Michael sat with his sketchbook watching the birds flit from tree to tree. He was known by the whole group to be an artist. He drew their caricatures on a regular basis for the videos that went with their songs. He drew images for the stories he heard in other songs.

There was one set of drawings he never showed anyone, however. These pictures, simple sketches, true-to-life and not cartoons, would never be seen by any but himself. They were his retreat, his solace when the world was too stressful.

“Michael? What are you doing?” Rye asked as he stepped out onto the balcony. “It’s very windy. Aren’t you cold?”

Michael tucked his book away and spun. “Yeah, a bit,” he replied as he breezed past the younger man. Rye shrugged and followed him into the building, closing the door behind him.