Heat flamed my cheeks. “I just—I can’t really imagine being able to get much detail with spray paint. I guess I don’t understand how it would work.” My words came out in a jumble. It had been a while since I’d felt so out of my depth on a subject.

“Your reaction is typical. Come on.” He motioned for me to follow him to the sunporch.

I trailed behind but left a safe distance between us. One where the buzz of his energy wasn’t quite as palpable. As I stepped into the space, I couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath. The room didn’t look like an art studio. It looked like a disaster zone. Canvases, wood, and scraps of metal were scattered across the floor. Some had bits of paint on them, but others were completely blank.

Dozens and dozens of cans of paint were arranged in the corner of the room, large pieces of cardboard next to them. Tools I couldn’t identify—and in no sort of organization—covered a table along the wall.

“Wow.” It was the only word I could seem to get out.

“It’s controlled chaos. I know.”

But it was beautiful in its own way. “How does it work?”

Brody crossed to his desk, flipping a sketchpad closed before I could see what was inside. “It depends on the project. Usually, I sketch out a concept first. Then I move to stencils. I’ll cut out the forms I need for each color from the cardboard. It allows me to layer the images easily and then go back in for the details. It’s a throwback to when I did these on the sides of buildings and had to work quickly so I didn’t end up in lockup.”

My eyes widened. “You were arrested for this?”

The smile that stretched across Brody’s face was one I hadn’t seen from him before. Full of life and mischief. And it was captivating. “More than once. But I stick to material I own these days. Canvas mostly. But I’ve been experimenting with other mediums, too.”

“Can I see a finished one?”

Brody shifted on his feet. “I haven’t finished anything since I’ve been here. But, um…here.” He flipped open his laptop and hit a few keys. A website came to life on his screen. He clicked a few times and, suddenly, an image of a teenage boy filled the screen. He was well-kempt with perfectly styled hair and preppy clothing. It was shockingly realistic for what I now knew was spray paint.

But seeping out of the boy’s arms was a dark, almost smoke-like substance. And within it were needles, vials, and other drug paraphernalia. Near his mouth were pills and booze. Above his head were words of anger and self-hatred. And in his chest cavity was a stylized broken heart.