Autism: "Don't Ignore My Son!"

In a cramped row house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, amid cluttered furniture, shoes stacked on the staircase, and laundry hanging in odd places, there are piles and piles of doughnuts. On the kitchen table and countertops and in the fridge: fat, powdery, supermarket doughnuts. They lead a visitor to wonder about the nutritional habits of the family that lives there. But doughnuts are often the only food that 8-year-old Chris Davis, who is autistic, will eat. Considering the fact that he used to refuse solid food altogether, shovel handfuls of mud in his mouth, chew the wall plaster and the table wood, and gag at almost every smell, eating fried dough is a massive improvement.

The doughnuts are just one sign that the home is centered around Chris. There's also the video equipment in the living room that monitors his bed-room so his parents can watch his therapy sessions and make sure he's playing safely; the hundreds of unreturnable rented movies that Chris has removed the labels from and organized by bar code; and the tiny pictures of food -- watermelon, raisins, Twizzlers, Froot Loops, and of course, doughnuts -- that Chris pulls off of a Velcro strip to let his parents know what he wants.

If a casting director were looking for a couple to play parents who have devoted every waking second to helping their son cope with a baffling affliction, Bill and Jae Davis -- a former Harley rider and manicurist -- wouldn't get the part. The couple, who also have a 13-year-old daughter, Jessica, have subsisted on Bill's bartender salary and a gritty resolve to give their son the best possible chance at a rich life. Self-schooled experts, they know more about cutting-edge autism treatment than most pediatricians.

Bill, stocky and unshaven, comes to the door dressed in a black T-shirt emblazoned with a yellow road sign: "Caution: Empowered Parent." Despite the circles under his eyes, he is exuberant about his son. "He is such a great friend, I can't begin to tell you."

Chris is round-faced and neatly dressed, with a crew cut like his dad's. When he bounds down the stairs and leaps into Bill's arms, he shatters the stereotype of a distant, antisocial autistic child. Five years ago, however, Chris would sit by himself in the corner, transfixed by floating dust particles, flapping his hands, or throwing tantrums that often broke the furniture.

Bill had "autism" tattooed on his chest three years ago, hoping it would spur people to ask him about the disorder. "I am putting it in their faces, telling them, 'Open your eyes. There are kids out there like my son, and they deserve your attention.' "