You walk briskly down the street, prescription bag in one hand and two coffees in the other. It's a short walk from the corner drugstore to your apartment, but today, it was a chilling one. The wind cut like an icy blade as it whips around you, and you struggle to comprehend Lin living for weeks in this weather.

When you walk up to your apartment door, you struggle to open it because your hands are full. Reluctantly, you knock on the door and call: "Lin?"

You hear the padding of feet on tile and feel the deadbolt slide into the door frame. You push the door open and see a very disheveled Lin-Manuel standing and clutching the book you threw at him earlier.

"Hey." You say. Lin looks up at your briefly and then continues reading. You walk into your kitchen and put your back pack on the counter, removing the bottle of pills from the prescription bag. "I got the goods." You say spiritedly, rattling the pills in their bottle. Lin nods vaguely, still awkwardly standing by the door.

You walk over to him, "Hey, are you okay." He looks up at you as if you'd startled him out of sleep, sunken eyes now wide with curiosity, he smiles, shutting the book. He thumps the cover and shoves it into your arms. You look at the thick book, "Oh, the biography of Alexander Hamilton. I had to read this for my U.S. history course. Are you into this kind of thing?"

Lin isn't listening now, he's pacing the floor and tapping a beat on his thigh with a broad hand. "Are you okay?" You say, despite the fact that Lin looks a million times better. Lins head snap up to you and he smiles widely, nodding. Lin thinks for a moment, then holds out his hand and looks at you desperately. You hand him your phone and he types:

Can I have pencib qnd paaper?

"What?" You say, "Oh, you want to write. Would you rather a lap top?" Lin claps his hands as if to say: "Even better."

You walk to your bedroom and unplug your MacBook, handing it cautiously to the overly excited Puerto Rican. Lin plops himself onto the couch, opens a Word document, and sets into writing... something. You're not sure what.