Before Max was born, he wrote his first novel while in utero, scratching the words out on his mother's womb. He loved his writing environment there. It was safe, warm, and cozy, and with no worries about food or work, little Max only had to write. Then to his dismay, he was born, and he lost his first novel. This short story is about Max trying to remember that first book he wrote, trying to recapture that special feeling of his first work and the unique way in which it was created. According to Max, he hasn't written anything good since his uterus days.