One day Lana disappeared from sight, sound and the written word; she became involuntarily invisible. She’s pretty sure it’s some kind of lame metaphor.

She can’t find many ways to enjoy it besides theft and voyeurism, and she was never really a locker room girl. Loneliness aches at her. She needs a project.

Every morning Lana steals breakfast from Pret and fresh spraypaint from the hardware store, then rides up to some random apartment and leans out. The building’s facade is nearly a solid mass of her graffiti now. I’m Still Here, it says, in letters that aren’t letters. Please Remember.