Aiden, Ripley, and I return to the scene of the crime the next afternoon.

Maybe a classic mistake, but no one saw Ripley last night, Aiden shaved his beard off, and I’ve washed off the last-minute disguise that Ripley put on my face. Even if Dan or Steve happens to be working, I suspect that we’ll go unrecognized.

I can't stop stealing glances at Aiden, looking at him without the beard. I love his beard, love running my hands over it, love how it looks on him - but now he looks how he did when he first came home. I’m sure that he’ll have a full layer of stubble by the time we go to bed tonight, completing the effect.

“What?” he asks, when he catches me watching him.

“Nothing.” I smile up at him, taking his hand. “Just - nothing.”

He's clearly puzzled, but he smiles back at me.

I let him go again when we reach the bus station, where we all stop to stare up at the billboard. Other people approaching the station are doing the same thing, so we blend right in.

We exchange a grin with Ripley, then follow him inside.

The station is busy and bustling, crowded. Two buses have just offloaded, and there are lots of people waiting for the next ones.

On the surface, everything seems normal. You have to look closely to see the people doing double-takes as they read the signage.

The chime of a forthcoming announcement over the PA system grabs nobody’s attention. Aiden, Ripley, and I are the only ones listening.

“Please have your ticket ready when you board your bus,” comes the smooth, robotic voice. “Remember to keep your personal belongings on you at all times. If you see anyone vandalizing the station or its property, be a good citizen. Report it to… no one. Keep it to yourself. What are you, some kind of snitch?”

Heads lift all over the station. There’s a dip in the overall noise level of the conversations as people exchange baffled glances.

This voice is coming from the speakers in the metal boxes that Aiden and I glued to the walls last night, which blend in neatly with all of the other various locked electronic boxes around the place. Hidden in plain sight.

“Honestly, who cares?” the PA system continues, still in the calm robot voice. “Is that your top concern about the world, right now? If so, we question your priorities. Don’t you think the public sphere could use more art? Would you rather stare at white walls all day? Doesn’t that kind of make you want to rip your hair out? Doesn’t it drain your soul, a little bit?”

People blink around at each other, everyone looking for an explanation from everyone else. It’s gotten very quiet in the station.

“The average cost of a can of spray paint is: four dollars, plus tax,” the PA announces. “Please do not spread this information to your friends. Please do not make it clear how easy it would be for them to get their hands on. Keep this as confidential as possible.”

A few little laughs rise up from the crowd, drawing stern looks from parents.

“To be clear, the Public Transportation Administration does not advocate for vandalism. Please do not cover up the advertisements for your perfect beach body with sick, original, unique art that captures something in your soul. Vandals will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of our spite. Or - the law, rather.”

A few more snickers of laughter move through the crowd.

“Thank you for listening,” says the PA. “Please remember that we rely on your compliance to keep things boring, stagnant, and inert. Enjoy your trip, and if you’re the kind of person who wants to kick down all these white walls around you, remember to check out Bright Future, coming soon to Ketterbridge. What’s Bright Future, you ask?”

A glow slowly spills through the station, sourcing from the automatic lights that Aiden and I hid behind the security cameras. It’s as if the sun was pouring through richly colored stained glass, bathing the entire place in a rose-gold glow. Radiant gold and orange and crimson, like a sunrise.

Everyone in the station blinks and looks around, staring at the light.

There’s a brief silence, and then the PA adds, in a voice slowly starting to sound more human - 

“Look around. You might see the signs.”

The light fades out, and the voice goes quiet.

There’s another silence, and then some laughter. People start to talk again, much louder than they were before. Some of them turn on the spot, searching for the signs.

Aiden and I both look down at Ripley, trying not to laugh. He’s grinning widely, his arms folded over his chest.

“This is one hell of a way to advertise, Ripples,” Aiden murmurs, and Ripley snickers.

I open my mouth to say something, then shut up as two uniformed men go brushing past us. Not cops, but clearly people who work at the station. One of them has a name tag identifying him as the manager.

“-find out where it’s coming from and make it stop, Gary!” he's saying, gesturing heatedly at a maintenance guy following after him.

“We’re trying, we’ve been trying all day! But the speaker must be well-hidden, because-”

“How many people have heard it? How many times has it played already?”

Gary winces. “Pretty much - every time a new bus has come in?”

"Are you s-?" The station manager stops, does some math in his head, and whips around. “Jesus Christ! Okay, well - can we get these signs down? What’s the holdup?”

“We’re doing it, they’re just attached with really strong glue to the actual signs, it’s a delicate process.”

The manager runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Let’s at least get all those flyers out of the brochure wall, right?”

“They're not flyers, they're maps, with some random building in Ketterbridge circled. We can take them out, but I don’t know what happened to all of the brochures that were there before. And, um… there's something else.”

The manager scowls at him. “What now?”

Gary hesitates, then withdraws something from his pocket: a can of soda.

“It’s from the vending machine,” he explains. “Someone must have taken the key for it out of the maintenance closet. All the cans and bottles in the machine are stickered. And look - they’ve all got a tiny piece of art attached, too.”

He holds it up, shows the manager the stickers that Aiden and I placed on all the cans. Cheers To A Bright Future! they read, in bold, bright letters. The tiny piece of art is rolled up like a scroll, tucked into the curved bottom of the can, held with a gentle adhesive.

The manager snatches the can out of Gary’s hand, stares at it, and lets out an indignant noise.

“Is there one inch of this station that hasn’t been - are you smiling, Gary?”

Gary hastily drops his smile, solemnly shakes his head.

“No,” he says, and then, when the manager squints at him, “Just - at least today has been interesting. And you have to appreciate the details. Did you see the bathrooms? There are framed art prints up on the walls. They have labels, and everything! The labels just say ‘gift of the artist’, and-”

“Are you kidding me?” the manager sputters. “Get this sorted out, take it all down!”

“What - even the art in the bathrooms?” Gary frowns. “But - it looks good.”

“Oh, my god.” The manager rubs his temples, closes his eyes. “Is no one going to be of any help today? You know I called up Ketterbridge City Hall, and found out that this whole goddamn thing is about an art exhibition? That’s what Bright Future is, it’s an upcoming art exhibition. For young artists, or some shit. I talked to the exhibition director. He said he didn’t know about what happened to my station, that this wasn’t endorsed by the Ketterbridge city government at all. He said someone must have gone rogue.”

“Cool,” Gary says, smiling brightly.

“Excuse me?” the manager sputters, outraged. “You know, I’ve had just about en-”

He breaks off as a woman in a blazer taps his shoulder.

“Hello,” she says, offering him a business card. “You’re the station manager, right? Would you be willing to give us an interview, real quick?”

He stares at her card, then gets a glimpse of the cameraman behind her.

“An interview - with me? About-” He gestures at the station. “This?”

“Yeah, it’s picking up some social media traction. We’re gonna do a piece on it tonight, if we have space for it.” The reporter looks around, taking in the signage. “Is this the station’s first time collaborating with an artist?”

“We didn’t collaborate," the manager answers, offended. "We have no idea where this came from, or when it happened, or who did it.”

“No?” The reporter arches an eyebrow. “Well, that’s more interesting. I bet we can find room for this. You have time to talk to us?"

The manager stares at her. "You're - gonna put me on the news? On TV?"

"Well, we're small-time, to tell you the truth, just local stories, but... yes?"

The manager brightens up immediately.

“I - yeah, alright! Let me just go fix my hair, and - yes! Stay right there!” He swivels around to face Gary, lowers his voice considerably. “Don’t touch anything, okay? Leave it, for now.”

Ripley tugs on my sleeve.

“Pretty sure we don’t want to get caught on camera,” he murmurs.

He's very right about that, so we all head for the door.

I run my eyes over the signs on the walls as we move. They’re all near-exact replicas of the signs that were there previously. The sign that read: Attention! Skateboards Not Allowed - No Riding, No Exceptions now reads Attention! Add Art To This Space - No Limits, No One Cares If It’s Bad.

Everything else about the sign is the same, right down to the font. Except that where it said Public Transportation Administration in small letters at the bottom, it now says - Brought To You By Bright Future.

There are already some doodles on the sign, mostly done in pen and sharpie. One done in lipstick, one in crayon.

Every sign in here says something different, but along the same lines. Even the Free Wi-Fi sign by the door has been altered. That one is the most subtle out of all of them. The Wi-Fi symbol has been transformed into Ripley’s tag, the three concentric curves.

We all stop to look at the billboard again when we get outside.

The depressing, worn-down advertisement has changed completely. All the faded, sun-bleached colors of the sky, the mountains, and the forest have been completely reinvigorated. They’re richly saturated, brilliantly colorful, brought back to life. The sad scene has transformed into a magnificent sunrise.

The tear running down the side of the ad has been plastered back into place, but only partially. A small piece of it is still hanging down. Black, spray-painted stitches cut across the repaired section, and the silhouettes of two teenagers are reaching up, holding paintbrushes. It looks like they’re stitching the torn section back together.

Where the words Visit Belleville! were before, the sign now reads Bright Future! Opening Soon In Ketterbridge!

The colors of the richly-painted billboard spill down the side of its frame, where they reach the corner of the bus station and pour down the front. A big, chaotic splash of color on the otherwise blank concrete building.

We walk back towards my car in silence. Aiden is the one to break it, by huffing out a laugh.

He slaps Ripley’s back. “You don’t play small, do you, man?”

Ripley grins again, shrugs his shoulders. “What’s the point in that?”

“It’s fucking amazing, Ripples,” I tell him, unlocking my car. “Also, Gabby’s gonna murder you.”

“Well, at least the phone call went to Aiden, not her. Thanks for handling that, by the way.”

“Not like I had a choice,” Aiden groans, as if he wouldn’t have done it anyways.

Ripley smiles at him again as we all slip into the car. Aiden puts it in drive, and Ripley works his buzzing phone out of his pocket.

“If that's Gabby, we're not with you,” Aiden warns him, pulling my car out onto the road.

“It’s - not Gabby,” Ripley says, looking down at his phone. “It’s Alix.”

Aiden and I exchange a grin. I reach into the backseat and pluck the phone out of Ripley’s hands. He swats at me, caught by surprise. I yank my arm back, hold the phone out of his reach.

“Jamie!” Ripley sputters, trying to snatch his phone from my fingers. “Give me that!”

“Oh, come on.” I make a face at him, then accept the call. “We helped you last night, we should at least get to hear your girl’s reaction-”

“Shut the fuck up, dude!” Ripley’s cheeks instantly start to burn. “She’s not my girl, I don't have-”

“What?” comes Alix’s bewildered voice through the speaker. “Did you just tell me to shut the fuck up?”

“No!” Ripley protests immediately, leaning forward to speak into his phone. “No no no, I was - just - what’s up?”

“Well, it’s a funny thing,” Alix says. “I just got into City Hall to find a gigantic spike in the number of hits on our website for the exhibition. Almost all of the new traffic came from search engines. A lot of people seem to be looking up the show, all of a sudden.”

“Oh, really?” Ripley asks, biting his lip.

“Yeah, so I went on our socials to see what was going on, and you’ll never guess what I found out about.”

Ripley presses his lips into a thin line, fidgeting with the stud in his ear. “Um - I-”

“Rip.” Alix’s voice is perfectly calm and neutral. “I know that it was you.”

“Don’t even know what you’re talking about. I went to Max’s party last night.”

“Yeah, I know. I saw it on his story. You showed up right at the end, I see. It’s almost like you went to make sure that a lot of people saw you there, instead of - somewhere else.”

Ripley hesitates, then lets out a soft laugh. “You sound like Gabby. Got it all figured out, huh?”

There’s a silence from the other end of the line, and then Alix lets out a quiet laugh, too.

“It looks good, Rip,” she says.

Ripley breaks into a smile, but doesn’t answer for a moment. He rubs his elbow, his face a little red.

“See you at City Hall?” he finally asks.

“Maybe. If I ever get done dealing with all these calls about the show. The soda cans were a nice touch, by the way. That vending machine must have seen more use today than it has all year. People are posting photos of the mini works of art that they got with their drink.”

Ripley's smile broadens. “People are posting them?”

“Yep. Smart, to put the hashtag for the show on the back. I’m scrolling through the posts right now. Can’t believe that everyone got something different. How long did you spend making all of those?”

“Again, don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Now I’ve gotta issue a statement, you know.” Alix tries hard to sound mad. “Saying that we don’t know about this, and that we’re not behind it. And…”

Ripley waits, then tips his head to the side. “And?”

“And - that tickets for the first two days of the show are sold out.”

My hands fly up over my mouth. Aiden breaks into a gigantic, startled grin, then reaches back to smack Ripley’s knee. Ripley matches the look on his face, and we all start slapping at each other, a burst of silent excitement.

Ripley manages to pull himself together before he answers Alix.

“Sorry you have to do the statement. Have you - done one of those before, or…?”

“No," Alix sighs. "But I like a challenge. You know me.”

Ripley slowly smiles at his phone, and this smile is a very different one from his usual devious grin.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I do.”