It was one in the morning when Rain finally left the back room and crept down the hallway. He was dazed and still immersed in his fantasy world. He’d been on fire this week, his imagination burning through his cells, consuming his brain and making it difficult for him to even follow a conversation. During the day, Andre would snap his fingers in his face, and then Rain would realize a customer was at the cash. At the dinner table, he’d drift off, dreaming of his new characters and hearing their voices in his mind. He’d been writing scenes and drawing costumes on napkins, loose sheets, Pip’s binders, his jeans, hands—any surface his pen happened to land on.
He was exhausted, wired, turned on, sick of it, yet whenever he’d shut the door to his back room, he’d feel drawn to his new creatures
