“People are just people,” he said to me, “which means every bad thing you can imagine, plus some bad things I’m sure that you and I cannot imagine.”
“Doesn’t being human mean good things, too?”
“People are born, ” he said slowly. “Humans have to be raised.”
“If they are not?” I asked, looking into his tired old face, now half in shadow.
“You get inhumans,” he said.
To share is human:
