“I wonder what it would be like,” she said to me on one of those days that make you feel that you have chosen the right profession, “if I could once and for all get my mother out of my head.”
“Picture it,” I told her. “Tell me what it looks like.”
“It’s a big white room. Massive. Sunny,” she said.
“Anything in the room?” I asked.
“Just me,” she said, “and about a hundred thousand crayons.”