But before I can do anything, the world is already hurling toward him. My own muscles tighten as Superman shuffles his feet in the path of the approaching planet, uncertain whether to follow his toes or his heels. Then, just as the careening sphere is about to strike the red emblem of his superhumanity, the Man of Steel closes his eyes and, with the faith and courage of the innocent, reaches into the darkness before him.
        The darkness explodes with a staccato sound. Superman opens his eyes to find Michael Jordan and Green Day applauding the blue, still planet captured in empty space at the end of his fingertips.
        Good job! Now toss it back to—
        But Superman's faster-than-a-speeding-bullet reflexes have already changed the planet's trajectory, sending it back into the cosmos like a long rebound off the front rim of the basket, arcing back into the hands of the shooter . . .
        . . . who leans with sassy grace against the turquois front fender of a sleek Studebaker Silver Hawk. He has half a head of hair, receding toward the center of his skull, where it will soon break into full retreat. He wears brown khaki pants and a clean white T shirt with the sleeves rolled up on his shoulders, the way punks and greasers wear them, though I don't know this yet. I'm too young to know even exactly where we are: Perhaps in the parking lot in front of the State Theater in Fort Smith, Arkansas, just before the matinee screening of Earth Versus the Flying Saucers. Or maybe in front of the office of the Swan Motel in the same city, the blue and white neon Swan sizzling and shimmering behind the cab of the Silver Hawk. He folds his arms across his chest like a tough guy, but his bare, lean-muscled limbs contain no tattoos or blemishes of any kind. He holds no cigarette, no drink. Mother is inside somewhere, using the bathroom. It's twilight, and as the swan or the movie marquee begins to burn like a new galaxy in the fading sky, I take advantage of the moment to ask a question: “What happens after we die?”
        The question startles him off the fender of the Silver Hawk. But only for an instant. He eases back against the turquoise and points a finger directly at me. “Don't matter. Long as I'm around, you don't have to worry yourself 'bout that.”
        VERY good. I feel like a fifth wheel; you all are doing so well.
        Then the man in the wheelchair turns again—and aims the ball at me.
        For a moment, his lips purse as if he is about to speak . . . But the moment passes. He releases the ball in silence, sending it . . .
        . . . rocketing toward me like a burning blue sun. I'm quick and elusive, but I can't avoid its collision course. It slams full-force into my belly. In a reflex, I catch the rebound, capture my shame against my already-stinging skin as a red glow of indignation grows on my face, reflecting the more painful glow below.

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