There ought to be a sign on the door to Katie Wersel’s bedroom that reads: “Welcome, Graffiti Artists and Wannabes.” There’s hardly an inch of the lime-sherbet paint that hasn’t already been doodled over. There are drawings of a guitar, of flowers, of trees and dogs, and Mother Earth, dragging along. And, of course, there are the notes from Katie’s friends. Words meant to inspire and encourage her, particularly when she’s all alone, thinking about her dad.
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