She froze the video on that smile and cropped herself out. The image now was just Chad, naked from the waist up, his grinning face in the foreground, the dorm room blurry behind him. She connected her Bluetooth pen and drew the word across his chest in red. Too obvious? Now her mind was going. There was an artist in Brooklyn who drew the same outline of herself as a stick figure on walls and windows and discarded furniture all over the city. Beneath each she’d write a short phrase; usually something that referenced the object she was drawing on. Let me comfort you on a mattress; I need time for reflection on a mirror. Claudia’s professor had assigned an article about her as part of a discussion of the “meme-ification” of street art. The class was of varying opinions on whether the messages were sufficiently thoughtful to be considered “art” but the one thing you couldn’t question was her reach: Millions of people had seen her work. Reach was what Claudia wanted now. Chad Drake was about to become a meme.

She saved the image as ChadRape.jpeg, then erased the word and started over, this time drawing a dialogue bubble beside his face:

Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t walk?

She saved it as Bro1.jpeg, then clicked back to the original and did it again.

Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t talk?

Hey bro! Is it rape if she can’t remember?

Hey bro! Is it rape if she’s a slut?

Hey bro! Is it rape if I don’t get caught?

In ten minutes she had seven images; one with words in an old-fashioned typewriter font; one with letters that mimicked the newspaper cut-outs of a ransom note; one scrawled in digital lipstick. She printed out a copy of each and set up a new Instagram account: BroChadAsks. She uploaded the first image with the hashtag #isitrape. For now, BroChad asked about rape. But who knew? Maybe that would change.

She sent copies of each image to her email; there was a twenty-four-hour copy center off Union Square. She could have them printed there—large-format, on canvas or vinyl; the perfect size for posting on subway walls and building sides. She’d make a thousand 8.5 × 11 copies. She would stand in the middle of Times Square and throw them into the air. She would hand them out to people eating dinner at outdoor cafes, go to the dorm and put one in every student mailbox. Chad Drake would be tagged and vandalized; people would spill on him, piss on him, vomit on him. Laugh at him.

Claudia put on jeans and a black sweater and laced up her high-tops. She brushed her teeth and brushed her hair and saw in the mirror that the last trace of the eye injury was gone. No one would ever know, she thought. And that, of course, was the problem.