Unlike the B cell, though, the T cell isn’t looking for a culprit to come bursting out of the saloon, guns a-blazing. It is, like some omniscient Sherlock Holmes with a pipe and an umbrella, seeking the portent of a person. The debris left behind by an inner presence. A torn-up letter, with the fragment of a name, discarded in the trash can outside. (You might think of that crumpled piece of stationery, mounted within a trash can, as a peptide presented on an MHC molecule.)
