Sure he'd messed around with crayons when he was a little kid, everyone did, but this here— what he'd just produced on his own terms, what he was currently presenting to the class and receiving what felt like shattering waves of completely unexpected adulation for— was different. This wasn't his mom popping a sheet of newsprint covered in infantile mashes of colored swirls up on the fridge to placate him, this was legitimate praise— he could tell by the other kids' reactions, he was really good at this. His name was Daedalus Boch, he was in the seventh grade, and he was an artist.