The Triumphant Return of the Red Marvel

“I’m sorry,” the woman said, as the Red Marvel expected and feared she would. “The shelter is full.”

He nodded to reassure her. She was kind. She was as much a prisoner in this false world as he. “There are other places,” he lied, and he turned away.

“Wait.” She handed him a card. “Try here.”

“The cathedral?”

“They’ve got cots and blankets. On such a cold night — ”

He chuckled, though he was not sure if he did that for her or himself. “You call this cold? In Russia, we would cut a hole in the ice and jump in to cool off on such a pleasant evening.”

Her smile made him feel young again. He wished he could tell her about the time he fought the Mad Mogul’s Skyscraper Men, constantly retreating northward until they froze within yards of the North Pole, but he knew she thought he was an addled old man. He did not want her to worry even more about him.

She said, “I wish someone could drive you — ”

“It’s fine.” He smiled despite his weariness and the old pain in his hip. He would not beg for a place that someone weaker might need. He was sure the Duchess of Deceit had a device to watch him struggle on this twisted version of his home. If so, she knew she had trapped him, but she had not crushed his spirit.