At first, I couldn’t see anything but the tanned, crepey skin of his forearm through the small window. When I opened the door, he jerked himself into an erect posture, as if he’d been called to attention, and smiled. He was leaning heavily on a walking stick made from a gnarled oak branch, which made him seem ancient, though in fact he was no older than I. His eyes were sunken and sad. He was wearing old jeans and a threadbare flannel shirt, and carrying a plastic tote tray with four cans of spray paint — two white and two black — a set of large numeral stencils, and a rag. His shoulder-length hair stirred listlessly in the breeze.