Austin’s parents nagged him for details about his show, apologizing for not being able to be there, and Austin struggled to recapture some of his excitement and pride. He couldn’t talk about Sean, but the weight of his worry dragged behind him like an anchor. Back on campus, he retreated into his art. Waiting. Time in the studio was always Austin’s refuge. Whether the studio was in the art building or the common room of their suite didn’t matter to him. The hours he spent with his hands and his mind deep in the guts of a painting or a sculpture or forty-seven pages deep in newsprint sketches, working to capture the movement of the cat one of the first-years had smuggled into the dorm were where he found his balance. His focus. His control. He ripped the sheet of watercolor paper off his easel and fisted it into a crumpled ball, whipping it at the trash can across the room and missing. “Don’t leave your shit on the floor.
