens, a mix of embarrassment and anger. He doesn't like for anyone, especially Chip, to see him when he zones out. It's a private battle. He tries to stand, but Karen's hand on his shoulder stops him. "Dad, w---" "Don't!" Plankton snaps, his voice harsher than Chip has ever heard. Karen's hand tightens on Plankton's shoulder, a silent plea for patience. "Chip just walked in, honey. He didn't mean to," she says soothingly. But Chip's curiosity is fueled by the unanswered questions swirling in his head. "But why do you need that?" he asks, touching the sensory curtain. Plankton's expression hardens, his cheeks flushing. He hates the feeling of being interrogated, especially when it's about something so deeply personal. "It's none of your business," he snaps, his tone cutting through the air like a knife. "Now just leave me be." Chip's eyes widen, hurt mixing with confusion. He's not used to his father's sharpness. His hand retracts from the sensory curtain as if burned. "But, Dad," he starts, only to be cut off once more. "I said, leave me alone," Plankton repeats, his voice like steel. Chip feels his heart drop, but his curiosity refuses to wane. "What's in the box?" He asks, reaching for it. Plankton's hand slams down on the box's lid with a force that makes the whole room jump. "I said enough!" His eye flashes with a rare anger that sends a shiver down Chip's spine. Karen intervenes quickly, placing herself between them. "Chip, let's go to your room," she says gently, her voice full of an urgency that usually meant serious trouble. But Chip's curiosity is a stubborn beast. "But I'm wor–" "I said, leave it!" Plankton's voice booms, cutting through the tension. His eye flashes with a fiery intensity that makes Chip's knees wobble. Karen's grip on Chip's arm tightens. "Come on," she urges, guiding him away from his father's wrath. But Chip resists, his curiosity not easily deterred. "Why do you have to use that?" He points to the box, his voice shaking slightly. "What's so important that you can't even talk to me? What's in there that's so important you can't even lo…" "I don't have to explain everything to you," Plankton snaps, his voice rising. Karen's eyes dart between them, worry etching lines on her forehead. "Plankton, please," she begs, her voice barely a whisper. But Chip, oblivious to the storm brewing in the room, presses on. "But why do yo-" "Because I said so!" Plankton's roar is a thunderclap in the quiet room. The box shakes with the force of his hand slamming down on it. Chip flinches, his eyes watering, but he's not backing down. "But, Dad-" "I said, I don't have to explain!" Plankton's voice echoes through the room, the force of his words almost tangible. Karen's grip on his arm tightens, but Chip still tries to stand his ground. "But why can't you?" Chip's voice cracks with the weight of his questions. "You're always telling me that talking about things makes them better. Why can't we talk abou-" "ENOUGH!" Plankton roars, his fists clenched, the knuckles white with tension. His anger is a palpable force. The sensory box seems to quiver under his glare. Chip's eyes widen with fear, but the stubbornness within him won't let him retreat. He opens his mouth again, desperate for answers. "But Dad, if you don't tell me, how can I understand?" Plankton's anger seems to grow with every question, his body tense and his face a mask of rage. "Understand?" he spits out. "You don't understand anything, you little brat!" His hand hovers over the box, as if it's the source of his fury. The room feels like it's shrinking around Chip, the tension suffocating. He's seen his dad upset before, but never like this. He tries to pull away from Karen's grip, his need for answers stronger than his fear of his father's wrath. "But why?" Chip repeats, his voice smaller now, the storm in the room making his courage waver. Plankton's eye narrows, his body vibrating with frustration. "Why can't you just leave it be?" he snarls, his hand still hovering over the box, his knuckles stark against the wood. Karen's eyes are wide with fear, her grip on Chip's arm now painfully tight. "Chip," she says, her voice trembling, "Please, just go to your room." But Chip is caught in the storm of his own curiosity. "But I want to know!" Chip's voice is louder now, his eyes shining with a mix of fear and determination. He can't understand why his father is so upset, why this simple question has caused such a reaction. "You don't need to know!" Plankton's voice is a thunderous boom, his hand slamming on the box so hard that the wood groans. "Just leave me be!" Chip's eyes are wide with shock and confusion, his cheeks flushed with a mix of fear and frustration. "But why?" He persists, his voice shaking. "What's so bad about me asking?" Plankton's fury seems to grow with each syllable Chip utters. He glares at his son, his hand still hovering over the box. "It's not for you to understand!" His voice is a roar that shakes the foundation of the room. Chip takes a step back, his heart racing. But instead of retreating, his curiosity blazes brighter. He's never seen his dad this way, so consumed by anger. It's like his questions are poking at a wound, a secret so deep and raw that Plankton can't bear to acknowledge it.

CHIP IN MY BOX vii (Autistic author) Dr. Kelp's tentacles move quickly, setting out a new set of sensory items. He places the velvet curtain over Plankton's head, creating a safe, quiet space. The weighted blanket is laid gently over his body, his breathing starting to even out. The doctor's eyes are filled with a quiet wisdom that Karen finds reassuring. The octopus then turns his attention to Chip, his tentacle gently stroking the boy's arm. "It's okay," he repeats, his voice a calming lullaby in the tense room. "We all make mistakes." Karen's eyes are glued to Plankton, his body still and silent under the velvet curtain. Fear and regret are a heavy weight on her shoulders. "Thank you," she whispers to Dr. Kelp, her voice trembling. "We should have told him sooner." She watches as the doctor works, his tentacles deftly placing items around. "When Plankton wakes up," Dr. Kelp says, his voice low and soothing, "he might be disoriented, upset." He looks up at Chip, his eyes gentle. "It's important to give him space, let him know it's safe." Karen nods, her eyes never leaving her husband's still form. She knows the routine, but hearing it from Dr. Kelp's lips somehow makes it feel more real, more manageable. "When he wakes," the doctor continues, "he may be confused, overwhelmed." His voice is soft, his eyes compassionate. "He might not immediately be able to process what happened." Karen nods, her hand trembling slightly. "What do you mean?" She asks, desperation lacing her voice. Dr. Kelp takes a deep breath, his tentacles arranging the items with precision. "When Plankton comes to," he says, "his senses may be overstimulated, not knowing what's happening around him." He looks at Chip, his eyes serious. "It's important you don't take it personally. He may incoherently talk, forget or lash out. It's his brain's way of trying to make sense of the sensory overload." Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton. "We'll be ready," she says, her voice determined. She doesn't want to scare Chip, but he needs to know. "We'll help him through it." Dr. Kelp looks at the both of them, his gaze softening. "Good," he says. "Because he's going to need you." His tentacles flatten against the floor as he leans closer to Plankton, checking his pulse. "When he wakes up, keep your voices low, and keep the lights dim. Try to limit any sudden movements." He demonstrates with a slow, deliberate wave of his tentacle. "And if he seems scared or confused, just tell him it's okay, that he's safe," he instructs, his voice calm and steady. "Remember, he might not recognize anything at first. His mind will be trying to piece together what happened, as if in a dream." Karen nods, her eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. Chip clutches the indestructible fidgets in his small hands, his face a mask of determination. "When he wakes up," Dr. Kelp continues, his eyes on the floor, "his reactions may seem unpredictable. Sometimes, he might get scared, other times he might be agitated." His tentacle flicks slightly, a subtle sign of his own tension. "It's all part of his brain trying to recalibrate." He looks up at Chip, his expression serious. "Your dad's going to need you to be brave," he says, his voice gentle. "If he doesn't know you at first, don't be scared. Just stay calm and keep talking to him." Chip nods, his eyes glistening with tears. "I'll do anything," he says, his voice tiny but firm. Dr. Kelp gives a small smile, his tentacle patting Chip's shoulder. "That's all we can ask," he says.

CHIP IN MY BOX viii (Autistic author) The room is quiet as they wait for Plankton to stir. Chip's mind is racing. Suddenly, Plankton's body twitches, a small movement under the velvet shroud. Karen's hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with anticipation. Her heart is a wild animal in her chest, thumping against her ribs as she watches her husband slowly come back to them. Under the curtain, Plankton's eye opens slightly, the pupil dilated with confusion. His limbs move sluggishly, his mind trying to make sense of the world that's rushing back in. Karen's hand reaches out to his, her eyes brimming with relief and fear. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a gentle breeze in the quiet room. "You're safe." "Wh... wha... whale...?" Plankton's voice slurs, his eye flickering behind the velvet curtain. Karen's grip on her son's hand tightens as she watches her husband struggle to find his footing in the murky waters of consciousness. "It's okay," she whispers, her voice a lifeline in the storm of his confusion. "You're home, you're safe." Plankton's eye blinks, his brain trying to piece together the shards of reality. "Whale?" He mumbles again, his voice slurred with sleep. Karen's heart squeezes, her hand still in Plankton's, her voice even softer now. "No, honey, it's not a whale," she says, forcing a gentle laugh. "It's me, Karen. You're at home." Her words are a soft caress, a beacon in the fog of his sensory overload. Chip watches, his eyes wide with fear and hope. He wants to call out, to tell his dad everything's okay, but he remembers Dr. Kelp's instructions. He stays quiet, his hand tightening around the new fidgets, his knuckles white with tension. Plankton's mumbling becomes more pronounced, his eye darting around under the velvet cover, as if searching for something he can't quite see. "Bubble...box," he murmurs, his voice a distant echo. Karen's heart races, her mind racing to keep up with his scattered thoughts. She knows his brain is trying to make sense of the world, to find the familiar in the chaos. "A box is here," she whispers, her voice soothing. "It's new, and right beside you." Her words seem to resonate somewhere in the fog of Plankton's mind. His hand twitches, reaching out. Chip's breath hitches as he sees his father's hand hover over the new box of sensory items. "Bubblebox," Plankton murmurs, his voice a soft breeze through the room. The words are meaningless, but the tone conveys a desperate search. Karen's eyes fill with tears as she nods. "It's here," she whispers, guiding his hand to the box. His fingers graze the velvet curtain, his movements clumsy and unsure. Chip watches, his heart in his throat, as his father's hand trembles over the box's edge. "Bubba," Plankton says, his voice a whisper of confusion. Karen's eyes are glued to his face, her heart breaking at his distress. She tries to think of something to say, to bring him back to them fully. But she knows better than to push too hard. Plankton's eye blinks rapidly, his hand fumbling with the box's contents. "Fishy," he mumbles, his voice a disjointed symphony of half-thoughts. "Fishy, fishy." Karen's heart squeezes. He's talking to his mind, she knows, to the jumble of thoughts that have overtaken his reality. The words are nonsense, a random assortment of sounds. "Fishy?" He murmurs again, his hand patting the floor. "Fishy, bubblebox." His voice trails off, lost in the fog of his own thoughts. Karen's heart is racing, her mind trying to decode his ramblings. She knows his mind is searching, trying to find the safety net of his sensory world. "Yes, honey," she whispers, her voice a soothing lullaby. "You're okay." Plankton's eye rolls back into his head, his body going slack again. The silence in the room is deafening, a stark contrast to the tumult inside her. Karen's hand is a tremor against his, willing him back to reality. Chip watches, his own thoughts racing, as his mother's eyes dart to Dr. Kelp for guidance. The doctor's tentacles move with a quiet assurance, placing more items around Plankton. "It's normal," he whispers, his voice a lifeline in the storm of their fear. "His mind is trying to find his bearings." "Where's," he mumbles, his voice a distant whisper. "So... many... Karen..." His antennae twitch erratically, his hand flailing in the air as if trying to catch invisible orbs. Karen's heart is in her throat, her eyes brimming with tears as she watches his struggle. "I'm here," she says, her voice a soft caress, reaching for his hand. "You're safe." Her eyes plead with Dr. Kelp, desperation etched in her features. The doctor nods reassuringly, his tentacles moving with a gentle rhythm. "We're home." Plankton's eye moves beneath the velvet, searching for familiarity. "Home?" He whispers, his voice scratchy from disuse. "Where am I?" The fear in his tone makes Karen's heart ache. "You're home, Plankton," she whispers back, her voice soothing. "You're safe." Her words are a gentle reminder, a beacon in the storm of his senses.

CHIP IN MY BOX iv (Autistic author) Chip's door clicks shut upstairs, the echo resonating through the house like a gunshot. Karen takes a deep breath, her eyes never leaving the spot where Plankton had been standing. With a sigh, she picks up the sensory box, carefully placing the curtain back inside. She knows her husband's anger is not directed at their son, but at his own inability to control his condition. She follows him into the kitchen, finding him slumped over the kitchen table, his head in his hands. "Plankton," she says softly, setting the box by him. He doesn't move, his breathing ragged and heavy. "I know you're upset." He looks up, his eye shimmering with anger and a hint of despair. "I can't... I just can't handle it," he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion. Karen approaches, her movements slow and careful, as if she's afraid of startling a wild animal. "What can't you handle?" she asks, her voice gentle. Plankton's shoulders heave with a silent sob. "The... the shame," he whispers. "The fear that... that Chip will think I'm broken." His words hang heavy in the air, each one a droplet of pain. Karen's seen this battle play out countless times, but it never gets easier. She sits next to him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. "You're not broken," she says soothingly. "You're just... you." Plankton's head snaps up, his eye wild with desperation. "But what kind of father am I?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "What kind of husband?" Karen squeezes his shoulder gently. "The best kind," she says firmly. "You're the kind who tries, who fights for us every day." Plankton's breath hitches, his eye filling with unshed tears. He doesn't believe her, but her words are a balm on the raw wound of his pride. "But I-I-I-I… I can't control it!" He whispers, his voice shaking with fear. Karen's voice is firm and steady as she replies, "No one expects you to, honey." She takes his trembling hand in hers. "What's important is that we're here for each other." Plankton leans into Karen's side, his body shaking with repressed sobs. He's never felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Her warmth is a comfort. Karen wraps her arms around his trembling form, her eyes closed tight. "You're not broken," she repeats, her voice like a gentle lullaby. "You just have something extra, something that makes you who you are." Plankton's breathing slows, his body relaxing into her embrace. He knows she's right. "You're not broken," Karen whispers, her voice a soothing balm. "You're just... different." Her words hang in the air, their truth resonating deep within him. Plankton's sobs quieten, his breaths slowing to match hers. He nods, his head resting heavily on her shoulder. The fight leaves him, the storm of his emotions subsiding to a gentle patter of rain. Karen feels the weight of his head increase, his body going slack as sleep claims him. She tightens her embrace with love and concern. Her husband's condition is a constant reminder of the invisible battles he faces every day. The kitchen clock ticks steadily in the background, marking the passage of time. Plankton's breathing evens out, his features softening in sleep. Karen kisses the top of his head, his antennae twitching. Karen strokes his back gently, her mind racing with thoughts of what to say to Chip. They need to talk, to explain things better. Upstairs, Chip sits on his bed, his eyes fixed on the closed door. The echo of his father's anger still rings in his ears, making him feel like he's the one who's wrong. He wipes his tears, his curiosity tinged with a heavy guilt. He decides to go check on his parents. He tiptoes down the stairs, his heart in his throat, each step a silent apology. The kitchen light is on, a soft glow spilling into the hallway. As he approaches, he sees Karen, her arms wrapped around a sleeping Plankton. His dad's head is nestled into her shoulder, his breaths deep and even in sleep. Karen's eyes meet Chip's, filled with a mix of exhaustion and sadness. She stands, Plankton's weight barely a burden to her, and guides her son to the couch. With gentle movements, she sets Plankton down, his body slumping into the cushions. His snores are the only sound that breaks the heavy silence. "He'll sleep now," Karen whispers, her voice a soothing lullaby in the quiet room. "His episodes can be draining." She sits next to Chip, her eyes never leaving her husband. Chip nods, his own eyes swollen from crying. "What's wrong with him, Mom?" He asks, his voice small and scared. He's never seen his dad like this before, so lost in his own mind. Karen sighs, her eyes filling with a mix of sorrow and love. "It's not something that's easy to explain," she starts, her hands fidgeting with her apron. "But I'll try." Chip nods, his curiosity still a live wire, but now tempered with concern. "Dad has something called sensory overload," she explains gently. "Sometimes, his brain gets too much information from his surroundings, and gets overwhelmed." He looks up at her, his eyes searching for understanding. "It's like when you have too much on your plate at dinner, and you just can't eat another bite," she continues, trying to make the abstract concept more tangible for her son. "Except for him, it's all the time, with everything he sees, hears, feels..." Her words hang in the air, suspended by the gravity of the situation. Chip nods slowly, his eyes wide with realization. "And the box?" He asks, his voice a whisper. "The box," Karen says, her voice a soft sigh, "contains things that help him cope, things to help calm him down when the world gets too loud." Her gaze lingers on the closed wooden box, the secret it holds now a little less mysterious. Chip nods, his curiosity dimming in the face of his newfound empathy. "Can I see?" He asks, his voice hopeful. Karen looks at him, her expression torn. "Not now, sweetheart," she says gently. "Your dad's not feeling well. But maybe another time, when he's ready." Chip nods, his curiosity now tinged with sadness. He looks at his father, his chest tight with the knowledge that he's caused this pain. "But why was he so angry?" He asks, his voice small. Karen takes a deep breath, choosing her words carefully. "Your dad's not angry at you, Chip. He's angry at himself, and scared of what you might think. This isn't something he wants to share with anyone." Chip's eyes never leave his father's still form. "But why?" He whispers, his voice thick with tears. Karen's hand finds Chip's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Because, Chip," she says, meeting his gaze, "it's hard for him to admit he needs help. His personality is..." she pauses, searching for the right words, "It's like he's a superhero, trying to hide his kryptonite." Chip's eyes widen, his thoughts racing. "But everyone has something they're not good at," he says, his voice small. "Why can't he-" Karen's grip on his hand tightens. "Your father's not just anyone, Chip," she says, her voice filled with a mix of pride and concern. "He's a strong man, and he's used to being in control. Having something that makes him feel vulnerable, something he can't fix, it's hard for him to accept." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's sleeping form. He's beginning to understand, but it's a lot to process. "What can we do?" He asks, his voice barely above a whisper. Karen's smile is sad but determined. "We can be there for him," she says, squeezing his hand. "And we'll find a way to help him manage his... moments." Chip nods, his eyes still on Plankton. "How can I make it right?" He whispers. "How can I help him?" Karen looks at her son, seeing the man he'll become. Her heart swells with pride. "You already are," she says, squeezing his hand. "By being curious, by caring enough to ask." She pauses, her gaze softening. "But sometimes, helping is just giving someone space to be." Chip nods, his eyes on his father's peaceful face. Plankton's snores are a comforting background to their quiet conversation. He feels a knot loosen in his chest, his curiosity giving way to understanding.

CHIP IN MY BOX ix (Autistic author) Plankton's eye focuses on her, his hand clutching hers like a lifeline. "Karen?" He whispers, the fog of confusion slowly lifting. His voice is weak, but the recognition is there, a spark in the vast ocean of his overwhelmed mind. Karen's breath hitches, relief flooding her body. "Yes, it's me," she murmurs, her voice a gentle tide washing over him. "You had a hard time, but you're okay now." Plankton's hand clutches hers, his grip tight, his reality slowly coming into focus. The velvet curtain is lifted gently, his eye blinking in the soft light. His gaze finds hers, and for a moment, it's just the two of them, a silent promise of support and understanding. "I... Dr. Kelp? Chip?" He blinks. Dr. Kelp nods, his tentacles still busy placing the sensory items. "We're all here," he says, his voice calm. "You're safe." Plankton's gaze moves to Chip, who's been watching silently from the side, his face a mask of fear and hope. "Chip?" He says, his voice weak. The boy nods, his eyes shimmering with tears. "I'm here, Dad," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry." The words hang in the air, a silent apology for his carelessness. Plankton's eye locks onto Chip, his grip on Karen's hand weakening as he tries to sit up. His mind is still a tangled web of confusion. "What happened?" Karen's voice is a gentle current, guiding him back to reality. "You had a reality break," she says, avoiding the harsher terms. "It's okay, we're here." Plankton's gaze shifts between them, his mind a whirlpool of questions and half-forgotten moments. He swallows hard, the lump in his throat a reminder of his vulnerability. "I'm sorry," he says, his voice barely more than a whisper. Chip's eyes are wide, his heart racing as he watches his father struggle. He wants to say something, anything, but his throat is tight with fear. "It was an accident," he croaks out finally, his voice small. "I didn't mean to." Plankton's eye narrows slightly, his expression a mix of pain and confusion. "What did you do?" He asks, his voice a thundercloud of emotion. Chip's eyes fill with tears, his guilt a heavy weight. "I knocked over your box," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't know." The words hang in the air, a confession that feels like a betrayal. Plankton's gaze is a stormy sea, his emotions a tempest of anger and hurt. He looks at the shards of his sanity scattered on the floor, a silent accusation. The room seems to spin around them, a maelstrom of his swirling thoughts. "You broke it," he says, his voice a thunderclap of disappointment. The words hit Chip like a tidal wave, drowning his guilt. "You broke my box." The room seems to shrink, the air thick with tension. Karen's eyes dart between them, a silent plea for understanding. "It was an accident," she says, her voice soft. "Chip didn't know." Plankton's eye is on Chip, his gaze intense. He swallows hard, the reality of the situation crashing over him. "Why?" He whispers, his voice a raw wound. Chip's chin trembles, his eyes brimming with tears. "I just wanted to see," he whispers back, his voice tiny and scared. "I didn't know it was so important." Plankton's expression softens, the storm clouds of anger parting to reveal his own fear, his chest heaving with the effort of controlling his emotions. "I know," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "I'm just... tired." He looks at the new box. Karen's eyes fill with sympathy, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder. "You don't have to explain," she whispers. "We're here." Her words are a balm to his soul, a gentle reminder that he's not alone in his journey.

CHIP IN MY BOX xii (Autistic author) Chip's tears fall silently as he watches his father's shoulders tense, his father's body language a wall of hurt. He feels the distance between them growing, a vast ocean of misunderstanding. "Dad," he whispers, his voice smaller than the fingertip that had started it all. "I'm sorry." The words hang in the air, a tiny lifebuoy in the storm of Plankton's emotions. Plankton's antennae droop, his eye shimmering with frustration. "You don't get it," he murmurs. "You can't just-" His words are cut off by a deep, shuddering breath. Chip's heart feels like it's being crushed by a vice. He's hurt his dad, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He opens his mouth to apologize again, but no sounds come out. His throat is tight with regret. Plankton's eye is on the new sensory box, his hand shaking slightly as he reaches for the first item. The sight of his father's distress is like a knife twisting in Chip's gut. He wants to take back his words, to somehow erase the pain he's caused. "Dad," he whispers, his voice tiny and scared. "I didn't mean to make you feel that way." But Plankton is too lost in his own world, his mind a tempest of thoughts and emotions. He picks up a fidget from the box, his antennae twitching nervously as he tries to focus. "Dad, I just wanted to help," Chip says, his voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to hurt you." The silence is a thick fog between them, heavy with the weight of Plankton's pain. Plankton's antennae twitch, his grip on the fidget tight. He doesn't look at Chip, his eye focused on the spinning toy. "You can't help by breaking things," he says, his voice a low rumble. "You can't fix me with a pat on the back and a 'good job'." Chip's eyes fill with tears, his heart a storm of regret. "I didn't mean to break it," he whispers, his voice a tiny wave of sorrow. "I just wanted to kn-" Plankton's antennae shoot up, cutting him off. "You just wanted to know," he says, his voice a knife. "To satisfy your own curiosity, without thinking about what it means to me." His eye is a tempest of anger and hurt, his antennae quivering with emotion. Chip's eyes are wide with understanding, the gravity of his father's words sinking in. "I di-" But Plankton's interrupting him. "Don't say it," he says, his voice a whispered warning. "Don't make excuses and try to make it okay." He turns away. "Just... don't." Plankton's back is to him, his antennae drooping. He's retreated into his own world, leaving Chip on the outside, desperately trying to find a way in. He sits up in bed, his small frame a stark contrast to Plankton's slumped shoulders. "I just wanted to show you that I ca--" But Plankton's had enough, his antennae shooting up in annoyance. "I don't need a show-and-tell of your understanding," he snaps. The words hit Chip like a wave, knocking him back into reality. His father's face is a mask of anger, his eye a storm of emotions he can't quite read. Chip feels small, his own curiosity a betrayal. He's always looked up to Plankton, his hero, his teacher, his world. But now, he sees a different side to him, a side that's fragile and in pain. The room seems to shrink, the walls closing in on his guilt. Plankton's back is a wall of anger and hurt, his antennas drooping with the weight of his own words. "I'm sorry," Chip whispers, his voice a soft ripple of remorse. "I didn't mean to-" But Plankton is lost in his own thoughts, his mind racing with the sting of Chip's naive curiosity. The way his son had talked about his sensory box, as if it were a childish toy, had made him feel like a specimen, a curiosity to be studied. He sighs, his antennae drooping lower. He knows Chip didn't mean it, but the hurt lingers. He turns his head, his eye meeting Chip's tear-filled gaze. "I know you didn't mean to," he says. "But you have to understand, it's not just a box. It's a lifeline." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's. "I do," he whispers. "I just wanted to be part of it, to he-" But Plankton's not ready to hear it. "You can't," he says, his voice a gentle wave of finality. "You can't be part of something you don't understand." His antennae twitch with frustration. "I'm not a science experiment for my son to poke and prod. I'm not a baby," Plankton says, his voice a gentle rebuke. "My sensory needs are not a game." His antennae are still, his body a statue of frustration. "You need to respect that." Chip feels his heart crack, his eyes never leaving his father's face. "I do," he whispers, his voice a soft ripple of sincerity. "I just di-" But Plankton's antennae twitch, his patience worn thin. "No, you don't," he says, his voice sharp as a tack. "You see me as something to be fixed, not understood." His eye closed, his breathing shallow. Chip feels his cheeks heat with shame. He'd never seen his father so upset. He's always been the strong one, the one who had all the answers. But now, he's just a kid who's hurt his dad. "Dad, I'm sorry," he says, his voice a whisper of regret. "I didn't mean to make yo-" But Plankton's antennae wave away his words. "You don't get it," he murmurs, his voice a gentle reprimand. "Every time you treat me like I'm a child, it's like you're telling me I'm not good enough." His eye shimmers with unshed tears. "So, no more 'good jobs' and no more 'you're special'. I don't want your pity, Chip. So either you can learn to understand me, or you can leave me alone. Because right now, your 'help' is just making things worse." Chip's eyes widen with surprise and pain, the words cutting deeper than any knife. He's never seen his father so vulnerable, so raw. The realization hits him like a wave: his curiosity had hurt Plankton more than he'd ever imagined. He'd unintentionally stripped away the dignity his father had fought so hard to maintain.

CHIP IN MY BOX xi (Autistic author) In the quiet of the room, Plankton's breathing is the only sound, a steady reminder of his presence. Chip's eyes are on his father, his mind racing with thoughts of the day's events. He's seen Plankton tired before, but never like this. Never so lost in his own thoughts, so overwhelmed by the world around him. Chip feels the weight of his promise to protect his father's sanctity. His hand reaches out to Plankton's arm, his touch tentative but reassuring. "It's okay, Dad." Plankton's breathing evens out, his body relaxing into the bed's embrace. His antennae twitch slightly, his mind still racing. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice soft as his eye flutters closed. Chip lies beside him, his small hand resting lightly on his father's arm, as his promise to be more careful keeps his eyes open. He watches Plankton. Plankton's breathing slows, his body finally letting go of the tension. His antennae twitch one last time before stillness takes over. His eye closes, his features relaxed in sleep. His antennae rest gently on the pillow. Chip lies there, his own eyes open, watching his father's sleeping form, the only sound being Plankton's rhythmic breaths. He's never felt more connected to him, or more responsible for his wellbeing. He can see the outline of Plankton's face, his features relaxed in slumber, and it's as if he's seeing him for the first time, really seeing the struggle behind the inventions and the jokes. Plankton's antennae twitch slightly in his sleep, a gentle reminder of the complex mind that's working even in rest. Chip's eyes trace the lines of his father's face, the worry etched into his features smoothing out as he sleeps. He feels a weight lift from his chest, his breathing matching the steady rhythm of Plankton's. The next morning Chip wakes up before his dad next to him. Plankton's antennae are still, his breathing deep and even. Chip can't help but feel a surge of protectiveness as he watches him. He remembers the fear and confusion from the night before, and the promise he made to be more understanding, more careful. Chip's eyes are glued to Plankton's face, the tiny movements of his father's antennae as he dreams. The soft snores are a comforting soundtrack to the early morning silence. With a gentle touch, Chip reaches over to his father's side, his small hand hovering over Plankton's antennae. He wants to show his affection, but fears waking him up. The memory of last night's frightening episode is still fresh in his mind. He's learned that sometimes, love is not about loud gestures, but about quiet moments of understanding and care. He watches Plankton's chest rise and fall rhythmically, the soft snores a lullaby to his own racing thoughts. Slowly, so as not to disturb him, Chip's hand reaches out and his fingertips graze his father's antennae. He's afraid to touch them fully, afraid the contact might shatter the fragile peace of his father's sleep. Plankton stirs slightly, his antennae twitching. Chip's breath catches, but Plankton settles again. The snores become softer, his body relaxing into the mattress. Chip's hand hovers, his mind racing. How can he show love without waking his dad? He's seen the pain of his father's reality breaks and doesn't want to cause another one. He recalls the softness of Karen's voice, the way she touched Plankton's hand so gently. He tries to mimic her calmness, his hand shaking slightly as it hovers over his father's arm. He takes a deep breath, his eyes never leaving his father's face. Then, with the lightest touch imaginable, his fingertips brush against Plankton's arm. Plankton's antennae quiver, but his eye stays closed. Chip's mind races with ideas, his hand hovering over his father's arm. He thinks of all the ways his mother had touched him last night, the gentle strokes and soothing whispers that helped ground him. He tries to replicate that, his thumb tracing a soft arc over his father's shoulder now. Plankton's antennae twitch again, but his breathing remains steady. Chip's heart is a drum in his chest, his eyes wide with hope. He's learned that for Plankton, touch can be both a source of comfort and a trigger. He needs to be careful. He tries different pressures, light as a feather and then a gentle squeeze. Plankton's body remains still, his sleep deep and undisturbed. Encouraged, Chip moves up to Plankton's face, his thumb tracing the contour of his ch... The soft touch of Chip's fingertips against his cheek causes Plankton to flinch, his eye snapping open with a gasp. "Chip?" He sounds groggy, disoriented. Chip's eyes widen, his hand quickly retreating. "Sorry, Dad," he whispers, his voice laced with apology. "I didn't mean to wake you." Plankton's gaze is unfocused, his antennae twitching as he tries to process the sudden contact. "What are you doing?" He asks, his voice still thick with sleep. "I just wanted to say good morning," Chip whispers, his eyes shimmering with hope. "But I didn't want to wake you up." Plankton's antennae still twitch, the remnants of sleep still clinging to him. He looks around the room, his gaze eventually finding the shattered remains of his old sensory box. The sight sends a pang of anxiety through his body. "Here," Chip says softly. He holds out the new box, his eyes hopeful. "This one's special, just like you." Plankton's antennae droop slightly, his gaze shifting to the box, then back to his son. Despite the good intentions in Chip's eyes, his wording seemed... patronizing, to Plankton. He takes the box, somewhat hastily. He's used to the stares, the whispers, the misunderstanding, but from his own son? "I'm not 'special', Chip," he says, his voice tight. "I have a condition. It's not something to be... gawked at or talked down to." The words sting, and Chip's eyes well up with tears. "I didn't mean it like tha-" But Plankton cuts him off, his voice a tempest of emotion. "You don't understand," he says, his antennae waving erratically. "You can't just call me special and expect me to feel better. It's not a toy, it's not a quirky trait. It's a part of me that makes every day a challenge." Chip's eyes widen, the tears spilling over as he takes in his father's words. He didn't mean to make him feel belittled, but now he sees the pain in Plankton's eye, the frustration of being reduced to a label. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice trembling. "I wa-" "Don't," Plankton says, cutting his son off with a sharpness that makes Chip's heart ache. "Just... don't." He turns away, his antennae drooping as he focuses on the new sensory box, his eye searching for comfort.

CHIP IN MY BOX iii (Autistic author) "What's in the box?" Chip asks again, his voice steadier than he feels. Plankton's eye bulges, his fists tighten around the box. "You're going to make me show you?" He snarls, his voice low and dangerous. Chip nods, his curiosity now a raging inferno that overpowers his fear. "Yes," he whispers, his voice shaking. The room seems to hold its breath as Plankton's grip on the box tightens. His knuckles turn white with the effort of not flinging it open, of not revealing whatever dark secret it holds. Chip's heart thunders in his chest, his eyes never leaving the box. "Fine," Plankton growls, his voice low and dangerous. "If you have to know, I'll show you." He opens the box, and the tension in the room snaps like a rubber band. Chip leans in, his heart racing with a mix of excitement and apprehension. Inside, there's a variety of sensory apparatus, and a few other odds and ends. "It's... it's just stuff," he stammers, not quite grasping why his dad had reacted so strongly. Plankton's chest heaves, his face red with anger. "It's not just stuff!" he yells, slamming the box shut. "It's private, it's mine, it's none of your business!" Chip's eyes water, the sting of his father's words cutting deep. He's never seen his dad like this, so out of control. He takes another step back, his curiosity now overshadowed by fear. "Dad," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm sorry, I just-" "You just what?" Plankton's tone is like ice. "You just have to know everything, don't you? You can't leave well enough alone!" He stands, the box clutched in his hand, the knuckles still white. Chip's eyes dart to the closed box, then back to his father's furious face. "I'm sorry," he repeats, his voice small. "I just wanted to help." But his apology seems to fall on deaf ears. Plankton's anger is a living, breathing thing in the room, swirling around them like a tornado of unspoken words. "You don't help," he spits out. "You never do. You just make things worse." His eye bore into Chip's, the accusation stinging like a slap. Chip's bottom lip quivers as he tries to understand his father's fury. His eyes flit to the sensory box, now closed with a finality that feels like the slamming of a door. "But why can't I help?" he whispers, his voice tiny in the face of Plankton's wrath. Plankton's eye narrows, his voice a low growl. "You don't know what you're asking." He turns away, his shoulders hunched, the weight of his secret heavy on his shoulders. Chip feels his cheeks wet with unshed tears, but he can't stop. "What don't I know?" He asks, his voice trembling. "What's so bad about the box?" Plankton whips around, his face a twisted mask of anger and pain. "It's not about the box, you little brat!" he yells. "It's about respecting my space!" He slams the box down on the table, causing the contents to rattle. "You never think before you act, always poking your nose where it doesn't belong!" Chip's eyes widen, the realization dawning that his curiosity has crossed a line. He takes a tentative step back, his voice shaking. "Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-" "Mean to what?" Plankton interrupts, his voice a whip crack in the tense silence. "Mean to invade my privacy? Mean to make me feel like a freak?" His hand slams on the table, the box jumping under the impact. Chip's eyes widen with understanding, and his stomach drops. He hadn't meant to make his dad feel that way. "No, I..." he starts, but Plankton doesn't let him finish. "Just go to your room!" Plankton's voice is a thunderous wave, crashing over Chip's apology. "You've done enough damage for one day." The hurt in Chip's eyes deepens, but his curiosity doesn't waver. He goes to open the box.. "What could be so bad?" Chip asks, his voice smaller now, his hand trembling as he reaches for the box's latch. Plankton's eye widens in horror, his anger a volcano about to erupt. "Chip, no!" Karen's voice is a desperate plea, but her son's need to know is too strong. The box's latch clicks open, and Chip's hand freezes in mid-air as his eyes land on the contents within: a collection of small, seemingly random objects, each with a specific purpose to soothe and comfort Plankton in his moments of distress. Plankton's anger boils over, his face reddening as he watches his son's curiosity expose his most private weakness. "You had to see for yourself, didn't you?" he says, his voice low and venomous. Chip's hand hovering over the open box, the sensory items laid bare before him. He looks up, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and understanding. "Dad, I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice shaking. But Plankton's anger is a tidal wave that can't be held back. "You're always sorry," he snarls, his eye flashing with a rage that makes Chip's heart pound in his chest. "But it's never enough, is it?" He grabs the box, his hand shaking with the force of his emotions. Chip's curiosity turns to regret as he sees the pain his questions have caused. He takes a step back, his hands up in a defensive posture. "I didn't me—" But Plankton isn't listening, his rage a living entity in the room. "Get out!" He roars, his voice shaking the walls. "I don't want to see you right now!" Tears spill down Chip's cheeks as Karen intervenes. "Chip, go to your room," she says, her voice shaking but firm. Plankton's anger is a storm that's been brewing for too long, and she's afraid of where this could lead. Chip nods, his eyes never leaving the box. He feels a heavy weight in his chest, his curiosity now a burden. Slowly, he turns and heads upstairs, his feet dragging. Karen watches him go, her heart aching. She turns to Plankton, her eyes pleading. "Honey, maybe we should talk to him," she says, her voice shaky. But Plankton's glare silences her. He slams the box shut and storms out of the room, leaving Karen alone with her racing thoughts. Should they have told Chip earlier? Would it have made a difference?

CHIP IN MY BOX vi (Autistic author) Chip watches, his own breathing shallow with fear. He didn't mean to hurt his dad, but he can see it in his eye—the pain, the disappointment. "I-I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice barely audible. But it's as if the words are lost in the chaos that's engulfed the room. "Dad, ca--" But Plankton's body has a mind of its own. His limbs shake violently, his eye spinning out of control. It's like watching a storm brewing in the calmest of skies, a tempest of emotions ready to break. His hand twitches, reaching for the box, his fingers brushing against the shards of his shattered sanity. And then, he deflates. His body goes slack, his hand falling to his side. His eye rolls back in his head, and he slumps to the floor, unconscious. Chip's scream pierces the silence, his eyes wide with fear. "Mom!" He cries out, his heart racing. "Mom, help!" Karen's instincts kick in, her fear for Plankton overriding the shock of the moment. She rushes to her husband's side, checking for signs of injury. His breathing is shallow but steady. It's the meltdown becoming to much, she knew. It's his autism, a part of him she loves and fears in equal measure. "Chip," she says, her voice calm despite the racing of her heart, "get me the phone, quick." Chip's feet fly into action, his fear for his father outweighing his own fear. He runs to the hallway, his heart thundering in his chest, and grabs the phone from the charger. Karen's hand shakes as she takes the phone, her eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. She dials the number, the digits blurring together with her tears. The line rings. "Dr. Kelp, it's Karen," she says, her voice shaky. "Plankton's had an episode. It's... it's pretty bad." Her voice breaks, the weight of her words heavy in the air. The beep sounds, and she swallows hard, willing the words to come out right. "Could you come over? I think he needs you." She hangs up, the silence deafening. The house feels too small, too suffocating with Plankton's condition sprawled out in the open. Her heart is racing as she watches him, his chest moving in shallow, uneven breaths. She knows Dr. Kelp will come, he's always been so kind, so understanding. But the wait feels like an eternity. Every second stretches into a minute, each minute an hour, as the fear of what might happen before help arrives gnaws at her sanity. Karen looks around the wrecked kitchen, her eyes falling on the shards of Plankton's fidgets scattered like the shattered pieces of their evening. She swallows the lump in her throat, her mind racing. The doorbell rings, a welcome interruption to the taut silence. Chip runs to the door, his little legs carrying him faster than he ever knew possible. It's Dr. Kelp, his sensory friendly specialist, with a bag full of supplies. Dr. Kelp is a small octopus, his eyes scanning the room quickly before landing on Plankton's form. "Karen," he says, his voice calm and measured, "what happened?" Karen's voice is a jumble of words, her fear and guilt spilling out in a rush. "The box," she stammers, pointing to the wreckage. "Chip... he didn't mean to, but he broke it." Her voice cracks, her eyes filling with tears. "And then he had a meltdown." Dr. Kelp nods, his expression calm and understanding. He crosses the room, his tentacles moving with purpose as he sets his bag down. He opens it, revealing a treasure trove of sensory tools—fidgets of various shapes and sizes, soft fabrics, noise-canceling headphones. His movements are precise, a balm to the chaos. He looks at Chip, his eyes kind despite the fear he must be feeling. "It's okay," he says, his voice a gentle wave. "Accidents happen." He begins to gather the shards carefully, his tentacles working with surprising deftness. "But we can fix this." The doctor's calmness is a beacon in the storm of their fear. He pulls out a new set of fidgets, similar to the ones Chip had so carelessly broken, but these are made of a tougher material. "These are indestructible," he says, handing them to Chip. "But remember, these are your dad's special things. We have to be very careful with them." Chip nods, his eyes wide with understanding. He takes the fidgets, holding them tightly. He won't make the same mistake again. He won't be the reason his dad feels scared and lost.

CHIP IN MY BOX xiv (Autistic author) Chip opens his mouth, but the words won't come out. He's hurt his father, and now he's lost for words. Karen's eyes widen with concern, her hand reaching out to comfort his shaking shoulders. "What happened?" she asks softly, her voice a caress in the stark silence of the morning. Her eyes search his face, seeing the pain and regret etched in every line. Chip's throat is tight with unshed tears as he holds up the sensory box, his hands trembling. "I... I broke his trust," he whispers, his voice a tiny wave crashing against the shoreline of her concern. He can't meet her gaze, his eyes focused on the box, a symbol of his father's pain. Karen's heart squeezes at the sight of her son's distress. She knows Plankton's condition isn't easy, but she didn't realize the depth of the rift her husband's words had created. "What did you say?" she asks. Chip's shoulders heave with a sigh, his eyes still fixed on the floor. "I... I said he was an embarrassment," he whispers, the confession a painful admission. "And that you had to take care of him like a baby. And he gave me the sensory box and told me to leave." The words tumble out, each one heavier than the last. Karen's eyes fill with sorrow, her heart aching for both her son and her husband. She's seen Plankton's pride crumble before, but never because of their son's words. "Oh, Chip," she says. "That wasn't kind." He looks up at her, his eyes swimming with regret. "I know, Mom," he says. "I didn't mean it. But I just don't know how to help him." Karen's gaze is filled with understanding as she takes the box from his trembling hands. "You're still learning, sweetie," she says, her voice a soft breeze of comfort. "And so are we. We all make mistakes. Let's go check on him." Her hand is a gentle guide, leading him back down the hallway towards Plankton's room. The door is still closed, but she knocks softly. "Plankton?" she calls. "Can we talk?" There's no answer. Her hand lingers on the knob, her heart a drum of anxiety. She opens the door slowly, the room silent. Inside, Plankton sits on the bed, his antennae still, his eye vacant. He's having another staring spell, lost in his own sensory overload. Plankton's eye is wide open, unseeing. His antennas are stiff, pointing straight up into the air. Karen's gaze is filled with concern as she approaches her husband, her steps silent. She's seen this before, the way his body shuts down when the world becomes too much. It's a self-defense mechanism, his brain's way of coping with the overwhelming sensations that bombard him. She sits beside him, her hand reaching out to cover his. "Plankton?" she says. But he doesn't move, lost in the chaos of his own mind. He doesn't blink. All because of Chip's words. Karen's heart beats a frantic rhythm as she tries to snap him out of it, her voice a gentle coax. "Plankton, sweetie?" He doesn't respond, his body rigid, his mind adrift, as he's too far gone to grasp it. The room feels too bright, too loud, even with the curtains drawn. The silence is a scream in her ears, a reminder of her own helplessness in the face of his condition. Karen's touch is a lifeline, a gentle pressure that seeps through his frozen shell. Plankton's breath stutters, his antennae twitching slightly. She whispers his name, a soft caress in the storm of his overwhelmed senses. His eye blinks, once, twice, focusing on her face. The spell begins to break, his body slowly uncoiling from its protective shell. "Karen?" he murmurs, his voice a tentative exploration of reality. The world rushes in, a tidal wave of sound and color. He flinches, his antennae waving wildly as he tries to ground himself. She holds his hand tighter, her voice a lighthouse in the storm. "It's okay, sweetie," she says. "You're safe." Plankton's breath hitches, his body slowly coming back online. He's aware of the weight of the blankets, the softness of the pillow. His eye finds hers, and he recalls Chip's accusations. The hurt is a physical thing, a heavy stone in his chest. He tries to speak, but his voice is a mere rasp. "Karen," he manages to croak, his antennae twitching with the effort. Her eyes are filled with concern, her grip on his hand unyielding. "I'm here," she says, her voice a gentle wave of reassurance. "You're okay." But Plankton's mind is stuck in a loop, Chip's words echoing like a persistent siren in his head. "I'm an embarrassment," he murmurs, his antennae drooping. "A baby." The room spins around him, his senses a cacophony of pain. The light is too bright, the air too thick. He feels like he's drowning in his own thoughts. Karen's voice is a beacon, cutting through the fog. "Plankton," she says again. "Look at me." Her eyes are calm, a safe harbor in the chaos of his mind. He tries to focus, his eye twitching as the world realigns itself around her. "You're not an embarrassment," she says, her voice firm. "You're not a baby." Her words are a gentle breeze, blowing away the storm of doubt. "You have a condition, and we're here to support you."

CHIP IN MY BOX i (Autistic author) Chip came home from a friend's house to hear his mother, Karen, quietly talking to Plankton, his father. "I'll go get your special box," Chip hears her say before she left to go upstairs. He wanders into the living room, expecting his dad to be watching his favorite show, but instead, Plankton's eye is fixed on something invisible to anyone else. His body is completely still, as if frozen in time. He doesn't even blink. Chip approaches, a knot of confusion tightening in his stomach. "Dad?" He says tentatively, but there's no response. He waves his hand in front of Plankton's face, but his dad's gaze remains unfocused. It's like he's somewhere else entirely. Just as Chip starts to wonder if something's wrong, he hears footsteps on the stairs. Karen reappears, holding a small, intricately carved wooden box. Her eyes widen in surprise upon seeing her son. "Chip! You're home early," she exclaims, her voice a mix of relief and caution. The surprise on Karen's face is palpable as she quickly hides the box behind her back, but it's too late; Chip's curiosity is piqued. He steps closer to his father, his eyes darting from the mysterious box to the unusual stillness of Plankton. "What's going on?" he asks, his voice quavering slightly. Karen's grip tightens around the box. "It's nothing, sweetie," she says, her smile forced. "Just something for your dad to... help him relax." But the way she says it, the way she avoids his gaze, tells Chip that it's more than that. He's always noticed his dad's quirks, the moments of intense focus where he seems to disappear into his own world, but he's never seen him like this before. Chip feels a pang of worry, his curiosity growing. Plankton's silence is still unsettling, his eye unblinking and fixed on some unseen point. "What's in the box Mom?" Chip presses, his voice a little stronger now. Karen sighs, weighing her words. She's never told him about Plankton's condition, his need for solace in structured routines. The sensory box is a collection of items that help Plankton cope with the chaos of the world, items that provide comfort and order. "It's just a... a set of things that Dad uses to, well, destress after a long day," she finally explains, her voice careful. Chip nods, not fully understanding but willing to let it go for now. He looks back at Plankton, who still hasn't moved or spoken. "Is he ok?" Karen nods, a bit of sadness flickering in her eyes. "He's just... in his own little world?" Chip nods, trying to understand. He's heard about people who need their own space, but this is different. Chip reaches out to touch Plankton's shoulder. His dad doesn't react at all. It's eerie, like trying to interrupt a statue. Chip pulls his hand back, his thoughts racing. Karen sees the concern in her son's eyes and decides it's time for a gentle explanation. "You know how some people need a quiet moment to themselves? This is like that for your dad, but a little more intense." Chip nods slowly, still trying to grasp the situation. He's aware that his father has always been a bit of a loner, preferring the solitude of his workshop over family gatherings. But this is something else entirely. Then Karen whispers, her eyes never leaving Plankton's still form. "It's like his brain takes a quick break from the world. He'll be back in a few minutes." The concept of his father's brain taking breaks without his consent is both fascinating and scary to Chip. "Whaa-" "Shh," Karen interrupts gently, placing a finger to her lips. "We don't want to startle him." With a nod, Chip watches as she opens the box with a soft click. Inside, there's a velvet curtain, attached to three small wooden rods. Karen pulls it out with care, its texture reminding him of his favorite blanket. "This is his sensory curtain," she murmurs, unfolding it to reveal a rainbow of fabric squares. Each one has a different texture: some are smooth like silk, others rough like sandpaper. "It helps him block out the world for a bit." The curtain forms a tent around his eye, cutting off visual stimulation and the views. Karen carefully drapes the curtain over Plankton's face, ensuring it doesn't touch his skin but completely blocks his line of sight. "Now, we wait," Karen replies, her voice calm. Chip nods, his eyes glued to his father's unchanging form.

CHIP IN MY BOX xiii (Autistic author) "Dad," he starts, his voice shaking. "I never thought-" But Plankton's antennae wave again, silencing him. "You think it's cute," he says, his voice tight. "You think because I need this," he holds up the sensory box, "that I'm less than you. That I'm some- thing to be pitied." His eye is wet with unshed tears. "And I can't... I can't handle that from you." Chip feels a spark of anger flare within him, his cheeks flushing with frustration. "It's not my fault you're like this," he blurts out, his words cutting through the tension like a shard of glass. "You're the one who can't handle simple things! How are we supposed to have a life with you freaking out all the time with your mood swings and mental delays?" Plankton's antennae quiver, his eye narrowing at the ignorant accusation. "Chip," he says, his voice tight as a bowstring. "That's enough." But Chip's anger has taken over, his voice rising with each word. "You're the one who's always upset," Chip continues, his words a stream of accusations. "You're the one who can't handle the world without your box!" He's on the verge of tears, his frustration a hurricane in the small room. "How are we supposed to live with a father who can't even see how his own wife has to take care of him like a baby! Don't you see how embarrassing..." He stops mid-sentence, the impact of his own words sinking in. He's gone too far. The room is a vacuum of silence, the air thick with the tension of his accusation. Plankton's antennae are still, his eye wide with shock. Chip's anger evaporates, replaced by a cold dread. He's hurt his father, deeply. The pain in Plankton's gaze mirrors his own regret. He didn't mean to say it, but the words had spilled out, a torrent of frustration and fear. Plankton's eye closes, a single tear escaping to trace a sad path down his cheek. Chip's words hang in the air, a stark reminder of his own insensitivity. He's hurt his father, not just physically with his touch, but emotionally with his lack of understanding. Plankton's antennae drop, his body slumping. The weight of Chip's words is too much, and he feels his reality break all over again. "Dad, I'm sorr-" But Plankton's not listening. He's retreated into his own world, the walls closing in around him. "Get out," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Just leave me alone." Chip's eyes are wide with shock, his heart a storm of regret. He'd never seen his father so broken. He stumbles back, his legs shaking beneath him. "Dad, I'm sorry," he says, his voice a plea. But Plankton just turns away, his antennae drooping in defeat. The silence is a heavy blanket, suffocating them both. Chip's chest heaves with unshed sobs, his eyes never leaving his father's back. "I didn't mean it," he whispers. "Please, I didn't mean it." But Plankton's antennae remain still, his back a wall between them. "Just go," he says, his voice a whisper as he shoves the sensory box to Chip. "And take my embarrassing baby toys with you, too." The words are a blow, and Chip feels his heart crumple. He takes the box, his hands shaking with emotion. He doesn't know what to say, what to do to make it right. He just wants to take it all back, to erase the hurt from his father's eye. With a heavy heart, he turns and leaves the room, his steps echoing down the hallway. The house seems too quiet, too empty. He doesn't know where to go, what to do with himself. He's hurt the person he loves most, the one who's always been his rock. He finds Karen in the living room. "Good morning, Chip," she says. "How..." Her words die in her throat as she sees the tears on his cheeks, the box in his trembling hands. She notices the closed bedroom door, the silence from within. Her gaze is a question, but Chip can't find the words to answer.

CHIP IN MY BOX x (Autistic author) Plankton's gaze shifts to his son, the weight of his own fear reflected in Chip's wet eyes. "You have to understand," he says, "my box is special." Karen's eyes are filled with love as she looks at her husband, her heart breaking for the pain he's in. "It's his safe place," she explains, her voice gentle. "When the world gets too much for his brain, it's his way of finding calm." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving Plankton's face. He can see the exhaustion etched in his father's features, a stark contrast to the usual energy that fuels his inventions. "I didn't know," he whispers, his voice thick with regret. "I know, buddy," Plankton says, his antennae drooping slightly. "But it's important you do now." He takes a deep breath, his body visibly relaxing as he reaches for the new fidgets. "This box," he says, his voice weak but determined, "it's what keeps me grounded." He picks up a small, indestructible worry stone, his eye focused on the smooth surface. "When I'm overwhelmed, when the world's too loud, too bright, this is where I need." He shows Chip the stone, his eye meeting his son's with a silent plea for understanding. Chip nods, his hand reaching for the stone. "I'll be more careful," he whispers, his voice a promise. "I won't mess it again." His eyes are wide with sincerity, a silent vow to protect his father's sanctuary. Plankton's antennae twitch, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice a gentle wave. "It's not just about the box, though. It's about understanding how my brain works." Karen nods, her hand squeezing his gently. "We'll learn together," she says, her voice a soft promise. "We'll make sure it doesn't happen again." The room is a tableau of understanding and regret, each person feeling the weight of the moment. Chip's eyes are glued to his father's, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice a gentle ripple. Plankton's smile is a small wave of forgiveness. He looks at Karen, his eye shimmering with gratitude. "Thank you," he murmurs, "for always being there." The doctor's tentacles move slowly, placing the final item in the sensory box. "We're all learning," he says, his voice a gentle reminder. "It's a journey, not a destination." He looks at Chip, his gaze filled with understanding. "And you're doing a good job, buddy. I'll be going. He might seem to regress this week, which is normal. I also gave you multiple sets of the same box just in case." Karen nods, her eyes following the doctor's movements. "Thank you, Dr. Kelp." She says. The doctor nods before exiting, the door clicking shut behind him. The room feels smaller now, the air thick with understanding and love. Plankton's hand shakes as he places the worry stone back into the box, his eye visibly tired. "Let's get you back to bed," Karen says. She helps Plankton to his feet, his body leaning heavily into hers. Chip watches, his own guilt heavy. "I want to stay with Dad," he says, his voice a soft plea. Karen looks down at him, her eyes filled with love and understanding. "Of course," she murmurs, her hand on his head. "Let's go." They help Plankton into his room. Chip climbs into his father's bed. Plankton's antennae twitch, his eye searching for the comfort of his son's presence. "I want to stay with you," Chip whispers. "To make sure you're okay." Plankton's expression is a storm of emotions, but he nods. "You can," he murmurs, his voice a gentle wave. "But no more peeking or prodding." Karen helps Plankton into his bed. Chip climbs in too. The bed dips with their combined weight, but Plankton doesn't protest. He's too tired to fight. Karen tucks them both in, the blanket a comforting pressure. Chip's eyes are on his father. "Dad," he whispers, his voice a soft ripple. "I'm sorry." Plankton's eye closes. "It's okay, buddy," he murmurs. "But you need to understand, my box is my sanctuary." Chip nods. "I won't do it again, I just wanted to know what it was." Plankton's antennae twitch, a sign of his own internal struggle. "I know," he says, his voice weary. "But it's important that you respect my space." Karen watches them from the doorway, her heart swollen with love and a tiny sliver of sadness. She knows the journey ahead won't be easy, but she's determined to make it better for her family. "Goodnight, you two," she says, her voice gentle. She bends down to kiss Plankton on the forehead, her hand resting on Chip's shoulder. "If you need anything," she adds, looking at Chip, "you know where to find me." Chip nods, his eyes never leaving his father's face. He understands now, the gravity of Plankton's condition sinking in. "I won't," he promises, his voice a quiet wave of determination. "I'll be right here." Karen's eyes fill with gratitude as she watches her son, his bravery a testament to their bond. "Good night," she murmurs, her voice a soft caress as she closes the door.