All I can see are the blue eyes of that drawing staring at me, in the softest strokes of colored pencil, so realistic and detailed. When I woke up this morning I thought I didn’t know anything about Wesley, but now I know even less than that. Less than nothing. He’s an artist? He sleeps in a closet and draws lovely pictures of flowers? Saves little old ladies from the monsters they built? I need to lie down, I think, while already lying down.
