“Hey, champ,” he said. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but the cheap microphone picked it up anyway. “What are you doing?”
“Superman needs a sidekick,” my father said into my hair. “Can I apply for the job?”
The footage wobbled. My mother’s hand, probably. She was behind the camera, her breath fogging the lens on a cold autumn afternoon. The backyard of our old house. The dying oak tree. The sandbox shaped like a turtle.