The ringing in his ears had recently become more of humming. He bent down picking up toys that were not his; blocks with faded letters on them, teddy bears with missing eyes, trains without wheels. He used contractions of the ligaments in his hand to pick the toys up and throw them carelessly and forcefully into the box.

"Come eat these few little bites of food left," the woman said. He stirred, and after staring at the woman, rather hesitantly wrenched the pot out of the woman's hands and devoured the remaining scraps. How like a ravenous wolf he looked, although with more intelligence in his eyes. These eyes were the eyes of the boy. He had been born with them. But he had terrible vision unless he was using his spectacles. As he reflected upon this, still dumping the food into his jaws, a flashback occurred to him.

In his flashback, Doc was holding his peach-colored hands tightly over one of the boy's eyes, and screaming at him to read the sideways letters on a chart far across the room. The boy couldn't, but he wanted to. He wanted to perform adequately, with the hope that he might be rewarded with a lollipop. He knew that spectacles were dangerous things; they could improve your seeing, but one tattered baseball to the face, and you could go blind. The spectacles would shatter, and you would get glass in your eye. In the opinion of most, being blind is worse that having shoddy eyesight. The boy shared this opinion. As he struggled to make out the identity of the frayed blotches on the chart across the room, the woman shook him back into the present.

Startled, the boy immediately snapped his head around in a violent manner that killed him.