I knew I could get here before Mr. Winters and his door would be open. It always is. His is one of the few classrooms that open up into the open-air courtyard. The school is set up like a horseshoe, with a narrow opening at the back of the building—where the loading area for the stage is—that opens up to the courtyard. It’s common knowledge amongst the art students that Winters leaves his door unlocked. I heard a rumor once that it was so students could sleep in the little back supply room if they needed somewhere to go. Some say it’s because Winters slept there when he and his wife were separated and he just got in the habit of leaving it unlocked. Luckily for him, the students love him and no one would ever turn him in to the principal, but you’d think they’d catch on after senior prank every year. Don’t they wonder how everyone gets in the school? Maybe they think it’s one of the coaches who are equally loose with access to the gym—half of the baseball team has a key to get into the weight room.

I’ve taken art classes with Winters since I was a sophomore, but this is the first time I’ve ever come through the back door. On a Wednesday, in June. Talk about going the extra mile. Winters uses the art room as his personal studio through the summer, so even though school is out, there’s a canvas splashed with bright colors set up on a big easel at one end of the room, next to a desk full of paints and other supplies. Winters opens the door with a clumsy shuffle, a cardboard box cradled in his arms. It’s overflowing with … randomness. I can make out huge striped feathers, and scraps of fabric, and there are a few books stacked on the top. Supplies. There’s an entire wall of the room that’s dedicated to random artifacts. Under brightly colored letters that say INSPIRATION is a long table full of baskets, bins, and jars. Everything from feathers and pinecones to dried lotus pods used for stamping and old glass bottles for their textures on clay. He sets the box down on the table clumsily and pushes his glasses up on his nose.

“Aiden!” I’m sitting at one of the two-person stations, and he claps a hand against my shoulder and shakes me a little. Mr. Winters reminds me of my grandpa, with his thin wire-rimmed glasses and curly gray hair that hangs longer around his neck. “How’s it going?”