Gideon regards Felix with a smile that, like Felix's comment, has a tinge of ruefulness to it. He's tempted to reach out for the man's hand and curl his fingers around it in silent reassurance. It's a desire he has to resist, though; he balls his hand into a fist beneath his tablet and squeezes until the moment passes.

Sometimes we must be our own teachers. And sometimes they must discover teachers long dead, their thoughts and philosophies left behind in dusty old books, to aid them. Felix's son is not the only child present in a more fortunate position than his parent was.