Harvey had always been a creative kid. He loved to sing, and paint, color in pictures or draw his own. He’d always had a wild imagination, too. Always told stories of the dragons that would fly overhead that only he noticed, the fire-breathing he insisted on seeing proving they weren’t just birds. Sometimes he’d hold his toys up to the window and squint, pretending the heroes were flying above the buildings.

Of course, as many children, his interests flickered from day to day. Sometimes they lasted weeks, sometimes seconds. This one had been lasting a few weeks now, though.

He was no longer interested in dragons flying above. His superhero toys laid abandoned in a toy box, a thin layer of dust over them. No, they were not his interest. That was fully on his new imaginary friend.

“Rex and I drew this,” he said matter-of-factly, holding up the drawing. It was of him, evident by the ‘Harvey’ crudely written above his head, and someone -- or rather something -- else. ‘Rex’ was written too harshly under a scribbled figure, the paper almost ripped under the weight of insistent scraping. The new crayons were dulled.