In Betsy Irish’s room, it’s all about the music. There is a big boom box in the corner, framed CD jackets and a special box just for Christmas music.
She’s hanging out with her dad, David Irish, at her group house in a suburb of Rochester. They’re doing one of their usual activities — reading the dictionary.
“L is for letter,” she says.
“That’s what the mailman brings, a letter,” her father answers. “You could write a letter.”
“To?” she responds.
“Who you going to write to?” he eggs her on.