He's that kid who goes home and drinks hot tea in a periodic table mug. The one who sits in the back of every class, but who everyone knows is a genius. Or maybe it's all speculation.

He doesn't talk much, for one thing. And no one goes to his house to "hang out" or "relax," least of all to rummage through his alphabetically organized cabinets, and discover his pitifully mundane mug preferences.

So what is he? Clearly he can't be a "who" because that would suggest his being human. Which he is, of course, except people don't know that. For all they know, he could be one of those vampires who study for all eternity and become doctors... which honestly sounds like the tenth circle of hell.

No, he's just that kid. He goes to school, does his work, leaves, goes to school. There must be sleeping and eating in there somewhere, but no one has ever seen him eat, and we've already established that no one exactly knows his home routine.

He's a robot, more or less. He does what's required, helps others when needed, and participates when necessary. In essence, he must be the perfect human being (if we've already determined he's not a vampire.)

He's on the honor roll, he must be, though no one has ever checked. And even if they had, it wouldn't have any significance. No one knows his name. He's just there, existing, like that speck of dust you sometimes see when you're trying to concentrate on the lesson.

And this is fine and all. No harm, no foul.

But do we know his aspirations? His feelings? His desires?

His chemistry mug (or perhaps it is for biology) seems to nail it on the head. He must want to be a scientist. He must be smart. He must want to be a scientist or a doctor or a lawyer or a CEO or possibly the president of the whole dandy United States.

What if I were to whisper something in your ear? What if his father died from cancer when he was three, and he used to be a scientist, and this was his mug? And what if his mother was going to remarry a man that he hardly knows?

When there's no good reason not to learn, not to listen, not to live. When there's no good reason not to have that sip of tea, steaming hot, and all alone, despite the circumstances screaming to put it down, pour it out, and let the past be. How can he not be what he is?

He sits there, drinking from the mug of the dead, and thinks.