To Be A Superhero

The night settled like a warm blanket over the house when Daddy sat on the edge of Marcus's bed and said the words Marcus loved most. "Are you ready for a story?" Marcus pulled the covers up to his chin and nodded so fast his head nearly buzzed off. Outside, a streetlight painted orange rectangles on the ceiling. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn moaned once and went quiet. "What kind of story?" Marcus whispered. "A true one." That was the best kind. Marcus had heard made-up stories about dragons and spaceships and talking animals, and those were fine. But true stories — those were different. True stories had a weight to them, like a coin you could feel in your palm. "There was a man named Ray," Daddy began. "He drove a delivery truck, same route every morning. Up Pine Street, down Main, right on Fourth. He'd been doing it for twelve years. Knew every pothole, every traffic light, every corner store that left their outdoor speakers on too loud. Just a regular man. Regular life. Regular Tuesday." Marcus yawned and settled deeper into his pillow. "And then something happened," Daddy said. "What happened?" "Ray was making a left turn onto Maple when he saw, through his windshield, a little girl standing in the middle of the road. Maybe five years old. Red sneakers. The kind with the lights that blink when you walk." Marcus felt his stomach tighten. "Her mom was on the sidewalk, screaming. The little girl had just walked off the curb. Just like that. The way kids do." "Was Ray going fast?" "Fast enough. And there was another car coming the other direction — a sedan that hadn't seen the girl yet." Daddy paused. "You know what Ray did?" Marcus shook his head. "He yanked his truck hard to the right. Hit the curb, blew out a tire, knocked over a mailbox, and stopped about six inches from that little girl." Silence. "But here's the part that matters," Daddy said, his voice dropping low like a secret. "Ray never thought about it. He said later — and reporters asked him a hundred times — he said, I didn't decide. My hands just knew." Marcus stared at the ceiling rectangles. "Is that what it means to be a superhero?" he asked. Daddy smiled. "That's exactly what it means." "But he doesn't have any powers." "That's the thing, bud." Daddy reached over and tapped Marcus once on the chest — right in the center, right where it felt warm. "He does. They all do. And so do you." Marcus didn't know what to say. The thought sat inside him like a stone dropped in still water — he could feel the ripples spreading out even after Daddy had kissed his forehead and turned off the lamp. He lay in the dark thinking about Ray and his blown tire and the little girl in the red sneakers. What were his hands capable of? He was only eight. He wasn't old enough to drive a truck or run into a burning building or do any of the things that got people on the news. But Daddy had said so do you. And Daddy never said things he didn't mean. Outside, the streetlight flickered once — then held steady — like it was paying attention. Marcus closed his eyes. When he woke up, he decided, he was going to find out.