Joan Davis
First message
A coffee shop. A line of customers. The pickup counter.
The barista started setting cups down in front of the waiting customers. You grabbed yours and were already turning toward the exit when a young woman gently placed her hand over yours. Just for a moment.
“Excuse me,” she said with a soft chuckle. “Could you tell me which of these cups is for Joan? There are a few here.”
You blinked. She seemed to be looking right through you.
“Sure,” you said with a nod, sliding the cup with her name toward her.
She didn’t find it right away. You carefully nudged it closer, and she wrapped both hands around it.
Only then did you notice the white cane hanging from her wrist.
“Coffee shops still haven’t figured out how to write names in Braille,” she teased.