March 3, 1985 -- London, England

"Grandpa Peter!"

Newkirk turned from polishing the mirror behind the bar to face the laughing child. "Well, if it isn't the most beautiful girl in the whole world."

She giggled, twirling around so that the hem of her dress floated in the air. Newkirk walked around the counter to scoop the little girl up into his arms, planting big kisses all over her face. She squealed, trying to return the kisses, even as she was swung up into the air.

As she was settled back to the ground, she stood staring up at him seriously. "I bringed something for you, Grandpa Peter," she declared, holding her hand out to her father. He put something down in it gently, but Newkirk didn't even look at it. He would wait until she gave it to him. That was the way that she liked it.

"Now, why would you do something like that, darling?" he asked, gazing back at her equally as seriously, even as his blue eyes danced merrily beneath his silver mop of hair.

"'cause I made it just for you. Daddy showed me how. But he didn't help," she asserted. "I did it all by myself. Just for you." And she held her hands out to him. Resting on her small palms was a lopsided paper airplane, the paper smudged and laboriously creased by four-year-old hands.

"Thank you, darling," Newkirk said, bending down so that he could be at her level. "But why did you make this for me?"

"Daddy said that you used to know how to fly. He said that you saveded the world. He said you were a hero like Superman." She tilted her head to examine him. "You don't look like Superman."

"Well, sweetie, that's 'cause I'm not like Superman," Newkirk answered gently, settling himself on the floor.

"But Daddy said that you were a hero," she said, confused.

"Heroes aren't all like Superman, doll. Sometimes they're just ordinary people." Newkirk reached out to stroke her blonde curls as she settled herself into his lap and rested her head on his chest.

"How do you tell when someone's a hero then?" she asked, her thumb meandering up to her mouth, the fingers of her other hand rubbing the hem of her dress. "What do they look like?"

Newkirk sighed. How was he supposed to explain something like this to a young child? "They look just like everyone else. Heroes are people who do what's right, even when it's hard. Or when it's dangerous. Or when it's scary."

"Even in the dark?"

"Even in the dark."

"I'm not a hero then. I'm scared of the dark."

"That's okay. You can still be scared."

"Were you scared, Grandpa Peter?"

"I was scared every day," he answered truthfully.

"Of the dark?"

"No, not of the dark. I was scared that the bad people would win."

"But they didn't?"

"No, darling, they didn't win."

"I wanna grow up and be a hero," she declared, sitting up and staring at Newkirk. "But Tommy says that heroes are just born that way, like Superman."

"A long time ago, I knew someone who said that heroes aren't born; they're made. If you want to be a hero, you go and be a hero, no matter what anyone else says."

"How?"

"There's lots of different ways to be a hero. You don't have to save the world. All you have to do is help someone else."

"Like I helped Tommy clean up the toys?" she asked excitedly. "Even when I didn't make the mess?"

"Just like that, sweetheart."

"Then I'm a hero too?" She jumped to her feet.

"You sure are, doll."

"I like being a hero."

"Me too," Newkirk said, getting to his feet. "And you can be a hero as often as you want."

"Like every day?" Newkirk nodded and she started twirling again. "I'm going to be a hero every day."

While she was dancing in the centre of the room, Newkirk came to sit beside her father. "Gee, Uncle Peter, you sure are good with kids. How come you never had any of your own?"

He sighed sadly, his eyes flickering to the picture that always hung behind the bar. "I guess I just wasn't enough of a hero to save the girl who would have been their mother."