When he was five years old and just starting school, Art Baker's kind faced teacher handed each kid a box of crayons and told them to draw their home.
He drew his small house in monochromatic shades of brown and grey. He lined up his siblings out front, each with dirty, smudged faces and patches clothes. His mother was drawn next, with her wiry hair and tired face, a dishrag in her hands. His father wasn't there, and Baker decided he was at work. That and he didn't know how to draw his father.
He wiped his hands on his own dirty, patched clothes and looked at the drawing. It was an awful, waxy, crayon mess, something he would hide under his bed in a few years, too scared and nostalgic to get rid of it but unwilling to look at it. To the young Art Baker, the drawing spoke volumes, and in the blurred face of his mother he could see every worry.
He looked at the paper for a few minutes before sneaking glances at the others around him.
Baker decided his small brown house didn't look like much, so he scribbled over it, turned over the piece of paper and drew a castle.