Raul saw “The Twins” Saturday morning. Uncle yelled at his ghost leg. Spray cans rattled and hissed. They painted old man Umberto on a wall with yellow skin, three stories tall. The ruffles from the red curtain tickled Raul’s neck. They painted Tadeu, Marta, Tristao. All dead. Raul blinked, missing the magic. Cartoon bodies peeled off the walls. Raul gasped. They disappeared into the favela. Their sweaters became patchy tiled roofs. Stripes ran into electrical lines. Eye windows winked. Arms and legs streaked through streets, into homes. Raul turned to his uncle. “Maybe the twins will paint your leg, too."