Idle hands were the devil's hands, or so his mother had always said to Paul. She had taught him to sew, crochet, needlepoint, you name it. Paul knew it. As the cancer took her hand eye coordination and strength, he helped her, finishing pieces when her frail fingers couldn't take it anymore.

She died when he was ten.

It had been a cold November day, snow laying fresh on the lawn as they loaded into the car to race to the hospital, to get their goodbyes out. Paul remembered it so vaguely, like a dream with the key pieces missing from his mind. His younger sister, Kate, had been picking at a bandage the entire time. He could remember that.

After that, he had grown up. He had taken on more chores, more responsibility. The oldest son, helping his father through his grief, not knowing where to place his own.

High school had been a nightmare since he had gotten there, classes a blur, boring and bleary eye creating. He closed his eyes at his locker, counting down the day in his mind until graduation.

Graduation.

He had dreamt about it since he had entered high school, four years ago. The world barely at his fingertips. College fast approaching, eagerly awaiting acceptance letters to read aloud with his friends. Students passed by, walking to lunch or the lawn or to the smokers pit. Paul kept his eyes closed, breathing slowly. Counting.