In the morning, I find the picture of me at the bookstore, the one Sammy and I were looking for. I slip it into the front of his book during breakfast.

I drive them both to campus, Sammy thanking us both profusely, me yelling after him to come back sometime so we can play cards and after Annabelle to come back right now so she can actually go into the building with her coffee.

And then I drive home and look at the Polaroids scattered where we left them all over the couch. I look at them, words made of memories of last night tugging at my mind, then grab my notebook, the beginnings of a story forming in my brain.

I took a Polaroid of the Polaroids, which sounds kind of ridiculous now that I think about it, but it seemed necessary at the time. Lots of things do in the creative process, which for me as of now consists of a plate of brownies and about a gallon of iced tea fueling my messy handwriting smearing ink on pages upon pages about a little boy who tried his best and the little girl who finally appreciated what he did.

Annabelle gets home to me in that same position, scribbling furiously. She doesn't interrupt, because over the years she's learned that once I get an idea it's best to let me tire myself out, run myself dry of the initial inspiration a new idea gives me. Only sits down beside me and pulls out her laptop to start grading assignments. She doesn't even ask me to look at the writings on the websites, just leans her head on my shoulder and listens to the scratching of my pen.