Saving the World, One Stale Donut at a Time

Donut Judge My Superpower

I sit on my favorite park bench facing the wide, muddy river with my box of stale donuts beside me. The bench has my name carved into it. Well, not literally, but I've been coming here every Saturday for the past three years. Before I can check what flavors I scored from the bakery's day-old discount bin, I get distracted. There are so many people enjoying the weather on this beautiful spring day.

The park is buzzing with activity. Kids are laughing. Dogs are barking. Street musicians are playing. And everywhere, absolutely everywhere, people are showing off their powers.

I watch a young couple float by in each other's arms, spinning slowly like they're dancing in zero gravity. They drift past the old oak tree, giggling and completely wrapped up in each other. What must it be like to defy gravity? Many people have been able to do this since our world was irradiated by that asteroid many years ago. Scientists said we were lucky it didn't wipe us out. Instead, it gave ninety percent of humanity superpowers.

But not me. Well, not the cool kind anyway.

I pick up my box of donuts, and my gaze wanders to the park maintenance crew working near the flower beds. A woman in bright orange coveralls, shoots precise laser beams from her eyes to trim limbs damaged by the brutal winter. She doesn't even need to look directly at what she's cutting. The beams curve and bend exactly where she wants them. Another worker, a guy with dirt-stained knees, coaxes crocuses and daffodils into blooming with just a gentle gesture of his weathered hands. Purple and yellow flowers burst open like they're on fast-forward. Now that would be a lovely power to have. Imagine never having to wait for spring.

I open my box and gaze at the oddball collection of day-old pastries. The bakery knows me by name. "The usual, Alex?" they always ask. I nod, and they fill a box with whatever didn't sell yesterday. Today looks like a good haul. I can see chocolate, some glazed, maybe a jelly-filled one in the corner.

Before I can pick one to start with, childish laughter claims my attention. A donut lifts straight out of the carton, floating in mid-air. Well, not exactly floating. I can hear the crunch of small footfalls on the gravel path as the donut bobs away, accompanied by more giggles.

"Jeremy! Get back here!" a tired voice calls out.

A frazzled-looking dad jogs past my bench, his eyes scanning the empty air. "I can hear you eating that, buddy! You know the rules about taking food without asking!"

More giggles, this time from somewhere near the fountain.

Invisibility, then. I feel bad for the kid's parents. How do you keep track of your child when you can't see them? At least the kid can't turn his clothes invisible. Harder to hide in the winter, anyway. I watch the dad chase after the sound of crunching, and I hope for his sake that Jeremy's invisibility phase doesn't last too long. I read somewhere that powers can change during puberty. That poor family has years of this ahead of them.

A jogger runs past, moving so fast she's basically a blur. The wind from her speed ruffles my hair and sends a few napkins flying from the trash can. She'll lap the entire three-mile park loop in about forty-five seconds. I used to try jogging. I lasted about half a mile before I needed to stop for water.

Some days it feels like I'm the only one who didn't get a fabulous and valuable superpower in the wake of the asteroid.

The guy on the bench next to mine can charge his phone just by holding it. The woman feeding pigeons can talk to them, and they actually listen to her. "No, no, Gerald, save some for the others," she's saying right now. Apparently, one of the pigeons is named Gerald, and he's a greedy eater.

There's a whole industry built around superpowers now. Super-speed delivery services. Construction workers who can lift steel beams with their minds. Doctors who can see through skin to diagnose problems. My cousin got a job at a fire department because he can't be burned. He walks right into burning buildings like it's nothing.

And me? I got my power at age thirteen. A late bloomer. I remember the day clearly. Mom had brought home old cookies from the grocery store where she worked. They were rock hard, probably a week past their prime. I picked one up, disappointed, and suddenly it was soft and fresh and perfect. I thought maybe the store had mislabeled them. Then I tried another one. Same thing. Then another.

Mom cried when she figured it out. Not happy tears.

"Food restoration," the power testing center called it officially. I can make stale food fresh again. Just food. And only stale food, not rotten food. There's a difference, apparently. Once it's actually gone bad, I can't do anything with it. But stale bread? Dried-out cake? Yesterday's donuts? Bring them on.

"At least you got something," Mom said, trying to be positive. "Mr. Henderson down the street can only make things slightly colder. Not frozen, just... slightly chilly."

That made me feel a little better. But only a little.

I never bothered registering with the Superhero Guild. You need to pass combat trials and prove your power has "significant value to society." I'm pretty sure making old donuts taste good again doesn't qualify. I don't wear a costume. I don't fight crime. I'm not on any trading cards.

But as I sit alone on my bench, listening to the sounds of the park, watching people fly and shoot lasers and turn invisible, I'm not unhappy.

On closer inspection, I got three raspberry Bismarcks! My favorite. I reach into my box and pull out the first donut. The stale pastry transforms in my hand as I lift it. It softens and plumps up, the dough becoming tender again. The raspberry filling warms slightly, and the donut releases its lovely sweet aroma. The sugar coating glistens like it was just sprinkled on.

I take a bite. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

"Excuse me?"

I look up. An elderly woman with a walker is standing in front of my bench. She's wearing a flowered dress and has kind eyes.

"Yes?" I say, mouth half full of bismarck.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I saw what you just did. With the donut." She smiles. "Are you a food restorer?"

I swallow and nod, a little embarrassed. "Yeah. Not very impressive, I know."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that!" She carefully lowers herself onto the other end of my bench, her walker parked beside her. "My grandson has the same power. He's about your age. Feels terrible about it, thinks he's useless."

"I mean..." I shrug. "It's not exactly saving the world."

"Maybe not the whole world," she says. "But let me tell you something. My late husband, he had super strength. Could lift a car over his head. Very impressive at parties." She chuckles. "But you know what I remember most? Sunday mornings, when he'd use all that strength to crack eggs one-handed and flip pancakes. The small things, the everyday things. That's what mattered."

I don't know what to say to that.

She pats my hand. "Don't sell yourself short, dear. You bring a little bit of freshness back to things. In a world that's always rushing forward to the next big disaster or the next villain attack, that's not nothing. That's actually quite lovely."

Before I can respond, she's standing up again, gripping her walker. "You have a good day now. Enjoy your donuts."

I watch her shuffle away, and something warm settles in my chest. It's not the raspberry filling.

A shadow falls over my bench. I look up to see a little girl, maybe seven years old, with tears streaming down her face. She's clutching a paper bag.

"Hey," I say gently. "You okay?"

"My birthday cupcake," she sobs, holding up the bag. "I was saving it for after the park, but I dropped it and now it's all hard and gross and my birthday is ruined!"

I glance around for her parents and spot a couple frantically searching near the playground, calling her name.

"Is that your mom and dad over there?" I ask.

She nods, wiping her nose.

"Okay, before we get you back to them, can I see your cupcake?"

She hands me the bag suspiciously. Inside is indeed a sad, somewhat squashed cupcake with blue frosting. It's definitely past its prime. I cup my hands around it.

"Close your eyes," I tell her. "It's magic."

She squeezes her eyes shut. I focus on the cupcake, and I feel that familiar tingle in my hands. The cupcake plumps up, the frosting smooths out, and suddenly it smells like it just came out of the oven.

"Okay, open."

Her eyes go wide. "Whoa! Are you a superhero?"

I carefully place the cupcake back in the bag and hand it to her. "Something like that. Now let's get you back to your parents before they panic, okay?"

She runs off toward the playground, cupcake clutched carefully in both hands, yelling "Mommy! Daddy! A superhero fixed my cupcake!"

I settle back onto my bench with my box of donuts. The floating couple is still drifting around. The park maintenance crew is still making everything beautiful. The invisible kid is probably still tormenting his father somewhere.

And I'm still just Alex, the person who makes stale food fresh.

I pull out another Bismarck, savoring the moment when it transforms in my hands. The sticky sweetness fills my mouth, and I'm satisfied with my superpower. Maybe I'm not saving the world. Maybe I'll never be on a trading card or wear a cape.

But I made a little girl's birthday a little bit better. I bring freshness back to forgotten things. And honestly? On a beautiful spring day, with a box of perfect donuts and a park full of people just living their lives, that feels like enough.

That feels like exactly enough.