He cut down thorns to make a bowstring and sharpened arrowheads against rough stones.
When the robed Oliver set foot in the slums' desolate, crumbling concrete jungle, the sight reminded him of being stranded on a deserted island more than half a century ago.
Over the past six months, he had kept having the same dream.
He dreamed of rowing a little boat back to that island.
In the dream, he was no different from his real self: a decrepit old man with bad legs and failing eyesight. Making a decent bow and arrows alone took him most of a day. In that time, the squirrel on the tree trunk could have stuffed both cheeks full of nuts.
But he had not come to shoot squirrels in his dream. He had come to find someone.
As for whom he was looking for, Oliver was just as lost.
He had come following a familiar figure, but it flickered through the dark forest, appearing and disappearing. He could neither catch it nor hit it with an arrow.
The dream had troubled Oliver for a long time, but for some reason, he had a powerful premonition today.
Perhaps he could find the answer.
"Stories of heroes in their twilight years always fill people with regret. But Oliver, I need you to spread your arms once more-"
Stroking his goatee as it fluttered in the wind, Oliver spoke to himself and resolutely took a great step forward.
"Come on, for the last hunt, for Green Arrow's glo-aaaah!!!!!!!"
A heart-rending scream rang out as the aging concrete slab beneath Oliver's feet suddenly broke apart.
Had he not grabbed an exposed steel bar with quick eyes and quicker hands, he might have become the first superhero to die from posing and talking too much.
"This world