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gun like because of lost love? I would have figured her to be where is the crypt is
it to the left immune to that kind of stuff.”
“No,” I said. “It wasn’t that, I don’t think. Not just that, anyway. She kind of
hates Orlando; she called it a paper town. Like, you know, everything so fake
and flimsy. I think she just wanted a vacation from that.”
I happened to glance out my window, and I saw immediately that someone—
the detective, I guessed—had lowered the shade in Margo’s room. But I wasn’t
seeing the shade. Instead, I was seeing a black-and-white poster, taped to the
back of the shade. In the photograph, a man stands, his shoulders slightly
slumped, staring ahead. A cigarette dangles out of his mouth. A guitar is slung
over his shoulder, and the guitar is painted with the words THIS MACHINE
KILLS FASCISTS.
“There’s something in Margo’s window.” The game music stopped, and
Radar and Ben knelt down on either side of me. “That’s new?” asked Radar.
“I’ve seen the back of that shade a million times,” I answered, “but I’ve

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never seen that poster before.”
“Weird,” Ben said.
“Margo’s parents just said this morning that she sometimes leaves clues,” I
said. “But never anything, like, concrete enough to find her before she comes
home.”
Radar already had his handheld out; he was searching Omnictionary for the
phrase. “The picture’s of Woody Guthrie,” he said. “A folksinger, 1912 to 1967.
Sang about the working class. ‘This Land Is Your Land.’ Bit of a Communist.
Um, inspired Bob Dylan.” Radar played a snippet of one of his songs—a high-
pitched scratchy voice sang about unions.
“I’ll email the guy who wrote most of this page and see if there are any
obvious connections between Woody Guthrie and Margo,” Radar said.
“I can’t imagine she likes his songs,” I said.
“Seriously,” Ben said. “This guy sounds like an alcoholic Kermit the Frog
with throat cancer.”
Radar opened the window and stuck his head out, swiveling it around. “It
sure seems she left this for you, though, Q. I mean, does she know anyone else
who could see this window?” I shook my head no.
After a moment, Ben added, “The way he’s staring at us—it’s like, ‘pay
attention to me.’ And his head like that, you know? It’s not like he’s standing on
a stage; it’s like he’s standing in a doorway or something.”
“I think he wants us to come inside,” I said.

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