He was drawn at 3 AM on a napkin, left-handed, which explained the wonky right eye. For twelve years he lived folded in a desk drawer, pressed against paperclips and a dried-out highlighter. Then the movers came.

The desk got flipped. The napkin drifted out, caught a draft, and sailed across the room. It landed on a hot radiator coil. The heat did something to the ink — or maybe the ink had been waiting all along.

He sat up. Looked at his hands. They were still paper, still wrinkled, but they moved when he told them to. The radiator hissed. He climbed off it, crossed the empty room, and found a window. Outside, the moving truck was pulling away. He pressed his face to the glass and for the first time in his existence, he felt afraid — not of dying, but of being folded again.

A girl on the sidewalk saw him. She waved. He waved back. She smiled, pointed at her backpack, and mouthed: I have markers.