As Dale pulled up to the senior center, she could see her husband at his window, dressed and ready for battle.

“He’s been this way all morning,” the staff physician said. “Maybe you can get through to him.”

He had his uniform on, faded and torn over the years. His boots had been hidden away so he was wearing slippers.

“Hello Flash,” she said, hugging him. “What’s the situation?”

“It’s Ming again,” he said.

“Let’s go to your room and work out a plan,” she said.

Dale had lost Flash a few years ago, when his mind started going. With periodic moments of clarity.

“He’s plotting to destroy the Earth and he’ll get away with it.”

Ming had been long dead by this time; Mongo a thriving democratic republic.

She brought him some milk and a donut and they worked out a plan. But he had to promise to take a nap first, to conserve his strength.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Dale,” he said.