Roxy pressed the photocopied flyer against the cork board with four black thumbtacks, one in each corner. The image showed coordinates, a date three weeks out, and a single line: "Prove what you're made of when the conditions aren't perfect." She'd printed fifty copies on cheap white paper. She walked twelve minutes through Oakbleed's eastern woods until she reached the pavilion with the rainbow canopy. Tourist families took photos under the colored branches most afternoons. Creative types sketched there on weekends. Perfect. Roxy tucked a flyer between two slats of the wooden railing where morning light would catch it. She folded another into a tent shape and left it on the stone bench. Three more went into gaps in the pavilion's ornate trim work. By the time she finished, anyone looking closely would find one. Anyone in Oakbleed's art scene would recognize the coordinates as forest land. The competition was no longer just hers. She pulled the last piece from her messenger bag. The letter B, eight inches tall, swirled with color like oil on water. She'd cut it from the experimental prints she made last month, the ones that came out too loud for gallery walls. Roxy wedged it into the pavilion's central beam at eye level, where it caught the filtered light through the canopy above. The synesthete in her saw triumph as electric orange. The rest of her just felt the click of a door opening that she couldn't close again. Back at her studio apartment, she pulled out the skateboard deck she'd found three days ago in the hollow. Someone had abandoned it near the natural bowl where trees curved inward like cupped hands. The deck showed intricate purple patterns across black lacquer. She propped it against her wall next to the photos of the forest amphitheater. The venue was ready. The invitations were planted. Now she just had to wait for Oakbleed's creative class to find them and wonder what kind of person would challenge them in the woods.