“What’s a ‘domesticated cactus?’” The boy asked, looking curiously at the display.
The old woman behind the counter chuckled and pulled a little ball cactus from the shelf behind her.
“They’re genetically modified. See? No thorns.” She petted it like a cat. The boy reached out a tentative hand. The cactus was soft and cool to the touch.
“Cacti have thorns for protection, but sometimes we’re better off letting people in.” She handed him the pot. “ Here, it’s on the house.”
He kept the cactus on his desk for years, and it eventually became the symbol of the disarmament movement.

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