The One and Only Ivan

H

I lay out sixteen pieces of poster board. Four down, four across.

A perfect square.

“What are you up to?” Bob demands. “I’m guessing it doesn’t involve sleep.”

“It has to do with the billboard.”

“That sign’s a monstrosity. Particularly since I’m not featured.”

I grab my bucket of red paint. “You’re not on the billboard because you’re not in the show,” I point out.

“Technically, I don’t even live here,” Bob says with a sniff. “I am homeless by choice.”

“I know. I’m just saying.”

I study the billboard. Then I make two fat lines, like broom handles. Another fat line connects them.

I stand back. “What do you think?”

“What is it? No, wait: let me guess. A ladder?”

“Not a ladder,” I say. “A letter. At least I think that’s what they’re called. I have to make three more.”

Bob cuddles up next to Not-Tag. “Why?” he asks, yawning.

“Because then I’ll have a word. A very important word.” I dip my fingers into the paint.

“What word?” Bob asks.

“Home.”

Bob closes his eyes. “That’s not so important,” he says quietly.