A child with Asperger Syndrome takes a test of social reasoning

I recently came upon the following little test of social reasoning.

Peter has a dog called Toby. Peter takes Toby’s leash from its hook on the wall. Toby wags his tail. Peter fixes the leash to Toby’s collar. What do you think happens next?

I believe I know why an 8‐year‐old child with Asperger Syndrome will, typically, not tell the tester that Peter takes Toby for a walk. It has little to do with the child’s social reasoning. Rather it is because, to the literal, analytic, highly introspective and socially fragile mind of a child with Asperger Syndrome, the question is hopelessly ambiguous and anxiety provoking. At the very least, I know how I would have responded to the question at the age of 8. My mental state would have been mightily confused. The following is an admittedly adult verbalization of that mental state, but I believe it captures the essence of it pretty well.

How am I to interpret the teacher’s question?

The interpretation that I feel most comfortable with is, “From the facts given, please deduce what happens next.” Well, I cannot deduce what happens next. Lots of things might happen next. Peter might notice that the house is on fire, abandon his plans for a walk with the dog, and phone 999.

Or perhaps the teacher means, “What do you imagine happening next?” But I don’t imagine anything happening next. I don’t use my imagination much, and I certainly don’t use it for reasoning, social or otherwise. I find imagination a most unsuitable tool for reasoning. No, I didn’t imagine the scenario with the house on fire: I merely acknowledged it as a logical possibility. The teacher has asked me, What do I “think” happens next? But think can mean either believe or imagine, which is so confusing, for I see no connection whatsoever between imagining something and believing it.

Ah. Perhaps the teacher is telling me a story. I don’t know who Peter is, and the teacher hasn’t told me. I only know that Peter must be a boy and not a man, because a teacher talking to a child of my age wouldn’t refer to a man by his first name. Yes, that must be it: the teacher is telling me a story. Now, anything can happen in a story. It depends entirely on what the storyteller decides. Stories disturb me. I don’t like them, and I have never understood what they are for. Stories have nothing to do with reality. You ask me what happens next in your story, teacher? How should I know? It’s your story: you tell me!

There is one other possibility. Maybe it’s not a story after all. Maybe the teacher means, “Suppose that there is a boy called Peter who has a dog called Toby. Suppose further that Peter takes Toby’s leash from its hook on the wall, that Toby wags his tail, and that Peter fixes the leash to Toby’s collar. Now this is not a story: I want you to suppose that these things actually happen. Then what will most likely happen next?” Well, most likely Peter will take Toby for a walk, obviously.

So which of these four things does the teacher mean? I don’t know. I feel anxious about not knowing. Am I allowed to ask the teacher what she means? Better not. That could be cheating. Besides, when I ask my teacher in class what she means, the class laugh, and I don’t like that. I know the class aren’t here now, but their past behaviour has inhibited me from asking teachers what they mean.

One thing I do know. I’m not allowed to ask whether it’s a story. When Daddy starts to tell me something at home and I don’t know if it’s a story, I feel a strong need to ask him. When I do that, he smiles, and tells me to listen to it and make up my own mind. Then he continues what he was saying, and I feel very frustrated, because I don’t know whether to believe it. Then I have to be careful not to vent my feelings, or I get into trouble.

Indeed, experience has taught me that, in general, if I don’t know what to do or say, the safest course is to do or say nothing.

So I’ll say I don’t know. Anyway, I’ve forgotten the boy’s name.