Grandpa rubbed his rough hands together near the fire; he knew what we wanted, just like the end of every long day. We crowded around him and began chanting before we even sat down.
"Oh, haven't you heard that a hundred times?"
We grunted our disapproval at his feigned reluctance as we sat down onto our crossed legs, and he waved his hands in a fine-fine motion before speaking in the faraway voice he used to tell his stories...
"There was once a hard-working boy named Jason Rusch whose father--"
"Jason who!?" one of us interrupted.
"We want Ronnie Raymond!" chirped another.
"Yeah, and Professor Stein!"
"C'mon, Grampa! Firestorm!"
But the old man wouldn't budge. Most of us threatened to go to bed, but only a few actually did. The ones who stayed grumbled the whole time. It wasn't all that bad, but it wasn't the Firestorm Grandpa used to tell us about.