Missing Manual, Missing Courier

Ralph Hinkley never liked mornings, and this one looked less promising than most. Sunlight filtered through the blinds of his high-school classroom in a way that made everything look a little too hopeful, especially with the pile of ungraded essays on his desk. He glanced at the clock. Third period beckoned. But before lesson plans and overcaffeinated teenagers could swallow him whole, Bill Maxwell barged through the door with all the subtlety of a marching band. "Got a second, kid?" Bill said, voice low. Ralph glanced at the open classroom door. "In about twenty minutes. After I explain the difference between a metaphor and a simile." He gestured at the board. "They still think ‘life is a highway’ is about driving." Bill scowled, ignoring the joke. "We got a courier missing from a sensitive file drop. Name’s Gaines. Last seen on the way to a meet. Thing is, your vice principal—Mr. Turner—was in the area. And he signed out early that day. Coincidence?" He handed Ralph a thin folder. "Pam’s combing records, but you’re the eyes on the ground." Ralph took the folder. He remembered Mr. Turner as a well-pressed man who glared at tardy students and rarely smiled. The idea of him tangled up in anything criminal felt off, but Bill’s gut was usually right—unfortunately. "I’ve got a class full of kids in seven minutes," Ralph said, already anxious. "And the suit—well, you know the suit." "Just keep an eye on Turner. I’ll handle the feds. If you see anything, call it in. But don’t do anything I wouldn’t do." Ralph raised an eyebrow. "That’s… not a lot of things, Bill." Bill only smirked and slipped out. By lunch, Ralph was watching Turner more closely than his students. The vice principal moved through the halls with his usual brisk efficiency, but today there was something strained in his step—something furtive. When the bell rang, Ralph followed, clutching the suit rolled up in his duffel bag and feeling ridiculous. He ducked into the faculty restroom and changed, the red suit no less embarrassing today than the first time he’d worn it. The belt cinched, cape twisted, and he muttered, “Just once, let it work right.” Outside, Turner’s car was already leaving the parking lot. Ralph tried to turn invisible—he really did. Nothing happened. He sighed and took off awkwardly into the air, wobbling above the lot, hoping no one looked up from their cafeteria lunches. He tracked Turner through bright California streets, weaving past palm trees and midday traffic. The suit was unreliable as ever: a moment of easy flight, then a sudden, graceless plummet onto a used car lot. Ralph scrambled out of a startled salesman’s way, apologizing as he brushed off his cape. Finally, he spotted Turner parking at a nondescript office complex. Ralph landed behind a dumpster, heart pounding. He tried invisibility again. Still nothing. He opted for stealth, peeking around the corner as Turner met with a nervous-looking man—Gaines, the missing courier. Papers changed hands. Turner looked grim, but not sinister; Gaines looked scared. Ralph inched closer, careful not to trip over his own cape. He heard snippets: "You said they'd stop calling—" Gaines whispered. Turner cut him off, voice tight: "I want them to. I didn’t ask for this." Ralph’s foot slipped, sending a can rattling. Both men turned. Turner frowned, eyes darting for the source. Gaines bolted and Turner rushed after him, but caught sight of Ralph’s red suit peeking out from behind the dumpster. Turner’s face went pale. “Hinkley? Is that you? What on earth—” Ralph stepped out, hands raised. “It’s, uh, spirit week?” Turner shook his head, but the tension drained a little. “You shouldn’t be here.” Ralph nodded. “Neither should you.” Police cars screeched around the corner. Bill Maxwell hopped out, waving his badge. “FBI! Everybody freeze!” Turner, caught between flight and surrender, dropped the file folder. Bill swept in, taking over, cuffing Gaines and reading him his rights with practiced efficiency. Turner stammered explanations about blackmail and bad choices, his earlier confidence gone. As the dust settled, Bill shot Ralph a look—equal parts relief and exasperation. “You always gotta do it the hard way, kid?” Ralph sighed, straightening his cape. “If only the suit came with instructions.” Later, as the sun dipped low, Ralph returned to campus, ducking past a group of students who cheered his ‘costume.’ Life as the Greatest American Hero was never simple, but at least he’d made it back for fourth period—just in time to discuss metaphors that weren’t about driving.

Comic