"Happy birthday," said his mother as she straightened a curled length of ribbon hanging down from the bow. Her voice was mild, with a trace of first-thing-in-the-morning hoarseness. Her eyes moved from Ben to the ribbon and back, and she smiled with parted lips.
"All yours, bud," saidhis father. He opened the door, and without looking, reached around the jamb and flipped on the switch for the overhead light. He nodded, inviting Ben to enter.
Ben stepped into the room. His eyes tightened against the brightness. The room was empty. "I don't get it," he replied.
"The room - it's yours," his mother explained. "An art studio."
