I lay out sixteen pieces of poster board. Four down, four across.
A perfect square.
“What are you up to?” Bob demands. “I’m guessing it doesn’t involve sleep.”
“It has to do with the billboard.”
“That sign’s a monstrosity. Particularly since I’m not featured.”
I grab my bucket of red paint. “You’re not on the billboard because you’re not in the show,” I point out.
“Technically, I don’t even live here,” Bob says with a sniff. “I am homeless by choice.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
I study the billboard. Then I make two fat lines, like broom handles. Another fat line connects them.
I stand back. “What do you think?”
“What is it? No, wait: let me guess. A ladder?”
“Not a ladder,” I say. “A letter. At least I think that’s what they’re called. I have to make three more.”
Bob cuddles up next to Not-Tag. “Why?” he asks, yawning.
“Because then I’ll have a word. A very important word.” I dip my fingers into the paint.
“What word?” Bob asks.
“Home.”
Bob closes his eyes. “That’s not so important,” he says quietly.