Caleb sits. The chair is a little uncomfortable, and would probably be hell to sit on for any real length of time. He drags his bag into his lap and looks up at Yussa before glancing away again. His discomfort is probably obvious, and he wishes it wasn't so. But he has been in this position so many times before, and though this is nearly two decades later and a very different situation with a very different man, his damaged brain still makes the connection, and as a result his body isn't quite his own. His heart beats faster, his hands feel sweaty, his arms itch. He hasn't been back in school for very long. It's still hard sometimes, for this very reason.

He waits for Yussa to say something. If they did something wrong, Ikithon had expected them not to speak until spoken to. And though he would like to speak now, though he can acknowledge with logic and observation that there is no reason for him to equate the two, his mind doesn't always follow reason when it comes to these things.

Rather than simply waiting in tense silence, he prepares tea for himself. He is grateful to have something to do with his hands, at least. Yussa has a remarkable selection even here, and Caleb chooses something green and flowery-smelling, a kind he doesn't normally drink, hoping that the taste of something brand new will help him get his head out of the past.