in three sentences: two thousand and twenty-four edition (part two)

It looks like Joey Wilson, thirty-eight years old with silver streaking through the gold of his curls, putting his left wrist in a brace (because it never healed right after breaking twelve years ago, no matter what the doctors say) before settling in to draw with a cup of coffee by his side.

He’ll get sucked into his work and forget to stretch, and everything will ache ten times more because of the old injuries, but that’s fine— he did good while his body could take it, and there are more ways to do good without capes and powers anyway.

The inevitable dose of ibuprofen will be washed down with cold, forgotten coffee, and then his day will truly begin.