A news report plays on a flickering TV in a dark room. The anchor’s voice is grim.
He swings home not because he wants to, but because his body is on autopilot. He rips off his mask. The fabric is stiff with dried sweat and a thin crust of someone else's blood. He looks at his reflection in the dark window of his bedroom. He’s seventeen. He has the eyes of a fifty-year-old war veteran. Tu amigo y vecino Spider-Man Temporada 1 Dual 1...
He reaches into his bathrobe pocket and pulls out a Ziploc bag. Inside are three bizcochitos —anise cookies his wife used to make. They are crumbling. They are imperfect. A news report plays on a flickering TV in a dark room
It’s coming from the floor below.
Hector does something he hasn't done in months. He pulls on his frayed bathrobe. He grabs his cane, not his oxygen tank. He doesn't need the tank for what he's about to do. He rips off his mask