Calling It a Night

After a full day wrestling garden valves and spring-loaded sprinklers, my joints were practically begging for a cease-fire. I slipped back under the front door threshold, my plastic feet clicking wearily across the cool entryway floorboards. Perched right on the wooden shoe bench was a folded wool knit beanie, looking softer than any tactical bunker I've ever surveyed. I scrambled up the table leg, grabbed the thick ribbed yarn, and wedged myself straight into the warm fold of the cuff. Slipping my white web blast into the stitching beside me like a parked cruiser, I finally kicked back. Even heroes need to recharge their batteries.