“Can you even cry, anyway? With your eyes and all." Josh asks, fingers tapping a rhythm on the cushion behind Caid's right shoulder.

Caid swats his arm away. Says, "How is someone paying you to teach children? Of course I can fucking cry; it's not my tear ducts that are broken."

"I teach history, not the anatomy of eyeballs, shithead."

"How old are you?" Caid scoffs, feeling frustrated and exposed. He hates talking about his blindness. Hates it almost more than actually being blind.”