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was going nowhere fast. Time to get to the point.
    â€œSo what’s Picasso got to do with this ?” I asked, pointing at my work on the concrete wall.
    â€œI don’t believe he ever did any of his work using a spray can on concrete, but there is an abstract quality to your work. I particularly like that figure on the far left . . . excellent.”
    â€œThanks,” I mumbled. That was actually my favourite part of the whole thing . . . no . . . my favourite part was just doing the whole thing. There was something about drawing or painting that just freed my mind up, helped me to escape from the world. Right now it was the only escape I had. It made me feel peaceful. Even though the images I was painting weren’t of hearts and flowers and little birdies in trees—more like jagged lines and clashing colours and weird faces—it made me feel good to lay them down. I think Brent and Ashley would have come with me if I’d asked, but I felt pretty safe here on my own. Come to think of it now, though, maybe ditching my friends wasn’t such a great idea.
    â€œDo you know the major difference between your work and that of Picasso?” he asked.
    I didn’t answer. What sort of a question was that?
    â€œPicasso never got arrested for expressing his artistic vision,” he said.
    I felt a rush of fear—he was a cop and he was going to arrest me and—
    â€œDon’t worry,” he said, reading my expression.
    â€œI’m not a cop. Do I really look like one?” he asked again.
    â€œCops can look like anything,” I said. I thought about what Ashley had said about some cops roughing people up.
    â€œI guess they could. I just know that if I saw you working down here, somebody else might have seen your work . . . somebody who doesn’t have the same appreciation I do for art. What some people see as art, other people see as vandalism. You might want to think about that. How much longer is it going to take you to finish?” he asked.
    â€œI don’t know . . . not long.”
    â€œThen don’t let me disturb you. I’ll stop bothering you and you can get back to work. I’ll just go and sit right over there.” He walked over to a cement pillar, wiped it off with his hand, and took a seat.
    He was staring intently at the painting, like he was studying it. I watched him closely while he looked at the painting. Who was this guy and why was he here and—?
    â€œCould I ask you one more question?” he said.
    I didn’t answer, which he took to mean yes.
    â€œWhy, specifically, did you choose to use those two colours together?”
    â€œI thought you liked orange and purple.”
    â€œOh, I do, I was just wondering what led you to make that bold artistic statement.”
    I shrugged. “Those were the colours I found in the dumpster behind the hardware store.”
    He laughed. “Would you mind if I came back this evening and took some pictures of your work?”
    â€œYou want to take pictures of this?” I was having real trouble taking this guy seriously.
    â€œDefinitely. If I don’t, it will be lost forever. How long do you think it will be before they cover it over with grey paint? I guess that’s the other major difference between a street artist and Picasso. City workers never went around and painted over his masterpieces. So, would you mind?”
    â€œI don’t care . . . it’s a free world.”
    â€œWe like to think it is,” he said. “I was wondering, are you self-taught or do you have some special training in art?”
    Despite myself, I laughed. “I don’t think anybody teaches people how to do this.”
    â€œNot that, specifically,” he agreed. “But art in general. Have you taken courses?”
    â€œI’ve taken classes in drawing, and I went to art camp last summer.” I’d always dreamed about being an artist.
    â€œLast summer . . . so I