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painted the flag‟s stars, meant for irony. And beneath the stencil of the coffin, four capital letters, about five inches tall, the sole bit of obvious, if destructible, ownership he allowed himself. IMOP. His tag.
           He stepped back to examine the piece again and felt his shoulders drop slightly in relaxation. It was as he‟d hoped; it was good. For tonight, there would be no nightmares to jar him awake, no shout climbing from his throat. For tonight, sleep would be restorative enough, fueled by this moment, his toe-dip into a well of fulfillment, an emotion surely as transient as street art itself, yet nonetheless valuable. Here lay the lesson for him, he thought, in both what had happened to his brother and the work he left on the street. In everything, temporary is inevitable; the wise accept it as enough.

    Clarissa, September 4th

           In the narrow strand of space between the first piece of information and all the rest, thoughts rushed through Clarissa that could not be said aloud, not then, probably not ever. They came like the violent Nor‟easters she‟d known as a child in Maine, appearing without warning as she‟d disconnected the phone for the third time in quick succession.
            How could he have let this happen?
           The initial call came from a reporter, and Clarissa hung up mid-sentence, telling herself there‟d been a mistake.
            He‟d tricked her, Todd had. Tricked her into trusting him, even though she knew life was delicate beyond belief, and humans were flimsy, including those who seemed invincible.
           The second call came from Bill Snyder, who opened by barely speaking at all, as if to prolong her last moments of unknowing, and then began carefully, each word padded by pauses, each phrase couched in ambiguity. She hung up on him also, but with less confidence.
            Everything one counted on could vanish in a second; she‟d understood that since
    childhood. A new narration wiping out personal history without a whisper of remorse. That‟s why, at base, she‟d never married before. Been too smart for marriage.
           The final call came from a baldly definitive FBI agent, speaking in a clipped but almost tender tone as she thought in stunned amazement, "The FBI, how odd is this?" She had no memory of hanging up on him, only of noticing at one point that she no longer pressed the receiver to her ear.
            Why had she let herself willfully block out this transiency, fall in love, remake the boundaries of her life, and then redefine what it meant to trust the world? Because even as she‟d worried aloud, s he‟d secretly relied on the conviction that he would stay safe. He‟d had a plan and she‟d become a late believer in the power of planning. She‟d trusted their future as much as the fact that ice was cold and fires were hot and letters arranged on a page would remain readable.
            And she‟d known better. That much trust was too much.
           The mind is a labyrinth capable of holding at once the ocean, the sky and everything in between, of carrying on four simultaneous conversations, most of them internal, of dismissing one memory even as it accesses another in detail and creates a third.
            Didn‟t people in situations like this say, "at least he was doing what he loved"? Wasn‟t that a ridiculous thing to say?
           These thoughts pushed their way up from the floor of her mind, edging aside other, more critical judgments and understandings and misunderstandings.
            humans are delicate so keep it safe humans are impermanent so take the risks humans are transient so soak in the details humans are temporary so think big humans are breakable so be diligent humans are ephemeral so be carefree humans are fragile so
           Thoughts came that she would register unconsciously and quickly forget, but would recall—some of them, at