Husband seems trusting of our new partners. I am not sure if he should be. He has his reasons, and I accept that he has thought about them, but we do not know these people very well.

He seems convinced that the people from Murray's worship us, or at least him. He has told them that what he can do is "classified", which should make it seem that the government knows about it, and that it is therefore "normal". But still, they look up to him, perhaps because of the healing he did. He has told them to keep quiet about us, but if they do indeed worship him, he should know that religions tend to spread.

Ted has only seen that we are strong. There are strong people in this world, though perhaps not as strong as us. But Ted has not seen us do what no other people can do...only what most other people cannot do. So he has less to tell others.

The only truly confused and upset hyur I have seen so far is Master Shen, or Tony, or whatever his name is. I am not bothered that he is upset, after he sent us to Murray's, but if he feels the need to talk to someone about being upset it means more people talking about us.

I type this at the Pit, at the start of my bouncer shift. Google says what I am about to do is an example of irony.

"Hello, Sam."

"Hey there. Writin' a novel?"

"A journal. I am trying to make my thoughts clear."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Perhaps. How do I know whether I can trust someone?"

"Dunno. How you know you can trust me?"

I simply looked at him. He grinned.

"So'm I the one yer wonderin' about?"

"You were not before. Should I wonder about you? You have so far been discreet about us."

"Yer good people, far's I can tell. I can appreciate wantin' to be left alone. Lotta folk who live in a town like this want that."

"But who do you talk to, if you have something to talk about?"

Sam considered. "This about weird stuff?"

"We are weird stuff."

"S'pose you are. But I don't talk about you 'less someone else talks about you. An' then I tell 'em yer good people. You know, maybe yer askin' the wrong question?"

"Am I?"

"'Stead of askin' whether you can trust someone, maybe you should ask if you should. Whether whatcha get from trustin' 'em is worth what might happen if you do."

"I think we would be very unhappy if you betrayed our trust."

"Stop talkin' to me unhappy or burn down the bar unhappy?"

I thought about it. "'Find another place to live' unhappy."

"Now, see, I wouldn't want that. So I won't make you unhappy."

"Thank you."

We were quiet for a bit. He polished a glass as he looked out over the currently empty bar. I decided to trust that he would not make me unhappy.

"Has my husband mentioned that I fight?"

"Somethin' about cage matches."

"Yes. But he worries that if I seem too strong no one will want to fight me. So we are working with some people to help me not look as strong."

"What kinda people?"

"Three are from a bar we visited, where they attacked us and lost; now they act like friends. One has a history in..." I checked my past journal entries. "...entertainment-based performance theatre. He called it scripted fighting."

"You mean WWE?"

"World Power Sports. He said it was similar. We are doing the work at a fighting school run by the person who sent us to the bar. We do not like him. Neither do the people from the bar."

"An' these're the folk yer worried about?"

"Three who attacked us and are now friends. One who we hardly know who has done theatre. One who misled us and now fears us. Yes."

Sam nodded slowly. "Okay. So what're you worried might happen?"

"When we first came here, Husband said we did not want to confuse or upset..." Hyur. "...people. That confused and upset people can cause problems for us. Yet we seem to do that when we show people that we are stronger than we look."

"Heh. I've seen how strong you are."

I met his eyes. "We are stronger than we look."

"Okay, but yer not as strong as Superman, right?"

"Superman": "fictional character", "comic-book superhero"

"Superman is not real."

"'Xactly. So if you were strong as Superman it'd freak people out. Cuz that couldn't be real."

"freak out": "to lose or cause to lose emotional control from extreme excitement, shock, fear, joy, despair, etc."

"How strong is Superman?"

"Uh...punch through steel, carry airplanes while flying, throw cars..."

"I have not done those things."

"S'pose people won't freak out, then."

"You said he flies? Does he ride something that flies?"

"No, he just...flies. Floats in the air. Goes real fast and high." He looked at me. "You really never heard o' Superman?"

Husband had a phrase for this. "I have been sheltered."

"But you play computer games."

"It is complicated."

"Uh huh."

People began to enter. Sam went to serve them. I looked up Superman more thoroughly.

Comic books are an entire class of fiction, organized around pictures at least as much as words. They are typically "serialized fiction", which means the story is divided into pieces and the pieces are supplied over time.

Comic books have been produced for almost a hundred years, which is less time than many of the books and stories Husband talks about, but still a long time. People have been born while comic books existed. So comic books are something "everyone" knows about.

Superman is one of the most famous characters in comic books. He appeared in a comic book in 1938, which makes him almost as old as comic books themselves. Many videos have been made about him and other characters associated with him. So Superman is someone "everyone" knows about.

Husband worries about people knowing I am strong. Sam accepts that I am strong, but thinks it strange I do not know about Superman.

I am strange in this world. I am a miqo'te and I am strong and I am ignorant. I will not change being a miqo'te. I will not cease to be strong. I can at least work on the ignorance.

Sam and I did not talk significantly for the rest of the evening, and the customers were well-behaved. I spent the time reading about Superman, and Batman, and Wonder Woman and Green Lantern and many others. Wikipedia has much to say about all of them, with their stories weaving together like a tapestry. Amazon has Kindle editions of the comics; I read many over the course of hours.

I type this in bed with Husband nestled against me. He had spent the evening mapping from the air and was happy to go to sleep while I typed and researched. I am happy to have him with me like this. We can talk in the morning about Sam's truck.

I left the Pit when Sam closed the bar. He was busy cleaning and restocking, so he was inside when I walked out the back door and saw his truck.

I found myself wondering if I could throw it.

I did not see anyone around. I went to the back of the truck. I gripped the bottom edge and lifted. It was very heavy, and I needed to brace myself as I got it higher, and brace myself again as I got it higher still.

The truck was resting on its front wheels, but I could still feel that it was not well-balanced. I could not imagine picking it up with only two hands and holding it well enough to throw it. Perhaps if Husband lifted the front end we could toss it together.

I lowered the truck as gently as I could. When I let go of it I turned and saw Sam at the back door, staring at me with his mouth open. He was holding a beer keg with both hands. The way he held it suggested he found it heavy.

"I did not throw the truck."

He did not respond. I walked to him. He stood very still. I placed my hand on his arm.

"Please do not make us unhappy, Sam."

It took him some time to answer. "I won't."

"Thank you. Good night."

I will let Husband sleep. We can discuss this in the morning.