Robert glanced at the clock on the wall. Three minutes until it begins, he thought. Sixty-three minutes until it’s over. His large body slumped into a twelfth folding chair. Always twelve. Arranged in a circle. Every week. Clockwork.

He was sure at least four would remain empty, perhaps more. Robert’s eyes dropped down to the sign-in sheet on the clipboard in his lap. He scanned the names. At least four.

Each chair held a clipboard of its own—a few sheets of paper, two pencils, no color.

Seven minutes later he began and delivered his instructions. “I want you to draw for 10 minutes. Don’t worry about how good of an artist you are. Don’t worry about what it looks like. Just draw. Whatever comes to mind.”

“Jesus,” slurred an orange-haired voice from the far side of the circle, “Do we have to share and talk about this shit when we’re finished?” She couldn’t be more than 13, he thought, damaged before she even became a teen.

“Yes, of course,” Robert said. “And watch your mouth here.” You worthless little fuck, his mind added under his breath.

Slowly, in the course of a minute, pencils were grasped, noses were angled to their blank-page grindstones. Six filled seats, six names signed in, fifty-four minutes to go.

Seventeen minutes later, Robert breeched the silence again. “If you would, take one more minute. Find a stopping place. Even if you aren’t done, you can finish it later.”

After thirty seconds, he asked for a volunteer. No hands. Several shifted uncomfortably in their metal chairs. “Okay, no volunteers. I pick a victim.”

He pulled a finger down the sign-in sheet. Orange Hair tapped her pencil against her clipboard at a slow, rhythmic tempo. Robert ignored her. His finger stopped.  “Patrick,” he said to the group, “Begin.”

Off to Robert’s left, he heard a sigh, a quiet wrestling of paper, and an unenthused voice.

“Okay. So, I drew a giant eyeball. Walking around on skinny legs, with a top hat. And the sun, it’s a clock.” He paused. “I don’t know what any of it means.”

It was Robert’s turn to sigh into his clipboard. “Who’s next?” he punctuated, eyes already scanning the sign-in list again. But then he noticed that the pencil banging had stopped, and could have sworn he heard the echo continue.

“It’s the Transparent Eyeball,” said another voice. Robert had no idea of its name.

“What the hell would you know about it?” Patrick challenged.

“I know,” the voice said slowly, “because I drew it too.” He held up his clipboard. The same giant eyeball, same stick-figure legs, same hat, the same clock face as a sun.

“Me too,” whimpered another girl raising her clipboard. Other clipboards came up as well. All with the Transparent Eyeball.

Robert stopped. Orange Hair stopped. Water spilled from a cup. The clock on the wall stood witness. The Earth stood still. Seven sets of eyes stared in silence.