Like any urban center, modern or ancient, LA had its share of bums. In fact, Hera spent someof her weekends working at the LA Clinic, where she did her best to doctor to them, although she usually saw homeless women and children, not men, in her charity practice. Still, it wasn’t completely unheard of for one of the bums to recognize Dr. Washington when she was out on the street, not that she spent all that much time out on the street.
It wasn’t until he was close enough for her to see his eyes that Hera recognized her husband in the mess of a man coming towards her. The rest of him was twisted, wasted, filthy, but his eyes.... His eyes burned with the intensity of lightening caged, an intensity only he had ever displayed in all the years and among all the mortals she had met. Slowly, she took a step back, thinking that she should run, she could run. She had to get away from him, before her carefully constructed world came crumbling down around her. She had to get away. Had to. Before he could speak to her, or worse, touch her with those filthy hands. And yet for all the urgency pushing her to run and run now and not look back, Hera stood rooted to the spot, unable to help herself as she stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest.