"What do you want to be when you grow up?" Richard asked Annabelle somewhere in North Carolina. We were in the middle of our epic road trip from Virginia to Atlanta, between pop radio stations and Cheetos.
"An artist," she told him.
"What about president?" he continued.
"Nope," she said, "an artist."
"You could be president," he said.
"I know," she tossed her head, "but I want to be an artist."