'So Green Lantern wears red, does he?'

She searched as quietly as she could, for somebody in the biggest rush of her life, pawing through the clothes in the drawers of the old brown dresser. It once belonged to her mother, and despite moving house six times was still almost usable on good days. Every single item of clothing she owned, she was hurriedly realizing, was either a skirt, striped stockings, or a polka dot blouse. Fine and dandy for running a household, not ideal for running into danger. Wrenching open the top drawer, she sees the pair of red woolen long johns she'd been thinking of the whole ride from the police station.

The thermals came from a nice old lady, an aunt of her son's best friend. Last New Year's, she took the whole family to a farm upstate to reunite Huey's homesick pal with his mother, and they spent the holiday drinking egg nog, singing Auld Lang Syne and Thanks for the Memories, swapping stories and telling jokes. When Abigail caught a chill, the elderly woman brought her down from the attic a set of wool underclothes that fit her, owing to it having been the former property of a considerable farmhand named Scooter.

Thinking about her last holiday with Henry makes her lonsomer than she has ever felt looking at his empty side of the bed, his dusty work boots, or at his overalls, or his gloves.

'Henry's gloves!'

She let out an audible gasp. On her bedside table, next to the bakelite kewpie doll he'd won for her last Summer, were her husband's old suede work gloves. It'd been quite the row, the two of them going at it like barking dogs for hours, long after the issues of laundry and responsibility had been exhausted.

He worked in an aviation factory, before the Act took him to some boot camp in Mississippi and god-only-knows-where from there. The gloves were expensive - more than they could possibly afford on one day's notice, plus another dollar to boot - so no matter how many circles they battled around in that day, the fact was he had to wear purple gloves to work for two and a half weeks before he could buy new ones. He never lost the awful nickname the other guys gave him. She didn't throw the old ones out because they made good oven mitts and who can afford to throw away anything these days?

She picked up the heavy leather, and shoved her hands into the purple felt lining. Making fists, her knuckled cracked in unison. Her hard-soled shoes made loud stomping sounds as she strode to the window, and she realized she needed some way to quiet her footsteps. Grabbing a pair of thick woolen socks from her drawer, she stopped, seeing the pair of yellow yarn slippers her daughter had knit for her that Mother's Day.

Abby didn't consider herself the sentimental type, but she had saved every scrap of newspaper those strange booties had been wrapped in. After all, it isn't every day your rambunctious tomboy daughter puts on a shy smile, and a nice clean dress, and gives you a pair of hand-sewn slippers wrapped carefully in the funny pages.

Amelia had toned down her nervousness when Abby opened the gift, but her freckled cheeks were puffed out from holding her breath. She was all smiles when Abby declared them adiorable and very well-made.

"They're so tightly-knit, sweetie, I bet they last a million years. I couldn't have done anything like this good until I was twice your age!"

And half a year later, the knitting hadn't budged an inch. The brilliant yellow had faded from washing, but the oddly pointed toes still stood proudly, and though she had to wear them over her shoes, defeating the purpose of slippers in the first place, they did make her footsteps quiet as a mouse's.

'Perfect.'

Pulling at her favorite heavy linen curtains, she caused the whole rod to shake loose of its moorings and come crashing down on her. Cursing and tearing the unwanted fabric off her face, she pulled in the clothesline, hoping the boys had, as usual, left their clothes outside instead of bringing them in, like she'd asked them to for the umpteenth time. Sure enough, the line was full of clothes, and only about half of them were Abigail's.

The dust from the curtain disaster was still heavy in the air, and she coughed and sneezed, brushing her hand in front of her face in a vain effort to dispel the pesky particles. It worked just well enough, she was able to get the laundry in the window, and throw the heap on her unmade bed. Picking through the cool, clean-smelling clothes, she found only a few things that might work: Herman's black tie, and a sun bleached yellow bathing shirt and green trunks Gus mostly wore in the summer for trips to Coney Island (when they could afford such luxuries). At first she balked at the idea of wearing such garish colors, but if Green Lantern could punch criminals in the nose in bright green pants, so could she damnit.

And part of being Green lantern is wearing a goofy cloak like a kids' pulp hero, and while she's never donned a cape, she's had plenty of experience improvising. Running Herman's black tie through the sleeve of the curtain, she fastened it to her neck as best she could, struggling with the knot.

Henry struggled with his knot. Abby had always made sure he was nice and gussied up when he left home, but by the time he returned later in the evening his collars were crooked and he had loosened the tie hours before out of frustration. It was usually pleasant in spite of the circumstances, a chance to talk and joke with each other before and after long, rarely joyful, days. But not today. Today Hunk dropped a bombshell on her, casual as you please. She was attempting to deal with it. Abby tried to stand up off the bed, intent on aiding her husband, but felt her thighs give out under the weight as she did.

"Are we supposed to let them die on the streets, Abby?"

She rubbed the small bump that had began to form over the last few months, making an attempt to stay calm and not show just how damn angry she was. Henry was always a bull-headed fool, but he was being unreasonable.

"Henry-" Abby rocked herself forward, using the momentum to help her swing into a standing position, wincing as she felt the unmistakable cramp of a bratty kid kicking her in the pupik. Henry reached toward her, obviously concerned, but she swatted his hand away in annoyance.

"Stop pawing at me, you big lummox, look, I get it, you love your brothers but look at this place, it's already too small for us with just Huey, where are we gonna put those two idiots anyway?"

"See, I was thinking, if we put a couple cots in the dining room, just at night-"

"Have you met your brothers Henry? They'll be teaching Huey how to spit tobacco or play poker! I don't want those two around our children."

"They're fun , it'll be like living with" he sputtered "Abbott and Costello or something"

"Yes, very fun " She spat the last word like a curse, "hey, when did Gus get out of jail again? A month ago?"

"TAX jail, it hardly counts."

While she could tell Henry was trying to lighten the mood, a thunderstorm of anger swirled in her chest. She threw her arms open and gestured at the small, yet tidy and cozy space that they all shared. "Okay fine, so let them live here, and I'll find somewheres else to go."

"Don't-" he blew a puff of air out, flustered. "Don't-" he softened, kneeling in front of his wife's stomach, put his arms around her back, and placed his forehead against her "Abby. They're family . Who else takes care of us but us? And like you said, they can help you out with Huey"

"Of course" Abby chuckled, pulling Henry back up on his feet and finally finished removing the black tie from around his neck "he can help us win big at the horse track someday, maybe he'll even win big enough for the whole lot of you to live with us."

He took her hands in his, "So come on, what do ya say, give them a shot, just for a month or so?"

Abby sighed, knowing that she couldn't say no to Henry, he was her weak spot, and always would be. "Okay, for a couple months, but no funny business."

"Never"

He leaned toward her and kissed her gently

"I love you Red"

"I love you Hunk" she kissed him back. "but they're paying rent."

'Okay, now I just need some kinda mask.'

Abigail didn't have too many options for covering her face, she lacked any large enough handkerchiefs and that didn't even take into consideration her hair. She reached up, twisting a strand of fluffy flaming red around her finger. Her hair would definitely need to be covered up. There weren't a whole lot of red haired women running around their neighborhood. Especially fat ones with brown eyes.

She nervously chewed her bottom lip, pressing her ear against the door, having not the slightest clue if Scribbly or anyone else was still in the house. She didn't hear anything except for vague occasional sounds that could have been anything from a radio to a cabbie honking his horn. Abigail argued internally for a couple more moments before sliding out the door and slinking down the hallway, the yellow booties absorbing all the impact of each step.

And the place was empty!

Abigail said a tiny prayer of thanks and began digging through the pantry, discovering three paper bags and one still usable gunny sack folded neatly in the corner., she made quick work cutting eyes hole in each, but as she tried them, they proved useless. She needed something harder.

There were only two things she could think of that would cover her head, and of those, the far better option was the mop bucket. Grabbing it out of its corner of the kitchen and tossing aside the mop, she judged it was the perfect size for her head. The two rust holes in the side would be perfect to see out of, and there were a million buckets like it out there. No way Torponi and his gang could trace it back to her. She went to the sink, and rinsed out the bucket before hoisting it high and bringing it down-

Then she smelled the inside. There was no amount of washing that was going to get rid of that stench, and she'd be no good to anybody if she were retching the whole way.

'Something else, maybe.'

Her other option was both her last choice and her last choice. Because it was her pride and joy; a gleaming steel pot big enough for the massive meals she needed to stir up for her family. Tough, durable, and strong, she never wanted to part with it. Henry agreed that the pot should stay in the family and be given to Amelia when she eventually moved on and became a mother herself. Instead of changing her mind, thinking of her little girl made her want to dig into her cabinets,and she pulled out the massive thing, inspecting it quickly.

'Clean as the day I took it.'

Abby was late, in more ways than one. She'd broken her alarm clock throwing it at the wall the day before and didn't have the money to get it fixed yet, so even though she ran each and every one of the fifty-eight blocks between her home and Mrs. Woolrich's brownstone estate, she was more than twenty minutes late to her job of cooking for the old woman and her extended family, but that was hardly on her mind because the other way she was late was a lot more important and a lot more dire.

It was her period.

Three and a half weeks late, she had realized only just the night before. She hadn't said anything to Hunk yet, who knew how he would take it. He only just got hired on as an apprentice at the aeronautics company, and wouldn't be making enough to support the two of them for probably another year, which is the whole reason she was working in the first place.

She successfully avoided seeing her employer that morning, and hoped she hadn't noticed anything was amiss with her newest cook when she had a whole staff and fancy rich people things to do with her life that aren't worrying over a young newlywed just trying to make her way in the world. She finished their breakfasts with plenty of time to spare, and set about preparing supper, a fancy French stew she couldn't say the name of to save her life but could make better than a fancy French chef. She always was proud of her ability to make tasty things, and now putting food on the table was putting food on the table, and that made her days fulfilled, however difficult they were.

She had just served the food, and was back in the kitchen, leaning over the pot, considering a bowl of her own before putting it in to wash, when Mrs. Woolrich came up behind her, clearing her throat to announce her presence. Standing up and spinning about, Abby brushed her already-clean hands off on her apron and did the slightest of curtseys.

"Missus, can I get you anything?"

"No, there'll be no need for that, I'm quite full after your excellent work at supper, thank you."

Abby could feel herself blushing a little. "Too kind, too kind, thank you."

The old woman just sort of stood there for a while, staring at her. It felt as if she were supposed to say something more.

"Well, I should be getting to these dishes." she reached behind herself and lifted the pot off the stove by one handle, readying to make her way to the sink, when Mrs. Woolrich stepped in her way.

"I'm afraid I don't know how to say this" she said in a hurried breath, "I am told you were…"

She paused.

"Late this morning." It wasn't a question.

She held out an envelope "It's your week's pay, minus for today. I'll not reward tardiness."

Abby reached for it dazedly. It was only Wednesday.

"You may pack up your things and leave now, I shan't be requiring you back tomorrow."

Old Mrs. Woolrich spun on her heel and left the kitchen. Abby was still holding the heavy steel pot, its contents beginning to slosh out onto the tiled kitchen floor. To Mrs. Woolrich, a buck fifty wasn't much money, she probably spent that on fancy doilies and silk toilet paper or whatever the hell rich folk spent their fortunes on. Abby was counting on that money - rent was past due, not to mention food, and forget about the idea she might be eating for two now. She felt a massive yawning dread build up in her stomach, and Abby forced herself to set the heavy pot down in the sink before she truly fainted.

Abby wasn't a mean-spirited person, in fact, she was very generous. She could have left the kitchen as it was and went home (or she could have followed Old Hag Woolrich and given her a piece of her mind) but instead began to run the tap until steaming hot water began trickling into the sink.

Being far too kind to leave the next hiree with a crusted-over pot, she began scrubbing, putting in as much elbow-grease as she ever had. Quick as a flash, the final dregs of the offending fishy-sauce stew were rinsed down the sink (with ample scraps given to Gable, Woolrich's old basset hound to keep him from barking.) Then a nice, swift drying with a clean dish rag and the pot could be used again. Perfect for placing freshly cut (or whole) vegetables. The pot was 16 quarts, and as such could hold many vegetables.

Take, for example, a bunch of carrots, which would be terrific in a nice cabbage stew. Or take radishes, ruby red and pristine; a bit more unconventional, but their peppery taste would really add some spice. Potatoes are an obvious choice, and judging from how heavy they were, would be a hearty addition. And what would cabbage stew be without the vegetable itself? While not as impressive as their companions in the pot, it was the perfect old standby, with the lid fitting snugly over the top. Abby whistled cheerful as a bird while she crossed the room to the door, using her hip to shut the still open cabinet door, which was a controlled horde of glimmering cookware.

She left through the kitchen door, and you know, it was such a nice evening, she thought it'd be a real shame to close it and shut out all that fresh air. Henry wasn't due back until later that night, so Abby tucked the heavy steel pot under her arm, preparing for the long walk home. The streets ahead looked inviting, and the sun shone warmly overhead. Abby took an apple from beneath the lid of the pot, and breathed on the fruit, wiping it clean on her knee.

She needed to practice her talk to Henry.

' This isn't working.''

The pot was on her head, but it wobbled around, not at all workable for Green Lanterning. She grabbed a length of twine from the drawer and tied an end to each of the handles to hold it around her chin. The heavy pot immediately fell off her head, landing on her right foot with a dull THUD. Swearing, she crumpled up pages from a newspaper and shoved them in the top. She stuffed her frizzy red hair into the crumpled newsprint, forming it around her head, stuffing another page in here, another there, as necessary, until it fit. She retrieved then a bottle of ink from the cupboard, unstopped the cork, and dipped in the tips of her two forefingers on her right hand. Maneuvering them up into the helmet past her nose, she marked the spots in front of her eyes with two neat dots, then removed the pot. A nail hammered quickly through each of the marks, and she tried it on again.

She couldn't see a thing.

Wrenching the thing off her head once more, she paced back and forth on the slatted wood floors of the shared kitchen/living room and cast about for another small miracle - one of many she needed that day. Looking back through the drawer, she pulled out the old can opener, and jammed one tooth of the crescent-shaped device into the right hand hole, wrenching with all her might. Examining her work, she cut again, then again, and was left with two angry slants, looking like a silver jack-o-lantern face.

'Okay. But I need some kinda sobriquet, like Huey was talking about'

Abby was only a little girl when she met Hunk, she was a typical eight year old with a tummy and pigtails and round cheeks perfeptuslly smudge in dirt. She was a messy loud child, full of vinegar and always ready to fight. And she fought everyone, and Abby always won.

That day had been a lot like the others, it was getting close to summer recess and she was antsy and distracted, wanting to hurry up and get on with the fun. Abby had a lot of plans for her and her friends, most of which involved being outdoors and getting dirty.

Abby's mother was always on her case about her appearance, begging her to please just stay out of the mud and not to rip her skirt. But Abby came home most days the same way, munching on a candy bar with a magazine under her arm, disheveled and talkative and ready for whatever came next.

Abby stopped to adjust the belt full of books on her back, grumbling about just how much lousy homework she had and how lousy it was that such a nice sunny day had to be spent indoors doing lousy homework. She brushed her skirt free of dust, proud that her yellow and pink gingham dress was clean as a whistle. That would make her mother happy, since they had something very important to do at temple that night, and there was no time to change clothes.

Abby began digging into her little white purse, a birthday gift from her aunt, where she kept important things; like her meager allowance, a couple jawbreakers she was saving "for a special occasion" and several bobby pins.

Sifting through the tiny bag dregged up three pennies, more than enough for a chocolate soda and a lollipop, she was saving up for the end of the school year, where Abby and her friends were planning on getting a huge sundae and splitting it, but she could spare some.

The corner store was right across the street, past an alleyway in between a five and dime and a tailor shop, Abby had always been told to avoid going in because of mean alley cats and delinquent boys smoking cigarettes. She usually heeded her mom's stern advice, if for no other reason than it stunk because of the trash, but today there was a whole lot of ruckus in the alley.

Crossing the street she peeked curiously around the corner of the tailor shop, wondering if the old man who owned the place was yelling at a slovenly employee again, but instead saw a couple boys beating up another younger kid on the ground. And while Abby had gotten into many scraps in her day, she never found it okay to punch a smaller kid, or to gang up two on one.

The two boys were distracted by their fight to notice Abby creeping along the wall behind some icky garbage cans. She dropped her books and purse in the dirt and stacked a weird, warped cardboard box on top of the cans, giving her enough of a height advantage to get the drop on them.

From her vantage point she could see that one of the boys was Caleb Matherson, a gross boy who picked on small kids and smaller animals. He was always getting into trouble by shooting beebees at birds or hurling pebbles at cats. The other boy was a squat strange lad with heavy jaws like a bulldogs', he was currently sitting on that poor little kid's chest while socking him clear in the mouth. His face was bloody and bruised like a sat-on plum.

Standing to her full height made her wobble a bit, but she was still able to yell out a loud, "hey!" before falling right on top of the fray.

In a tumbling flurry of gawky limbs she rolled off of bulldog boy and stumbled back into Caleb, making him land heavily on his rear. He let out a loud "oomph!" before scrambling back up, but Abby was ready and ran her shoulder into his stomach. Bulldog boy then grasped one of her ribbons and tugged her back, making her yelp and swing blindly like a kangaroo. After a few missed hits she landed somewhere; because the boy squawked and let go. Finally free she could headbutt Caleb and donkey-kick behind her, hitting the fatter boy with her Mary-Jane covered heel.

With the two of them stunned she could deliver a final blow by knocking their heads together, with a resounding clunk like a coconut. It worked in the pictures and it worked well in real life.

The two boys ran off, spitting and cursing at Abby, saying they would get her back, when she felt a tap on her shoulder. It was the boy they'd been hurting. She turned toward him. He had brown hair and a face like a horse's. He was beaming despite a split lip and a missing tooth, but his eyes were bright as stars when he looked at her. He grabbed her bloodied hand and shook it in a hyperbolic imitation of an adult. He then spat a huge glob of mess on the ground and laughed uproariously loud when his tooth was revealed in the puddle.

"Sorry!" The boy wiped his nose on his arm, sniffing away snotty mud and tears, "thank you for helping me missus! I would have been creamed if you hadn't've come along like a clap of thunder!"

He brushed past Abby, searching for his school things while chatting away like a ventriloquist dummy "hmm, no, not like thunder."

He turned back to face Abby again, and when he spoke again, he sounded even more boisterous "Nope, not like thunder at all, you're a tornado!" He punched her arm like a big brother might, and she was laughing too hard to care that it was right on a bruise.

"You came down like a big tornado!"

'Never did tell Henry about how much trouble I got in for ruinin' that dress.'

Abigail wondered just where the hell Scribbly got his flair for the artistic, because all a half minute of careful brush strokes got her was a blobby red smudge that looked more like a kidney bean than a terrifying force of nature. Hoping some jagged lines would help, she finished quickly and blew roughly on the wet ink, begging and demanding it to dry faster. Soon, her patience ran out and, after throwing on the shirt, she clumsily made her way over to the full length mirror.

She was already sweating. She could hardly breathe from the helmet, and the long toes of her booties caused her to trip every couple steps. Not to mention the thick linen choking her just enough to be annoying, adding weight to her tense, overwrought shoulders.

Standing straight, she put her hands on her broad hips and posed as stoically as the outfit allowed. She looked ridiculous, but at least nobody would know it was her. That's the important part anyway, couldn't have those goons tracking her back home. No, she needed to put a stop to this nonsense once and for all.

She coughed, opening up her throat to deepen her already low, rough voice.

"I'm just in the mood to give you some trouble. "