Chapter Thirty-Six
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I woke to the sound of Aunt May's singing.

Warm November sunlight filtered into the living room from the curtained windows, nearly blinding me. It took me a second to recognize where I was — for some reason, I expected to wake up on a train, or in a bed I didn't recognize. Half-frozen, hungry, wide-awake in moments because the Komitet were still after me…

But none of that was true. Not anymore. I looked around the room, a delirious smile pulling across my face. I had been afraid, half-convinced this was some awful dream, that I'd wake up in a swamp of misery, and return to the awful life of a runaway.

But no. This was real. I was home.

I flinched, pulling up from where I had slumped over, slept on the couch. My entire body was sore from the day before, and my face twinged with the burns. The ice pack I'd been using the other day had long melted. There was a crick in my neck from the awkward position — I had used Peter's head for a pillow.

He was just was waking up as well, muttering under his breath. He opened his eyes once, groaned, then pulled the blanket over his head. "Not today, Sun, not today…"

"Peter," I murmured, voice thick with sleep. I yawned, nudged him with my foot. "Hey, Peter. Maverick. Get up. Food. Fooood."

The smell of Aunt May's certified-excellent pancakes frying filled the entire apartment, sweet and rich.

"It's a trap," came Peter's voice from under the blankets. He yawned, and I heard a small pop as he cracked his jaw. "Blergh. Don't trust the pancakes, they only wish to deceive you…"

That must have been when he heard the radio, and May singing along. Some bright pop song. Peter flew up, whipping the blanket off his head. His hair puffed out like a dandelion, one side flattened to his head. I had to hide my laughter behind my fist as he spun around on the spot, squinting at May, then back at me.

"She's singing?" Peter asked, rubbing a sleeve-covered hand against his face. It sounded like he was talking more to himself.

I yawned again. "Mmm. Why?"

"Oh, nothing," Peter just shrugged, scratching his head, pushing his hair into some form of order. "I just can't remember the last time she sang."

I frowned, but before I could ask what he meant by that, Aunt May called us over to the kitchen. She'd already set up the table; milk, orange juice, maple syrup, even strawberries and whipped cream.

It made my mouth water. I loved strawberries and whipped cream on my pancakes. Mom always made them when —

I froze, the breath leaving my chest in a sharp, soft sigh. Mom.

In the bliss of waking up here, I'd forgotten that she was gone. Already, I missed those brief minutes where everything felt all right.

"Mia?" Aunt May tilted her head at me as she walked over to the table, both hands carrying plates full of fresh pancakes. Twin trails of steam wafted after her. "Is everything all right?"

"What?" I jolted on the spot, coming back to the present. Peter was already sitting at the booth — I hadn't even seen him pass me. They were both looking at me, and instead of ruining the breakfast by bringing up my thoughts, I quickly lied: "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Just...tired. What time is it?"

"Oh, only —" setting down the plates, Aunt May checked her watch. " — ten-thirty in the morning. You two were sound asleep for the entire night."

I nodded without answering, my last thoughts still swimming in my head. I'd already knew the time, but I didn't know how else to divert the conversation. Sitting down, I rubbed my hands to ease the sudden chill that had taken me.

"Do you want me to get some Neosporin for that?" Aunt May asked, and I looked down, realizing I was running my fingers over the cuts on my bruised knuckles.

The pain didn't even register to me, and I tucked my hands under the table in embarrassment. How could I not notice myself doing that? "N-no, I'm fine. They don't hurt much, really."

"Well, okay," May looked a little doubtful, but shrugged nonetheless. "Well, if you need anything, I still have some bandages. You remember where we keep them?"

"Behind the bathroom mirror," I replied, looking down at the pancakes. It took me a second to bring out my hands again in front of Aunt May. Of course, I had to remind myself that my face probably looked a lot worse than my hands, and that's what she was looking at right now.

"Are you trying to test her to see if she's really Mia?" Peter said through a mouthful of pancakes. He had already been shoveling them into his mouth when I sat down. At May's disapproving look, he swallowed, and said clearly, "I'm just saying. I'm pretty sure we picked up the right one from the FBI last night. Ow!"

I kicked him beneath the table. Not hard, or so I thought. Peter bent to rub his shin, looking genuinely pained, but tried to hide it behind some bravado. "What? It's a joke, Goose!"

I would've said sorry if it weren't for his shit-eating grin. Rolling my eyes, I grabbed the maple syrup and poured a generous amount over my plate. "You're usually funnier, Mav."

"Well, in case you haven't realized, my joking evolved since you were gone. I mean, if we're being honest, it's your sense of humor that's outdated here —"

"My sense of humor? Yours is the one that's gone down the drain, without anyone to critique it —"

Aunt May just sighed, shaking her head as she went back to the stove, grabbing her bowl to make more pancake mix. "Oh, Lord, what am I going to do with you two?"

But the both of us were grinning so hard we could barely keep up with the back and forth. It was all in good fun; this was just me and Peter catching up after two years apart.

And just like that I'd completely forgotten about Mom. Laughing, especially laughing with Peter, was something I had missed so much, it was such a relief to have it again. It almost hurt. I'd forgotten the effect he had on my optimism. It was just something you couldn't quantify.

Aunt May, perhaps sensing the same levity, started to sing along with the radio again, and the noise of the skillet sizzling with new batter filled the kitchen. Everything was warm, bright, lively — which Peter seemed especially appreciative, considering he would otherwise be at school right now. His phone (a new model I'd never seen before, yet already with a cracked screen — nice to see that Peter was still clumsy as ever) was buzzing on the table, incessant messages from Ned and others, but Peter just pushed it aside. It made me smile a bit wider.

"Is Ned freaking out?" I nodded towards the phone, grabbing the bottle of honey and pouring a very generous amount on my pancakes. I never realized how much I missed it until now. When was the last time I ever had any?

"Oh, he's totally freaking out," Peter replied, looking more amused than worried. He shrugged, "I'll tell him eventually. I think he already knows something happened from his mom. He doesn't know you're back yet — imagine the look on his face when he finds out. Oh, I know! You should be the one to tell him!"

"What, just knock on his door and say, 'Hey, Ned, surprise! I'm still alive!'" I shook my head, laughing to myself. "He'd have a heart attack."

"Eh, it'll be good for him." Peter said, but couldn't keep a straight face. Breaking down into snickers at whatever mental image he had conjured up, he raised a hand and added, "No, wait, we should record it! You can use my phone when it happens!"

"Peter, I'm not scaring Ned! He's probably going to start calling you any minute now."

Right on cue, Peter's phone started to buzz repeatedly, and a picture of Ned's face pulling a funny grimace appeared on the screen.

"Damn," Peter said, mildly impressed as he declined the call. I raised my eyebrows but didn't say anything. Ned must be losing his mind now. "Guess you're psychic, Mia. Did you get superpowers when you were gone, too?"

"What? Nooo," I said, laughing again, although this time out of nervousness, maybe even a little panic. "I-I don't have superpowers, ha-ha. N-nothing that I don't already have, anyways."

I winced at myself, wanting to smack my head. Idiot! Why would you say that?

But Peter just grinned, clearly taking it for a joke and not a serious admission. In a grandiose tone, he declared, "Amelia's computer wizardry has expanded! Can nothing stand in her way?"

"Hardy-har," I said sarcastically, but I was far more relieved than annoyed. How would they react if they knew I wasn't normal anymore? That I was a Super Soldier?

I didn't want to think about it.

Mutants had already proven that society didn't always accept those who were different. And I'd learned enough about the Avengers that not everyone liked their presence. Even in the past, the existence of Captain America, Hulk, and Iron Man were highly controversial. I knew Peter liked Iron Man, but Tony Stark wasn't some drugged up science experiment. What would he think if he knew the truth about me? Would he hate me?

I watched as Peter scraped the last of his pancakes off his plate. He seemed so happy and carefree. No matter his opinion on superheroes, I didn't want to ruin this part of him.

I did, however, notice something was missing.

In the middle of eating my pancakes, it occurred to me that not everyone was here. Not everyone that should be here. Looking around, I almost expected an explanation, before I asked, "So where's Uncle Ben? Did he leave early for work?"

Peter went still. Aunt May stopped singing.

They looked at each other.

"Oh, god," Aunt May covered her mouth, hand trembling. She closed her eyes, shook her head. "We never said...I completely forgot…"

"What?" I frowned, glancing between the two of them. Peter said nothing. He had gone very pale, his eyes dropping down to his plate. His knuckles whitened around his fork. "What happened? Where's Uncle Ben?"

Face hidden behind her hair, Aunt May turned off the radio. An echoing silence fell over the kitchen. A long pause stretched, filled only with the silence of May's shuddering sigh.

Peter still hadn't said a word. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Aunt May turned to me, hands knotted in her apron as she approached the table. I scooted over when she sat down next to me, placed a hand on my arm.

She struggled with the words for a moment, before she stammered, "Mia, something — something happened to Ben last spring…."

~o~

Benjamin Parker

Devoted Husband and Uncle

1967 — 2012

I stared at the gray stone, trying to remind myself that this was real, and not another nightmare.

This time, I wished it wasn't true.

Next to his stone were four others. Peter's parents, Richard and Mary. Then Mom's. Then my own.

Seeing the last dates so close together rocked me back on my heels.

"I'm sorry," I said, feeling utterly stupid. Like I was a sympathetic friend, not someone who lost Ben, too. But I was numb. I couldn't think of something more poignant to say.

"It's all right," Peter shrugged. He stood next to me, shoulders hunched and hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets. His tone was light, but his expression was dull. I had a feeling he'd heard it a thousand times, and had wasted all his good responses on the people before me.

It was the first thing Peter had said anything to me in over an hour.

The wind was chilly, whistling through the yews of the cemetery. Dead grass crunched under my feet as I shifted my weight. The warmth that was promised to me this morning had been a lie. A false sense of comfort, so the shock would hurt that much worse. Despite the clear skies and the shining sun, it was bitter cold. I pretended to feel it as much as Peter did, hugging my arms. Mostly it was just to make myself feel better, standing in front of my own grave.

It was a little creepy, to say the least.

I focused on the other ones, trying to ground myself with the loss. I tried to think of something to say, but still, all I came up with was a blank.

After Aunt May told me what happened, Peter had taken me here. She hadn't come with us, and I didn't really blame her. Although she hadn't cried, I did, and I heard the noticeable shift in her trembling voice when I started. Maybe she didn't want to cry in front of me, too. Leaving the apartment just felt like a good idea. So everyone could be alone for a little bit, have time for themselves.

At some point, I just settled with the silence. Maybe some things were better said without words.

I stared at Mom's grave. I just read her name over and over again. As if it would prove itself to be an illusion and disappear.

Hedy Parker. It was strange to see next to the grave of Amelia Fletcher. Loving Mother; Beloved Daughter. Mom was always unmarried, but no one referred to her as Ms. Fletcher until I was in Kindergarten, and the teacher just assumed we had the same name. Mom had gone along with it, probably to make me feel better. I already stood out enough as it was, tiny and sick all the time. Kids were curious and teachers gossiped; what rumors would be spread if they had only a piece of the truth? It wasn't their business anyways.

The difference of surnames was her idea — although she never told me explicitly, Fletcher was the name my father gave her. Giving it to me was her way of revenge for his leaving — that if he ever came around again, he'd know I was his.

Mom was always a bit of a rebel, in a subtle way. I guess I inherited it from her.

I cried when I first learned Mom died. First in Hell's Kitchen, then with the FBI. It was worst the first time, the second time had only been a few tears. Now, looking at her gravestone, I didn't cry at all. Was there something wrong with me?

I didn't want to bring it up with Peter. I already felt like an outsider, being the last to know. Peter had months to deal with this, and now here he was, experiencing it again. A second time. A third time. I didn't feel sad. I felt guilty. While I loved Uncle Ben, I had never had been as close to him as Peter was. It wasn't that Uncle Ben played favorites, but they just connected better. And I was already so close with Mom. Maybe I had something against father figures.

This thought didn't help the idea that something was wrong with me. Keeping secrets, telling lies, and now this? It was like I'd forgotten how to be normal.

The sudden void of Uncle Ben's loss was just another punch in the gut. Suddenly, I wondered what was going to happen to all of his model airplanes. Had he finished all the ones he said he would? What would happen to all those unfinished projects? It felt wrong to just leave them there collecting dust, but was its bad luck to finish them, either?

It was inane. I didn't know why this bothered me, but it did. I hated leaving things unfinished. But I didn't want to make things worse, either.

And how were Peter and Aunt May managing? Uncle Ben had been the main breadwinner, although May had her own job. Was it harder now, for them? Was I making things worse, giving them another mouth to feed? I didn't even have my own clothes. I was still borrowing May's, even her coat. I couldn't do that forever. Buying a new wardrobe would be expensive; I couldn't do that to them…

What could I do? What could I say?

"Remember what you said to me, that day?" I heard my voice like it wasn't me, like I was someone else far away.

Peter turned towards me, confused. So, I licked my chapped lips and continue: "You asked me if I dreamed of a better life."

"Oh, yeah," Peter hung his head, kicked at the dead grass. His tone was sullen. Maybe I shouldn't have brought this up. "You said no, but I pushed you, and you got angry. We...we fought about it."

"I hated my life. I didn't think it could be any worse than that," I said, something cold and hard forming in my chest as I read the names over and over. Benjamin, Richard, Mary, Hedy.

My fingers tightened around my arms. "I was wrong."

Then I turned and walked away.

Peter caught up with me, kicking up leaves as he went, suddenly eager and worried. "I'm sorry I said all of that! I never wanted to hurt you. I didn't mean to call you a-a burden. And then that fight with your mom... If I could, I'd take it all back —"

But I just laughed a little "Peter, I'm not angry about that anymore. I'm the one who should apologize. I never should've said those things to you. God, the whole thing… it just seems so silly now. Like it doesn't even matter anymore."

Peter was silent for a moment, keeping pace with me as we headed down the stone path. "It mattered at the time."

I nodded, a bit reluctant. "I guess. I don't know, I just wanted you to know that I-I never wanted those words to be the last thing I ever said to you."

"I understand," he replied, quiet. Didn't say any more than that. Maybe he already knew I regretted those words.

Or maybe he regretted his.

"But you were right." I added, and his head perked up in surprise. "I hated it when people told me what I should do."

"Are you sure that's changed?" Peter asked, and when I laughed, so did he.

"Maybe not," I admitted, then offered him a small smile. "But I'll try better to listen this time. And maybe you can stop being so passive-aggressive next time."

"Duly noted," Peter grinned, then nudged me with his elbow. "Hey, wanna get some ice cream at that place in Hell's Kitchen?"

"Peter, we're in Queens. I don't think Aunt May wants us going so far without adult supervision."

"Okay, fine," Peter rolled his eyes, and even I was annoyed at my own rule-following. "There's this new shawarma place a block from the apartment."

"What the heck is shawarma?"

"Oh, it's awesome. Mr. Stark recommended it to me —"

"Mr. Stark?" I came to an abrupt stop. We stood at the gates of the cemetery, cars rushing by just past the sidewalk. I stared at Peter. "As in, Tony Stark?"

"Uh, yeah, I didn't tell you?" Peter scratched the back of his head, smiling awkwardly. We both knew he hadn't told me...whatever it was. "I got an internship at Stark Industries. I, uh, work at the Tower."

An internship? With Tony Stark? I couldn't believe it. Something like that would've made me excited before. Now, I was worried, which was annoying because it made me feel like Aunt May. I never worried. This was Peter. If anyone could handle a Stark internship, it was him.

Of course, that was kind of hard to get across.

"That thing?" I pointed at the Manhattan skyline. Stark Tower stood out, with its scaffolding and white tarp covering the upper half of the building. "It looks like its gonna fall over at any moment."

"Oh, it's totally safe, I swear!" Peter urged, holding out his hands. "Mr. Stark's rebuilding it, making it better than last time. 'Changing the outlook of this eyesore' he said, whatever that means. All I know is that the sign won't be saying 'Stark' anymore."

"What will it say, then?"

"I dunno," Peter shrugged, before leading the way back to the apartment. Or the shawarma place (I still had my reservations). "But the some of the Avengers hang out there now. Hawkeye. Bruce Banner. Captain America, even. It's really cool. Although security is hell."

"You've seen them?" I gaped, impressed.

"Well, no," Peter made a face. "I mean, Mr. Stark always says I might, but I think he's just trying to keep my hopes up. They're busy, you know? Saving the world and stuff. I think they're still trying to convince the Mayor it's safe with them being there, all in one place. I mean, ever since the Incident —"

Peter cut himself off, and at first, I didn't know why. Then I remembered: Mom. I ducked my head, looking away for a moment, studying a passing taxi. I didn't want Peter to tiptoe around me whenever the topic of the Incident came up. That didn't bother me. I wasn't even there. Mom's death felt almost separate compared to that. Maybe I hadn't fully comprehended it yet.

"It's fine," I finally said, when he was unable to continue. "I'm not fragile, Peter. I know what happened."

Peter nodded, then cleared his throat. "Okay, um, well...ever since the Incident, people've been afraid that it'll happen again. I mean, aliens, right? What if there are more? Where did they come from? It's probably better the Avengers stay here, in case something else happens. Rumor has it they pissed off a Norse god or two."

"Norse gods," I repeated in a murmur, looking up at the sky. Its massive expanse, clean and even when, at one point, there had been a massive black portal hanging over the city. "That's something I'm still getting used to."

~o~

Aunt May was in better spirits when we got back.

We had brought the shawarma with us. It was sort of like a burrito, only far better in my opinion. I didn't think it would be as good as Peter promised.

"I have something to show you," Aunt May told me with a smile, before heading down the hall.

I paused, a little stunned. She was...happy again? I was still reeling from this morning. But May moved briskly, and I shared a look with Peter. He just shrugged, so I followed her.

She led me straight to the guest bedroom. Opening the door with a sweep of her arms, Aunt May said, "Voila!"

The guest bedroom was spotless. The bed was made, the curtains were drawn, the mirror sparkling. If I was stunned before, I was really stunned now. The guest bedroom was usually musty, filled with boxes and crap no one used. Now the floor was clean, the bookshelf empty, the desk clean. There was only one box left, resting on top of the bed.

I gaped at Aunt May, who just clapped her hands together and, as if reading my mind, said, "Yes, it's for you! I finished cleaning it this morning. One night on the couch is enough, I think."

"Wow, Aunt May, thank you so much," I said, stepping into the room and taking it all in. The bed was queen-sized, meant for a couple, and far bigger than my last bed. The room itself was larger than my old one, and as I came to sit down on the mattress, I glanced over at the box. "What's this?"

"Oh, well, that's what's we salvaged from your mother's place, after the Incident," Aunt May's smile dimmed a little, but she gestured for me to open it. "It wasn't much, and for a while I just thought about throwing it away… but I figured it was best you have it."

Throwing her one last curious look, I pulled the box onto my lap and opened it.

"Oh, my god," I said, when I pulled out the first thing on top. The blue plush stuffed animal. "Stitch! I never thought I'd see him again!"

He was a little more beat up since I last had him. Soot and ash stained parts of the fabric, and one ear had a tear in it, but that had been amended, and he smelled of fabric softener (and maybe a little smoke). A look of delight filled Aunt May's face as I hugged him close, bringing back nights of childhood when I needed him most.

"I thought you might like that," she said, pushing her glasses further up her nose and leaning against the doorframe. "You can keep looking at that, but I just wanted you to know, I don't want you to worry about anything, okay? I saw it on your face this morning. I want you here, Mia. I'm not sending you off just because it might be a little harder for me. I know the best thing for you — and for Peter — is for us to stick together, okay?"

Still hugging Stitch, I nodded, although my lips were pressed together. I felt like a little kid again, clutching my stuffed toy, scared and trusting the adults to manage things. Doubts still clouded my mind. It didn't occur to me until now that Aunt May might be putting on a brave face. That she had cleaned this room, after just reliving the death of Uncle Ben. That she was keeping that from me, so I didn't get overwhelmed. I couldn't imagine what she must be going through right now. The stress, the pain. I knew I had it bad for a while, but I didn't have the responsibility of a parent.

"Hey, I'm serious," Aunt May came to sit down next to me, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and giving me a tight squeeze. She touched her forehead to mine. "No worrying, okay? I got this. I'm cool like that."

That made me chuckle a little, and she kissed the top of my head. "See, there's the face I want. I know you've been through a lot, Mia. We all have. But don't be afraid to tell me if something's wrong, okay? I want to know. It's my job to know."

I nodded again, starting to feel like a bobble-head. "I just— I just feel bad. You didn't have to do this before..."

"What do you mean?" She gave me a funny look, eyes flicking up and down. She was exaggerating her expression a little, to give a sense of levity to the conversation. "I've always done this, you just were never there. What do you think your mother and I talked about when we were together? We weren't sharing knitting patterns and solitaire strategies, if that's what you're thinking. She didn't have it easy, being on her own, but she managed. And boy, she didn't like to share, either."

"She didn't?" I asked, surprised. I'd never heard this side of my mom before.

"Oh, no," Aunt May waved her hand, shaking her head. "Your mom, she always had this sense of pride in herself, you know? She didn't like asking for help. She certainly didn't want anyone thinking she couldn't take care of you, and you were a handful even on your good days." She gave me another squeeze. "I'm just teasing you. But no, Hedy didn't like to talk about herself. It always took a wineglass or two to get her to even mention her problems.

"Unfortunately, that trick only works on adults," she winked at me. "So please, Mia, just be honest with me. Whatever it is, I swear, I won't be angry with you."

That seemed like a request to say something now, so I took a moment to think it over. "I guess...I guess I've been wondering about my clothes. Not that I don't like yours! But I'm taller than you now and they don't, ah —"

"Fit?" Aunt May laughed, tugging at my shirt, which showed off more of my stomach than it should. "Yeah, I noticed. It's okay, we'll take care of that with some shopping. I don't think I've ever taken you shopping before."

I threw her a look of alarm. "But the money —"

"Hey, what did I say about worrying?" Aunt May gave me a stern look over her glasses, tapping me with her finger. "None of that, remember? There wasn't much of your place left, but your mom left you everything in her will. I never had the heart to use any of it, but now that you're back, I think I can find a reason to spend some. But most of it still goes towards college, so don't get any funny ideas."

"Funny ideas? Never heard of 'em."

"Attagirl," Aunt May booped me on the nose, and I scrunched up my face. "You just get settled in here, okay? I'm gonna be in the kitchen, making sure Peter didn't burn down the place while I was gone."

"Wouldn't we smell the smoke by now?"

"You'd think so, right?" Aunt May cock an eyebrow as she stood up. "Let's not forget the Baked Potato in the Microwave Fiasco of 2007."

"Oh, right," I said, nodding sagely. The Fiasco was when Peter, who didn't know you shouldn't put metal in the microwave, tried to make a baked potato without a grill. "Didn't he do it again in 2009?"

"He did! Oh, that boy," Aunt May snapped her fingers. Stepping out of the room, she closed the door behind her. "Peter! You better not be cooking anything in my kitchen!"

There was a long pause before Peter's voice echoed back. "...No?"

"That sounded like a 'yes' to me!" Aunt May called back, and her footsteps echoed down the hall. I heard their muffled chatter, but it wasn't angry, so I ignored it and went back to the box in my lap.

Setting aside Stitch, I dug deeper into what remained of my old life.

My fingers wrapped around something small, glass and plastic. I pulled out my own pink glasses, one lens cracked. I unfolded them and put them on, trying to see through the lens — only for a headache to shoot up behind my eyes. The world was a blur behind them. Taking them off, I shook my head. I had noticed shortly after waking up in Sokovia that I didn't need my glasses to see clearly. It felt weird now, that I didn't need them anymore.

They were useless now. But I knew I could never throw them away.

Beneath the glasses were textbooks. Not mine, but Mom's. Her old medical books that I used to read when I was bored. The edges were worn, parts burned, but it was still in good condition. Trapped between the pages were sheets of notepaper — my homework from last year. Wow. Was my handwriting always that messy? And to think I was usually so organized.

And at the very bottom of the box was folded purple cloth. I almost didn't recognize it at first — until I touched it, felt that familiar soft cotton. Lifting it, the cloth unfolded to reveal the NYU logo. Mom's old sweater. The one I used to wear, the one that was always too big for me.

It looked…so small now.

I brought the sweater to my face; I could just barely catch the faintest whiff of Mom's perfume on it. The lavender fabric softener she used.

Tears pricked my eyes. Why did this stupid sweater hurt more than seeing her grave did? It just didn't make any sense.

I didn't even hear the phone ring, so I was surprised when Aunt May opened the door again, offering me the phone. She mouthed the words For you.

Curious, confused, I picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Amelia Fletcher?" a female voice asked.

"Speaking."

"Oh, hi, Amelia!" the woman went all perky in an instant. "I'm Kim Kramer, a reporter for ABC. Welcome home! We're so glad to hear you're safe again."

"Uh," I frowned, not really sure if I believed her or not. ABC, the news company? Calling to make sure I was all right? "Thanks."

"We heard you had quite an adventure! Would you mind answering a few questions for me?"

"Is this an interview?"

"Well, yes. I'm writing an article about your interesting tale. After the whole JFK affair yesterday, and the FBI saying they recovered a kidnapping victim...well, we had to get the details. Is it true you've been in captivity for two years? And came all the way over from Russia, all by yourself?"

"What? No, I was never in Russia," I closed my eyes and pressed a hand to my forehead. Before I could decline this interview, it was already getting out of control. "I was...somewhere in Eastern Europe. I don't know. I couldn't read the language."

"Uh-huh." I could hear a keyboard clacking in the background as Kim took notes. "And who was the woman you were with on the plane? She was your kidnapper, right? Can you describe her for us?"

"I-I, um, she was…" I stammered, trying to find the right words as Brandt's face appeared in my head — her glowing eyes, her burning hands, attacking me, throttling me, the blinding white snow —

"Amelia? Hello? I think I lost you there," Kim said, still in that bright tone.

I suddenly felt sick, dizzy. I was gripping the phone too hard. My other hand knotted in the comforter beneath me. My voice was hoarse when I said, "Yes, she was th-the one who kidnapped me."

"You wouldn't perchance have a name, would you? The FBI aren't releasing her information to us yet. They say she may have ties to terrorist organizations —"

"I don't know," I cut her off. I wanted this conversation to end. Now. "I-I don't know who she was."

"Oh. Okay, then," Kim replied, somewhat hesitant, maybe a little disappointed. "How about you tell us more about what happened Europe? Must have been quite a trip, huh? Seen any cool sites?"

"It wasn't a vacation!" I snapped, trying to remember how to breathe. My face was burning. I could still hear Brandt's voice, whispering those words in my ear as she pinned me down to the floor. My skin broke out into a cold sweat, and I struggled to keep from stuttering. "L-look, I don't want to talk a-about this anymore, okay? I d-don't want you writing about me."

"What? But people are curious!" Kim protested, in that sort of urging way that was supposed to tempt me. "People want to know what happened to you!"

"No, they don't," I said, voice hard. No one wanted to know what I went through. They didn't want to know about the Crucible or the torture. They didn't want those sorts of details. They just wanted the happy ending. "Trust me."

"Are you sure? Because we're also wondering if you'd be interested in going on live TV with our anchors," Kim continued, with about the worst idea I've ever heard. "For the evening news hour, when everyone's watching. Of course, since you're a minor, we'll need your mom or dad to sign off on this —"

"No."

"What?" Kim asked, startled.

"No." I repeated, stronger this time. "I'm not doing any interviews. I'm not going on TV."

"Amelia, please, think about this," Kim laughed, but it was nervous. She knew she was losing me. She didn't know her efforts were fruitless. "This is real news. You were kidnapped and no one even knew. People are worried. They want to know if something like this might happen to their own kids —"

"Then go to the FBI!" I said, already well-aware that the FBI wasn't going to hand out the personal information of a minor. "They can tell you all you want to know about staying safe. But you're not getting anything else from me."

"I know, but people will react better to a personal story —"

"Exactly, it's personal." I said. "I don't need the whole world kn-knowing my business. I just want to be left alone."

"Amelia, don't you think you're being a little unreasonable —"

I hung up.

It took all my effort not to throw the phone against the wall. To hold onto it, to remind myself I was here, in Queens, and not back on the train in Sokovia, where we were attacked by the Vulkan. That Brandt was arrested, that she would never hurt me again —

"What was that about?"

I blinked, looked up to see Peter and May peering at me in the doorway, identical expressions of curiosity on their faces.

I took a deep breath, before holding out the phone for one of them to take. "It was ABC, asking me about what happened. They wanted me to do a TV interview." I paused, wondering how to phrase it nicely, considering my current mood. "I said no."

May took the phone. From the look in her eye, I could tell she knew it didn't go well. "Well, I'm sure they're just doing their jobs, but you'd think they'd wait a few days so you actually got settled first…"

"News doesn't wait for anyone," Peter said from the doorway, shrugging. "You'll probably be getting more calls from other stations."

"If we do, I don't want to answer them," I replied shortly, repressing a shudder. I didn't want to go through a hundred other Kim Kramers looking for a good story.

"What do you want me to tell them?" Aunt May asked.

I had to think it over. At this point, I didn't want any attention. I didn't want to see my face on the news. I didn't want people to know my entire life story, turn it into some inspirational Hallmark movie about the struggle of love and survival. The sooner this news wave passed, the sooner I faded back into anonymity, the better.

"Just tell them," I said. "'No comment.'"