To be fair, an entire easel's a hard thing to miss for almost anyone, but he really did see more than it looked like he did. That's just ...what he does, really; see things, catalog them, remember them for later. It's not an eidetic or photographic memory, it's just a tendency to absorb everything crucial. Sometimes that habit can mean the difference between life and death - and it already had for him.

"An illustrator? That's a pretty big dream - any progress on it?" The plywood comes away from the wall without too much effort; as a temporary patch, it was good, but it was also clearly temporary. Not enough nails, no glue or caulking, the weather would soon warp the wood, but it did its job well enough and the piece itself is still good. Clint carries it quickly to lean it up against the wall in the hall where it won't be in the way, then comes back to actually start looking at the scene of the crime, talking at he moves. "I was never any good in art classes, so all of that stuff... Just didn't work for me, I guess. I can draw a blueprint, but if I try and draw a face, it looks like a melted breakfast." It's always kind of a miracle to him that some people are good enough at art to be able to make something that feels alive, even if it doesn't look it. He's well aware he's not one of them.

"Me? A year and a half, going on two - I needed a job after I got out of the army, and I took a lot of shop class in high school, so it worked out fine."