He is reading from a beat-up, tabbed paperback book.
She is reading from a Kindle.
I’m trying not to feel pity and/or sadness.
And then there’s the young fellow behind me. He can’t be much younger than I. Perhaps he’s eighteen . . . at least. He tapped my shoulder not long ago.
“Hi. Um . . . I can’t remember. How do you spell ‘people’? Is it ‘eop’ or oep’?”
I gave him the answer (fortunately for me, I knew that one), and he scribbled it down on a paper full of thick handwriting. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that he would momentarily grab the top of his head and make motions as if to rip off his scalp. I ignored it until once when I feared for his hair. Alarmed, I looked at him, and he turned to me with agony written in his eyes. Music blared from his large headphones.