The wind was blowing, pulling our clothes back against us. I held onto Ale’s hand and he chattered in excitement. All I could see were huge, dark forms, there up against the wall. And I knew what it meant. I knew that it meant it was all over for us. We were hoddered.

2 The next morning, we all stood out there staring. We had heard of this artist, we had heard of these paintings. Words were whispered about them along the streets and the places we went to collect food. And now, there was one on the side of our building.

Ale had seen him. He was talking to José in Spanish, and José was translating for me and other people who didn’t speak it. It was the most I had seen Ale speak, ever.

“He says he was a tall guy, with a plain black bandana over his face, so he couldn’t see what he looked like other than being tall. Everything was covered, his face, his arms, his hands, Ale doesn’t know if he was black or white or Latino or what. There was paint all over him, on his gloves, on his bandana, on his boots. He says he helped him up the ladder to help paint, and he was really nice, and kind, and gentle, and that he was a real artist like in books and museums.”

“Great,” I said. “That’s real goddamn upswing that we’ve got his credentials. But the fact of the matter is, we’re hoddered. First the camera crews come, then the cob rollers come, then they find us. Then what?”

José took a deep breath. Ale was still talking to him, but he put a finger up to his lips to tell him it was time to be quiet. He looked serious.

“We’ve been getting ready for this day, right? I mean, I know we have in the street defense committee.”

“You think your shields are going to stop them from taking this away from us?” I shouted at him. “You think your protest-kid shit is going to work?”

Mo, who I knew better than these kids, who I’d been through shit with, spoke up. “It’s something. It’s all we have, Makayla. But there’s another way.”

“What is it, Mo?” I said, softly. My hands were shaking. They wouldn’t stop, no matter what I did. It felt like they’d been shaking for years.

“Maybe we leave before they find us,” he said. “Maybe we let go.”

“No!” I shouted in his face. “No! We can’t let this go. We can’t.”

Mo reached out and put his hand on my shoulder. He had been there with the cob roller, he had saved my life. Still, I jerked back from his touch. “Makayla, many of us will die if we stay. Some of us have to keep living.”