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them—how I missed them all so much.
    And then I thought about my stepfather, and the sobbing subsided and the sadness was replaced. Replaced by anger. And the searing heat of that anger dried up the tears.

CHAPTER THREE
    â€œ NICE WORK .”
    I spun around, surprised by the voice that had called out unexpectedly from behind me. He was old—maybe in his thirties—dressed casually, not big or small, and he had a goofy-looking smile on his face. Maybe it was more of a smirk than a smile. He was by himself, which meant there were only the two of us standing underneath the bridge.
    â€œI really like the way you’ve used colour,” he said.
    I put my hand behind my back to try to hide the can of orange spray paint I was holding. That made no sense. He’d obviously seen me working, and even if he hadn’t I didn’t think he could miss the twenty-five-footlong piece of graffiti that lined the concrete wall beneath the bridge.
    â€œYou don’t very often see orange and purple in the same image, but I think you’ve made it work.” He tooka couple of steps forward and I jumped back, scanning the area to the right-hand side—I could run along the concrete embankment and then get over the fence and—
    â€œI’m not going to hurt you,” he said. “Sorry if I frightened you. I’ll give you some more space.” He backed away a few steps and I felt an instant sense of relief—although I wasn’t letting my guard down for a second. Who was this guy and why was he here and what did he want?
    â€œI saw the start of this piece of work yesterday when I was taking the train home,” he said.
    â€œTrain?” I asked.
    He smiled. “Oh, good, you can talk.”
    I didn’t answer.
    â€œThe train,” he said, pointing to the tracks across the street and behind a chain-link fence and in front of some derelict buildings. “I caught sight of your image last night, and then this morning on the way in I saw you working.”
    I didn’t like the thought of him or anybody else being able to see me.
    â€œAnd I just wanted to come over to have a closer look.”
    â€œAre you a cop?” I asked.
    He laughed. “Do I look like a cop?”
    I didn’t like it when people asked a question instead of answering the one I’d asked.
    â€œIf I were a cop, you’d be under arrest already,” he said. I guess he sensed that I wanted an answer.
    â€œIf you’re not a cop then what are you?”
    â€œMaybe I’m just an art-lover on his lunch hour.”
    â€œYeah, right, and this is an art gallery.”
    â€œIt could be an art gallery, if you consider all the interesting and varied pieces of work that line the walls and buildings around here,” he said.
    The bridge abutments, the concrete walls of the flood-control creek, and the abandoned buildings all around here were covered in paint and chalk—words or images or markings—people trying to show their skill or maybe just to let the world know that they did really exist.
    â€œI think if he were a young man today, Picasso would probably be exploring street images.”
    â€œPicasso?”
    â€œA very famous artist. Have you heard of him?”
    I snorted. “Pablo Picasso, born on October 25, 1881, in Spain.”
    I’d done a project on Picasso for art class last term. He was one of my favourite painters. I loved his abstract vision and the way he used colours. Anybody could paint something the way it actually looked, but he could create a whole new way of seeing things.
    â€œI’m impressed,” he said.
    â€œEverybody’s heard of Picasso.”
    â€œStrange as it sounds, some people haven’t. And most of those who do certainly don’t know his birthday. Did you know that initially his work was dismissed by the art establishment of the day?”
    I knew that. I knew lots. But as far as I could tell this conversation