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He looked like a man who had just flown.

Not the gaunt, hollow-cheeked man I had held in a hospice bed last month. This was a different creature. Thirty years old. Thick arms. A black t-shirt stained with motor oil. His jaw was set like a vise. He was holding a cardboard box—one of those heavy ones full of engine parts—and walking toward the trash can. He didn’t see the camera.

The video ended.

My father nodded slowly. He reached out and straightened the red towel, which had twisted around my neck. His hands were black with grease. They left faint smudges on the cheap fabric.

He dropped the box into the can. The sound was a dull, heavy thud, even through the laptop’s cheap speakers. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. superman 240p

The towel flapped behind us like a banner.

“That’s good,” he said. “The world needs saving.” He looked like a man who had just flown

The little boy in the blue pajamas—me—puffed out his chest. “I’m Superman. I’m gonna save the whole world.”