There was nothing left for him to do but rejoin his parents and move on.

Later that evening, the sax player took an extended solo to “Woolly Bully.” He played his instrument upside down, wailing the crap out of it, to a wildly enthusiastic group of dancers in front.

Bob? Long gone, along with his parents.

Scene change.

I have a friend with a 14-year-old daughter. The other day, she related this little vignette:

Her daughter - let's call her Patty - approached her in a state of confusion, seeking motherly advice. In school, Patty had told a friend that she didn't like the bangs on her hair. The friend got all upset. Patty was taken aback by her friend's reaction. She thought it was honest feedback. She meant no harm.

Patty and her friend are learning to grow up, though over the course of the next several years it will appear as if both are regressing to age two. The social exchange between she and her friend was part of the learning process. Thanks to her friend's unexpected reaction, Patty will figure out a way to frame her honest criticism in a way that comes across as helpful advice. As well, she will come to realize that there are times when she should keep her opinions to herself.

Patty's friend, in turn, will figure out how to handle criticism with less drama.

Every day, Patty and her friend will be challenged by new situations. As their brains store new memories and build complex neural networks, the two will respond to similar events far more skillfully, with the confidence to navigate novel ones. They will enter adulthood and the workforce socially adept, and will continue to improve.

Let's compare Patty's situation with Bob's. This is pure speculation, mind you, but I'm guessing that Bob's illness isolated him at an early age from the type of vital social contact that Patty has taken for granted all her life. Deprived of the rough and tumble of dealing with kids his own age, Bob's neurons literally had nothing to work with. Whole sections of his frontal lobes literally became desert.