Bobby twirls the pencil around. "How about, 'prettily the tree, roots dug in the soil downward--"

Hank winces, and tells him, "stop."

"What about--"


Bobby sighs. "This poetry thing sucks."

"Why are you improving yourself again?" Hank studies his slide, ticks something off on his clipboard. "I would think you were already at perfection."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Bobby says. "What about 'flattery does it, just like the--" Hank pinches the bridge of his nose, and readjusts the microscope. Bobby stops of his own volition, and says, "maybe I should try painting, instead."