There are principles that can't be illustrated. No matter what preparation has been done ahead of time. Things that escape the notice of those who pride themselves on being able to tell the difference between one thing and another. Even when that difference is so slight as to be almost non-existent. Something that slips between the rivets and the steel. Something that rhymes, mostly, with “artichoke”.
Eulalie feels Squid's reliance on the sense of touch to the exclusion of almost all others is going to come back to haunt him some day. The way fallen leaves haunt the bottom of the stream. She thinks he will be walking along beside the highway. Minding his own business. And a shadow will loom suddenly overhead. And while everyone else notices immediately and takes proper cover, he is oblivious until it is too late. Until the sound of birds twittering in the tree branches begins to seem like something forged with iron tongs. Something lifted out of a furnace and dropped prematurely to the ground.