The house smelled of cardboard and untapped potential. Boxes stood stacked in
precarious towers, forming a maze in what Jack hoped would eventually be a living
room. He stood in the middle of the chaos, hands on his hips, trying to decide which
monolith to tackle first. It was a modest Newfoundland home, nestled in a
neighborhood where the lawns were tidy and the houses had character. From the
back window, he could see a comfortable yard that promised quiet afternoons.
A sharp, confident knock echoed from the front door, startling him. He wasn't
expecting anyone. With the caution of someone new to a city, he navigated the
box-canyon and peered through the peephole before opening the door.
On the porch stood a man in his forties with a friendly, weathered face and the easy
stance of someone comfortable with authority. Beside him, a boy of about ten
bounced on the balls of his feet, clutching a Spider-Man comic book as if it were a
holy relic.
The man extended a hand. "Hey, neighbor! Mark Stone here, Newfoundland PD."
Jack took the offered hand and shook it. "Jack. Nice to meet you."
"And this is my son, Tommy," Mark said, gesturing to the boy. "And we brought
cookies." He handed over a cellophane-wrapped plate.
"Thank you," Jack said, genuinely touched. "New to the city, just the normal stuff."
Before the pleasantries could continue, Tommy, spotting the open door and the
wonderland of boxes within, barged right past Jack's legs. Jack just smiled and
gestured for Mark to follow him into the fray.
"So, where are you from?" Mark asked, stepping carefully over a box labeled
'KITCHEN.'
"California," Jack replied. "But the city's too big for me."
Mark chuckled, about to reply when a shout came from deeper within the house.
"You got comics?" Tommy yelled, his voice bouncing off the bare walls. "Dad thought
you would be some boring accountant."
Mark's face went pale, then flushed a deep red. "No, I— I said 'not boring'," he
stammered, mortified.
Jack threw his head back and laughed, the sound filling the empty space. He walked
over to where Tommy was trying to peek into a sealed box and knelt down to the boy's
level.
"Yes, I do have comics," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "And I'm not an
accountant."
Tommy's eyes widened. "Then, what do you do?"
Jack leaned in conspiratorially. "I read comics for a living."
The boy froze, his mind visibly rebooting. "We can do that?" he whispered, his voice
full of awe.
"Yes, of course!"
That was all it took. Tommy spun around and sprinted back to his father. "Dad, I want
to become a comic reader in the future!"
Jack stood up, sharing a laugh with Mark, who just shook his head in bewildered
amusement. "Alright!" Mark conceded to his son.
Calming down slightly, Tommy held up the comic he'd been clutching the entire time.
"I got Spider-Man comics," he declared. "You got any?"
"I got Batman comics," Jack replied.
Tommy's face fell into a look of deep disappointment. "Spider-Man's the best, you
know? He can beat Batman in a fight."
Jack laughed again. "It's debatable, since both are vigilantes."
"I like Superman," Mark chimed in from the doorway. "Is he still a thing?"
Jack and Tommy exchanged a look—a silent, instantaneous pact of mutual
understanding—and then burst out laughing.
"Dad," Tommy said with the weary patience of a seasoned expert, "you should stick to
cookies and the PD."
"Come by anytime, Tommy," Jack said, his eyes twinkling. "We'll debate Spider-Man
versus Batman."
Tommy nodded enthusiastically. Mark smiled, visibly relieved that the visit had been a
success. They headed for the door, Tommy waving his comic book like a victory flag.
As the door closed, the house felt a little less empty, and the fortress of boxes
seemed a little less daunting.