JLA Watchtower (Archive)

He still hasn’t returned the call, even though he’s saved and re-saved the message, listening to it again and again. It figured that she would have called while he was on the job site, that she would have called when he forgot the damn phone. “Grant? Grant, it’s Donna. We haven’t heard from you for a while. Roy and I have an announcement, but…we wanted to wait until you could come to San Francisco to tell you in person. I hope you’re well. Bye.” It wasn’t like Donna Troy to be so cryptic, but whatever the announcement was, it must have been important if she wanted to tell him face-to-face. At the time, Grant Emerson had wondered when, exactly, he would be able to get time off to fly back to San Fran.

That had been two weeks ago. It’s funny how drastically things can change in fourteen days. One day, you’re living in a crummy apartment in Newark working the nine to five on a construction crew, the next you’re out on your ass – no job, no money, and no home. It hadn’t been the first time, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Since leaving the Navajo reservation, Grant had spent the last two years bouncing from one crew to the next, shuttling up and down the Eastern Seaboard, making just enough to keep a roof over his head. Newark had lasted the longest, five months; he probably could have made foreman if he’d been able to keep the job. That has since ceased to be an option.
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