Jared says. And watches while I print it in capital letters, pressing firmly, at the top of a clean page in his writing book. I underline it with his ruler and turn it around to show him. Lizard flick of tongue. He never looks more scared than when something’s pleased him, like he’s being set up. Our joint title definitely the high point for him. Always. The idea he supplies, which an adult prints cleanly and boldly. Everything after that, even the best parts, are anticlimactic step-throughs to justify the name of his creation. He already knows it, he visits and lives there, so it’s tedious to describe it in such halting, sketchy detail. Starting from the middle, wherever he finds himself, he moves forward tentatively, quickening if he spots something new. Backtracking reluctantly, usually at my request, to mark the trail for others. But no way he’ll start without the title. I learned that in an early session.
