Home invasion: The Arizona Training Program at Coolidge is the only home some developmentally disabled people have known

So Hinz understands and supports the push to keep Coolidge open. There are plenty of people who don't.

The Arc is an advocacy organization strongly opposed to facilities like Coolidge.

Joe Bonanno, the director of The Arc of Arizona, says the people at Coolidge deserve the right to choose where they live and work. (Sadly, it's a moot point for the many Coolidge residents who are not mentally capable of making such decisions.) He says he has no doubt people are well taken care of at ATPC but also says that's not the point.

"It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there," he says.

The Governor's Council on Developmental Disabilities also says it's in favor of closure if the state provides adequate funding to make the transition and promises the money from the land sale will go back to help people with developmental disabilities. (The land can't be sold until 2013.)

Groups such as the governor's council and The Arc often cite the Supreme Court's 1999 "Olmstead Decision," which says states have to put people into community placements with reasonable accommodations when appropriate in order to comply with the least-restrictive setting mandated by the Americans with Disabilities Act.

But, the court also said the state could not force a community setting on people who didn't want it and conceded, "For others, no placement outside the institution may ever be appropriate."

Olmstead was an important decision. It gave people the legal tools to demand community supports — but it didn't automatically mandate the closure of facilities like ATPC. The residents and their guardians still have a choice.

But in the case of most ATPC residents, the guardians are the only ones capable of making any choices.

Take the Arrington twins. There is a world of difference between them and a person with mild cerebral palsy who lives with support in the community. Darrell and Dorrell have moments of alertness in which they can make eye contact when spoken to, but spend a lot of time appearing catatonic. They never learned to speak or sit upright. They can smile at each other and on a good day can push buttons on a child's toy.

But their mom says that's just about all they can do. They could never realistically decide what to eat for dinner or how to spend the afternoon.

Not everyone at ATPC is that limited, but they are the exception to the rule. The kitchen specializes in cooking puréed meals for residents who can't eat without choking. The head chef has devised molds so that the mushy food he serves to those residents looks like food. There's a mold to shape the pea-mush into peas, or create a pork chop out of what looks like darkened mashed potatoes. (If a resident is ever unhappy with his or her food, the kitchen will make something else.)

While Darrell and Dorrell have never lived off-campus, it's hard to imagine a group-home provider taking better care of them. Their older sister thinks they'd probably be dead. At least she knows they're safe at ATPC, and she adds that they are part of a community. They have their little sister, they have each other, and they have caregivers whom they've known for years.

"It's a campus facility. They are free to go — the ones who are mobile — from cottage to cottage. They have barbecues, invite neighbors over. There are boyfriends and girlfriends. It's a family," she says. "It's not an institution. I really resent that."

On a day in early March, it certainly doesn't feel like one.

At midday, the Coolidge residents are all at work or therapy. For those who've reached retirement age, ATPC has created a program to suit their needs.

Residents who can work, do. They earn money by sorting nuts and bolts for a garage door company in Phoenix. ATPC makes sure to accommodate everyone in the workshop according to need — one man who has a history of bed sores has a wheelchair adapted so he can lie down to work, and the staff repositions him often.

At an on-site adaptive workshop, one older woman is having a new wheelchair molded for her. A physical therapist is present, as is a nurse, and they position her just so. Next, the master of the shop — a woman who's worked at ATPC for more than 30 years and knows the contours of each resident's changing body — begins the pour.

A pink liquid fills the space between the woman's body and the back of the chair. It fizzes up behind the plastic that protects her from getting dirty and turns to foam, then hardens. When the chair is done in a couple of days, it will be upholstered and fitted to the contours of the woman's body. It's a great service, and one used often. Almost 50 percent of the population here needs a chair.

In a therapy room, one of the Arrington twins is positioned in a recliner designed to help him stretch. Around him, the lights are low. Being inside the room feels a little like being at a rave — there are flashing lights, lava lamps, and glow-in-the-dark decorations hung at every angle. No matter where Arrington or the other five people in the room look, there is something to keep them visually stimulated.