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A man, Henry, sits at a curb, holding a paper airplane with a crinkled nose.

An old, legless, black man, Alistair, in a wheelchair approaches from the street.

There is no traffic.

Alistair: What happened to your airplane?

Henry: It crashed.

Alistair glances over his shoulder in the direction from which he came.

Alistair: Crashed, huh? Planes are ‘bound to do that.

Silence

Alistair: You should probably get on outta here, you know that?

Henry: Yeah.

Alistair: You know what happened, right? You been sittin’ here the whole time?

A cloud of unnatural tan/grey dust begins to roll over them.

Henry: I know what happened.

Alistair: Then let’s get movin’.

Henry doesn’t move.

Alistair: Is it your airplane?

Henry: I made it myself, but it won’t fly. It just crashes.

There is a terrible groan.

Alistair: Let me see that.

Henry hands the crinkled paper airplane to Alistair.

Alistair: Your plane needs a logo.

He pulls clippings from the Sunday comic pages out of his jacket pocket. There is a clipping of Garfield, Donald Duck, and the Superman logo. He licks the back of each and pastes the images to the wing of the plane. He hands it back to Henry.

Alistair: There. It will fly again.

Henry: Are you sure?

Alistair: Mostly. Now push me.

Henry stands and pushes Alistair through the thick dust cloud, away from the noise and terror.

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