She had to finish the box for Emma. It wasn’t her usual work, but it was more important than any customer’s request. Beth brushed the sandpaper down the detached handle, sending dust floating into the air of the workroom. Some of the lightest specks settled on her eyelashes, while others buried into the dark wrinkled circles cushioning her eyes. She didn’t wince as the debris stung her whites and irises, nor reach for the goggles beside her feet; she simply kept tugging at the wood and staring at the battered book leaning against her table’s tool rack. Coffee stains and careful notations crowded stanzas of poetry, but her eyes were drawn to the crayon illustrations that surrounded the lines. A few were mere scribbles of color filling the once blank spaces, but others were attempts at shapes; and even distinctive images had begun to appear in certain spots. A streak of blue and spots of snowflakes held up the final line, her daughter’s favorite line. Beth pulled the