17
The next morning, I woke to a scratching sound. “Diana, cut it out.”
The scratching continued. “Diana, if you don’t stop scratching at that door, I’m gonna…” I realized I wasn’t at home. Diana wasn’t around. I looked up to see Byrd standing on his bed. The painting that had been secured above his pillow lay flat on the bedspread. Byrd had a pen and was drawing on the wall.
I rubbed my face to wake up. My head pounded, no doubt a result of my indulgence the night before. The bottle of tequila was half-empty. Or half-full. Whatever.
“What the hell are you doing?” I asked.
“SWT.”
“SW-what?”
“Secret Wall Tattoo. You create your own art behind the awful pictures they mount on the walls.”
“I believe the legal term for that is vandalism. You realize I’m paying for the room, right? I do
