Desolation by Derek Landy

said Linda. “What does the festival celebrate?”
    “The town.”
    Linda smiled and nodded. “And it is surely a town worth celebrating.”
    “A question, if you please,” said Warrick, squeezing between them. Belinda recoiled slightly. “This motel. Is it pet friendly?”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Is it friendly to pets? For instance, my dog. Is it friendly to my dog?”
    Belinda looked horrified. “Are you asking if your dog is allowed inside the hotel?”
    “That is what I’m asking, yes.”
    “No.”
    “Is that a ‘No, my dog is allowed,’ or a ‘No, my dog isn’t allowed’?”
    “No pets are allowed on the premises,” said Belinda. “My brother is extremely allergic. Having an animal under this roof could kill him.”
    “What if I told you he was house-trained?”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “What if I told you he would not try to have sex with any potted plants you may possess, or any of your favourite stuffed animals? Still no? Then I will be forced to sleep with him in our van. Is that what you want? Me sleeping in a van? This isn’t California, let me remind you. This is Alaska. It gets cold here. You’re really okay with me spending the night in a van, freezing to death while my oversexed dog humps my head?”
    “Animals are not allowed.”
    “What if we sneak him in without you noticing?”
    “We’re not going to do that,” Ronnie said quickly.
    Warrick nodded, and did the air quotes thing. “Yeah, we’re ‘not’.”
    “We’re actually not,” said Linda. “If Warrick won’t go anywhere without that dog, he can sleep in the van and take the consequences. The rest of us would like beds, please – until Wednesday.”
    “When you will depart,” said Belinda.
    “When we will depart,” echoed Linda.
    They were shown to their rooms and Kelly dumped her bag on her bed and went to the bathroom while Linda showered quickly. Then they switched, and got changed, and met the guys outside.
    They drove through town, familiarising themselves with the layout before focusing on the quieter streets. They followed the few small scrawls of graffiti like it was a trail of breadcrumbs, losing it sometimes and having to double back to pick up the trail again. It took them the rest of the afternoon, but finally the trail led them all the way to a park, at the bottom of the hill that led to the motel.
    “Well, that was a waste of time,” said Kelly.
    They got out, went walking. Kelly zipped up her jacket while Two ran in excited circles. On the east side of the park there was a small building that housed the public restrooms. Facing the park, it was a pristine example of a public utility that was kept up to snuff. But the interesting stuff was all across the back in layers of names and promises and oaths and declarations.
    Kelly was a quick study, but even so her ability to decipher the messages hidden in graffiti could only take her so far. Ronnie was better at it, and Linda was better still, but Warrick was the master. He was the one who’d told them all about it, after all. Graffiti was the cave painting of the modern world, he’d told Kelly after she’d taken her first trip in the van.
    That had been her recruitment, she supposed. Once she was part of the group, one of the gang, he felt comfortable telling her his secrets. A town’s history, its true history, he said, could be found in the scrawls and crude pictures hidden from the prying eyes of the disapproving authorities, those to whom whitewashing a wall was the same as whitewashing a mind. They could paint over the truth as many times as they wanted, but the truth could always be scrawled anew.
    Kelly found declarations of love and accusations of infidelity, she found boasts of conquests, of prowess and of physical exploits, and she found pictures of genitalia that were suspect in their accuracy.
    “Look at this,” said Linda, pointing to a drawing of a thin man with a wide, smiling mouth, too big for his head. There was an artistry to