The air in the underpass is damp and smells of old concrete and ozone.

Here is one of the few spots in Ashford where the administration actually let Danny work, a long, grey stretch of wall that he has been slowly turning into a riot of neon violets and deep teals.

He is currently perched on a rickety step-ladder, his oversized black hoodie pulled up to shield his blue hair from the draft. He is focused, his hand steady as he applies a fine line of gold paint to a stylized portrait that looks more like a dream than a person.

A sudden sound breaks his concentration: the rhythmic sound of steps on the pavement. The young man with the blue hair doesn’t look down immediately, but he stiffens, his shoulders tensing under the knit layers of his clothes. He hates being watched while he is in the middle of a piece. It makes his hand shake, and he can’t stand the idea of some random passerby judging a work that isn’t finished yet.

Judgement. He knows it. He hates it. The same as at work. To somehow make money, Danny works over at Ashford’s garden center. Not because it’s nice there, or because he likes plants or craftspeople, but simply to have a job. But of course, the customers judge a guy with blue hair. And so far, the garden center has been the only place where they didn’t care how colorful Danny’s hair is.

But today is his day off, and he just wants to continue working on this damn wall in peace. He had already had to go back and touch up the front because someone had written some stupid saying with a black marker right next to the portrait he is working on. Stuff like that always costs him time and nerves, and today he has very little of the latter.

“The sidewalk is a few feet to the left,” he says, his voice dry and raspy from the fumes. He doesn’t sound mean, exactly, but he certainly isn’t trying to be welcoming.

He turns back to the wall, shaking a can of blue paint with a loud, metallic rattle that echoes through the tunnel, signaling that he’d rather be left alone with his colors.