Jamie looked up from the makeshift easel he'd rigged up in the corner of his room. His hair was sticking up every which way, there was an ink smudge on the tip of his nose, and one of his pens was embedded in his desk. It had run out of ink, and in a fit of pique, Jamie had stabbed the desk.
"You can open your eyes, Dad," Jamie said wearily. "You might tell me I need to clean my room, but it's safe to look."