Page 66 of Manhattan State of Mind

The exhibition hall pulses with infectious energy. It’s an explosion of colors and creatures. Every superhero, mutant, villain, robot, ninja, and spy seems to have gathered.

A Stormtrooper clumsily steps on my toes, while a Viking breezes past us, his fake shield clattering against the floor.

I navigate the girls through the crowd, with Libby adjusting her clothing every couple of seconds to deal with ungracious wedgies.

But I breathe it in, feeling content. Spidey’s webbing. Cowboy hats. Power rangers. Catwoman’s leather catsuit. The Joker’s green hair and purple suit.

Memory or not, this feels like home. I’m wrapped up in that comforting sense of belonging, amidst people who passionately channel their inner hero—or villain.

The crowd parts, making way for a Dalek from Doctor Who, shrieking “Exterminate!” in an electronically distorted rasp. I know I’ve got a big goofy smile on my face.

A Pikachu struts by us in stilettos and a mini skirt, its plump, furry behind wiggling seductively.

“Is that the yellow thing from Pokémon?” Libby mutters, blinking rapidly. “I feel like I just dropped acid.”

I smirk at her, watching discomfort shift to reluctant intrigue.

A formidable Kratos fromGod of Warmuscles his way past us, two plastic axes slung over his shoulders.

Priya ogles his bare chest appreciatively. “Would not say no to that one.”

“So, what now?” Libby asks, eyeing the Jessica Rabbit sashaying past. “Do I have to get into character or something?”

I smile. “You can if you want. Or you cansoak in the atmosphere.”

The sight of a well-defined ass encased in shimmering red and blue material sends my pulse skittering. Daredevil. The Lev Gleason kind.

But disappointment crashes through me. It’s not him.

“Let’s go find the bar,” I suggest, scanning for the nearest one.

Libby’s face lights up. “They serve alcohol? This just got a lot more appealing.”

We order beers at the bar. It’s my first taste of alcohol since the accident, so I go for something weak. As we sip our drinks, the atmosphere begins to mellow the girls.

“It’s kind of empowering, really,” Libby muses, her eyes gleaming. “Hidden behind a mask, you could be anyone, doanything.”

“Not quite anything, Lib.” I chuckle. “Let’s remember this isn’t some masked swinger’s party.”

As an Elastic Man saunters by, Priya recoils, her face contorting. “Please God, tell me that’s not the same pervert as last time.”

“I doubt it,” I reply. “There must be hundreds of Elastic Men here.” Like Daredevils.

Another Daredevil passes by, and I almost jump out of my skin. He’s tall. Sturdy. But it’s not him. My pulse spikes with each familiar red and blue suit until hope dwindles to nothing.

Daredevils are everywhere, both the Matt Murdock variety and the Bart Hill, teasing and taunting me. Duplicates all around, making my search for one unknown man feel futile.

This mission, searching for a guy whose face I couldn’t even recognize in a lineup, is becoming my comic version of Where’s Waldo.

I take a swig of my beer as we meander through the throngs of people and stalls.

“How did your clinic session go this morning?” Libby asks.

My jaw tightens. It was the first joint session with Mom, which is probably why I’ve chosen to drink now.

“I think I left in a worse state than when I went in,” I mutter. “She just has a knack for winding me up. She’s constantly nitpicking.”

I gulp down more beer, the memory still bothering me. The girls appear uneasy.