Heroes Like Me

Philadelphia, 1953. The snow outside Cantrell Chemicals was as gray as factory smoke, clumped in gritty piles along the curb. Matt Harris stood in the lobby, hat in hand, the warmth of the building prickling his scarred skin. His coat was old but pressed, his shoes shined. The receptionist—a young white woman with bright red lipstick—glanced at him, hesitated, then pointed toward the office at the end of the hall. “Mr. Doyle’s expecting you,” she said, her voice clipped, polite but distant. Matt nodded, his face calm. “Thank you, ma’am.” He walked down the corridor, past glass windows that revealed labs filled with gleaming beakers and brass fixtures. He felt the old itch in his hands, the muscle memory of a man who used to command a laboratory, who once wrote formulas that could stop a fire in its tracks. Now, he was here to push a broom. Inside the office, Mr. Franklin Doyle leaned back in his leather chair, a man of forty-five with hair like polished steel and a mustache that...