“Why would anyone want to catch us?” I asked. “Is it illegal to put up posters?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a legal gray area. I mean, it’s not permanent, so maybe not. But, honestly, it would be better if it was a secret.”

“So . . . wait . . . now you don’t want anyone to know that we made the art?”

“I guess not. It’s just you and me. No one else will ever know. We’ll put up all this art, maybe hide it all over town, and people will be like, Who made this cool shit, and we’ll be like, Wow, damn, I don’t know. Someone pretty cool, I bet, and we’ll walk away and kind of whistle and keep our hands in our pockets.”

“Well,” I finally said, trying to understand. “I guess so.”

“So now we need a tag,” he said.

“What should it be?” I asked.

“Something messed up. Something really weird. Like, a mystery or a riddle that no one can solve. And it’ll drive the whole town crazy.”

“How do we do that?” I asked.

“You’re a writer, right?” he said, smiling, getting jittery, excited. “You write something really strange, and then I’ll illustrate around it. And we’ll make, like, twenty copies. And hang them up in town.”

“What do I write?” I asked, still not getting it.

“Anything!” he said. “Something really weird. Like, it doesn’t mean anything but it also, like, kind of means something.”

“That sounds hard,” I admitted.

“No,” he said, and now he was really amped up. His eyes were twinkling like some kind of cartoon, so black that light was sparkling off his pupils. “Don’t even think about it. Just write something.”

“I can’t do that,” I said. I felt like I couldn’t match his enthusiasm and I was a failure because of it. “I can’t just write something.”

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You’re an amazing writer. Just—here—” He grabbed a piece of paper and put it in front of me. “Just write whatever comes to you.”

“About what?” I asked, almost crying now.

“About Coalfield. About this town. About your life. About your stupid fucking dad. About whatever you want.”