Timmy’s hands had messy pencil lines covering the palm as if the palm of his hand were somehow paper, his fingers covered in paint in a mess of colors which would stain well into tomorrow. His hands were small at least when compared to the adults in his life, and lack the scars and toughness of skin that any hard working person would gain as they aged. Baby hands they were called, but it was hard to see it as an insult as the skin was smooth, proof of life and happiness, the innocence any child should have, the coloring of the paint and pencils surly proving a good life and joy, something lost with age.