as he was in drab olive khaki, it would have been tough
to guess that the unassuming person and the hero known
as Phoenix were one in the same.
Arthur, the man also called Phoenix, shouldered
a frayed old duffel bag and left the park by a side
entrance. The bus he always rode was about to pull away
as he jogged to the stop. He took his usual seat and
rested his head, still flushed from the flame, against the
cool window. He loved the quietness of the bus at the
late hour because it gave him plenty of time to relax,
reflect on that night’s work, and transition into a more
restful mindset.
As he arrived at home, he was already
visualizing the same ritual he had carried out every night
for years: unlock the door, stumble through the dark and
make something to eat, then collapse into bed. Arthur
felt well, so he looked forward to having the energy to
undress before falling into the deep, restful, sleep he
enjoyed every time he returned from a night out.
Something was wrong. He could tell the moment
he came into the apartment complex’s common area.
The lock on his mailbox was broken, the damage
inexpertly hidden. A lens cap was fitted over the camera
which ought to have watched the door, and the convex
security mirror was turned in such a way that little more
than an empty corner could be seen in it.
His heart beat faster and the flame flickered to
life as he climbed the stairs toward his small abode.
When he came to his door, he found the knob broken,
hanging by a single long screw. Arthur pressed his back
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