The member station reported on the aftermath of #FireandBrimstoneMountain, the lives affected by the fires from that night, the singed bird carcasses that littered people’s yards. Theo felt slighted that they didn’t say “hashtag Fire and BrimStone Mountain.” Radio’s just too old-school to get that, he assured himself. The soothing voice of the reporter eventually gave way to the sound of crackling fire, recorded from the night of the tag. Theo always referred to it as the tag, but he secretly felt it had been something more than another night of running through Cabbagetown or Piedmont Park or East Point. The sputtering roar of the flames penetrated his psyche, demanding that he call the tag something else, something more destructive, more sinister.

“Terrorism is unacceptable, and I pray the culprits behind this heinous act are brought to justice,” a Stone Mountain homeowner, an elderly black man, barked with conviction, the flames still audible behind his voice. Theo thought of Gone with the Wind, recalling the scene where Sherman conquered Atlanta. A stark subtitle—“Sherman!”—flashed across the screen as flames enveloped the city. Apollo had always insisted that this was the only good scene in the movie; he even had a GIF of that scene that he sent to Theo every time the Falcons won, as if Atlanta could only be victorious when it burned. Theo was caffeinated with guilt, his heart hammering, his mind singularly focused on the tag. Jerry used to call tagging bombing, like an orthodox graffiti writer. Theo had always felt the term was a little over-the-top, but now it felt cuttingly precise.

He paced the aisle as the report continued, more homeowners describing scorched grass, felled trees. Their voices were indignant, pestered. Theo stood in place once the sound of the flames finally subsided, transitioning back to the hypnotic voice of the reporter. Theo exhaled, relieved as if he’d been huffing the smoke from the fires and was now breathing fresh air. The report concluded: “The FBI encourages all tips to go to senior agent Tilly Erickson. Please visit the WABE website for more details.” Theo flicked off the radio, darting out of the store. He didn’t even flinch as he exited the mall and plunged into the smoldering afternoon heat. The only heat he felt was from his phone, seething in his pocket, beckoning him to contact Tilly, to not taint this good day.

He had to come clean. They had fucked up. They had hurt people. Graffiti was inhuman, hurt inflicted on walls, shutters, doors, property, aesthetics. They had gone beyond graffiti.