“Imagine a continuum of certainty between one and ten,” I said confidently. As I began turning back to the whiteboard, I saw one of the Strattonite’s hands shoot up. It was Colton Green. Colton Green was an eighteen-year-old Irishman, with a beefy skull, a budding drinker’s nose, and an IQ just above the level of an idiot. A nincompoop among nincompoops! But a lovable nincompoop, nonetheless. With a dead smile: “Green?” “What’s a continuum?” he asked. The rest of the Strattonites chuckled at Colton’s idiocy, which was rather ironic, I thought, considering that most of them were idiots too.
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