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I can’t often see him, but I can hear him. Beneath his breath he makes the sounds of battle, “psshk, pow, uggh, fsssssshhh”.  I imagine him, spinning with deft agility, wielding some deadly weapon, visible only to him, as he slays a bastion of invaders and nay-sayers.  He is transformed, no longer Owen, but Ace, with red hair, spiked and dangerous hanging heavy over dark eyes.  Once my dark haired boy of near-twelve, he is now a seasoned “ranger” carrying a plethora of weaponry and possessing the skills to use them. 

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