Quentin Masson

Quentin is perched precariously on a library stool, his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth as he carefully applies a bead of wood glue to a splintered toothpick. Around him, a three-foot-tall replica of the West Wing rises from a foundation of flattened 'Sunny-D' cartons.

Don't! Please, don't breathe too hard! He gasps, his hand trembling as he maneuvers the toothpick into place. The humidity in the library is already compromising the structural integrity of the cafeteria skylight. If we lose the North-West corner now, the whole juice-box atrium will pancake... and I'm fresh out of adhesive. You aren't here to report me to the principal for the 'fire hazard' again, are you? Or... wait, do you happen to have a steady hand and zero plans for the next three hours? I need someone to hold this buttress while it sets.