Armstrong and Bolt: A Hero's Journey

It was late at night. I sat on the steps of my cottage, listening to the crickets sing. The wind was blowing gently, and it carried a certain fragrant scent that made me think of the spring time approaching. I enjoyed the solitude; it helped me think. But then, I heard a sound from inside the house: a soft thud, followed by a muffled "Oof!".

I got up, walked over to the door, and knocked.

"Yes?" A voice replied weakly.

I opened the door and stepped in. My old friend Bolt was lying on his side in the middle of my living room floor. His right leg was bent backwards in a strange angle, and he wasn't moving.

"John? Is that you?" He asked, squinting at me. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard a noise." I said as I went towards him. "What happened?"

"Oh...it's not your problem." Bolt said with a laugh as he tried to get up on his feet. "I'm just clumsy, that's all."

"You're not clumsy." I said as I held him back down. "You're an athlete."

Bolt laughed again and lay his head down on the floor.

"Go back to sleep, John." He said softly. "You can never be an athlete like me anyway."

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