I am not available for questions. I am not available for negotiations. I am busy. My hand is the canvas. My hand is the muse. My hand is the moment. I have outlined it in red, in green, in something called “midnight blueberry.” I am halfway through “electric tangerine” when dad appears with a spoon.

“Dinner time,” he says, like that means anything to someone in the middle of a creative explosion.

I do not look up. I extend my left hand—my non-dominant, non-crayon hand—like a royal decree. He knows what to do. He begins spooning pasta into my mouth like I’m a baby bird with a vision board.

I chew. I draw. I chew again. I switch to a marker that smells like sadness and cherries. I outline again. My hand is now a rainbow of power. A map of my genius. A warning to future generations: James was here, and he was unstoppable.

Dad tries to sneak in a bite of fruit cup. I pause. I glare.

“No pineapple,” I say. “You know the rules.”

He nods. He adjusts. He feeds me only the grapes and the mysterious red cubes that might be apples or might be science.

I switch to a pen. It’s not ideal—too scratchy—but I’m chasing a new texture. I outline again. My hand looks like it’s vibrating with energy. I am a wizard. I am a machine. I am a legend.

Dad wipes my chin. I allow it. He whispers something about “being almost done.” I laugh. Loudly. Manically.

“We are never done,” I say. “We are becoming.”

He sighs. I hear the sound of a man who once had dreams. I offer him my hand—my masterpiece—and say, “You may hang this in the Louvre. Or the fridge. Whichever is closer.”

He nods. He bows. He takes the paper like it’s a sacred scroll.

I return to my work. One more outline. This time in gold. This time for the ages.