Portrait of the artist as a very young man

The boys were drawing this morning while I did laundry.
Henry came into the back room to show me his picture of a bus.
"Who's this?" I asked, pointing to the driver, who was something of a cipher.
"James."
"And this?" pointing to the passenger, a much more vivid character who was grinning maniacally.
"James!"
We went into the green room to discuss it with James, the original.
"Oh no! James, what's wrong?" cried Henry.
James was lying on his side between the folds of the comforter, arms outstretched and back arched in an ecstasy of despair, moaning.
The paper he had been drawing on was cast aside and his only reply to Henry was a louder moan.
"James?" I asked. "What is it?"
He took a deep, shuddering breath.
"I ... don't ... know ... how ... to ... draw ... a ... hammer."

This morning in the treasure chest, before wrestling with his demons.