Across town, a chubby fair-haired lad sits alone in his bedroom on a stool facing an easel. Judging by the elegant antique furnishings—a Queen Anne four-poster bed with matching dresser, desk and chair, and a faded Persian rug on polished hardwood floors—Harris’s family is well-heeled. But everything is too neat. Cold. Clothes are all hung up in order; shoes are lined up in the closet.
The only evidence of activity in this sad room is the stack of finished paintings leaning against the far wall. On the dresser, a single photo is displayed in a silver frame of a blonde thirtyish man crouched down beside a toddler version of Harris. They are outdoors on a sunny, crisp day somewhere; their hair is tousled in the wind. Grins splash across their sunburned faces.
Teenaged Harris glances at the
