Peter walked up to the front door, which he left propped open, and he set down a box with a thud. He turned and headed back to the van. When he returned with another box of books, Aunt May was standing in the living room looking surprised.

"What are you doing, Peter?" she asked.

"Hey, is it okay if I move back in with you?" Peter said.

"Well, of course," she said with a sudden smile. "But what about your friends?"

He shrugged. "Our landlord got a better offer," he said. "It's either go live with Harry's dad or with my sweet Aunt May." He smiled winningly.

"Oh, Peter," she said. "Do you need a hand with that?"

"Believe it or not," he said under his breath, "I got it."

"Your old room is just the way you left it," she said.

"And I appreciate that," Peter said. "Can I put some of this stuff in the basement?"

"Sure," she said with a nod. "I'll go air out your room." She tottered up the steps.

Peter finished unloading the van. He really didn't have that much stuff. Most of the storage had been filled by Harry's things. Peter reflected a moment on how much he was going to miss Harry's big screen, console video games, stereo surround sound system, dvd burners, computer setup… he shook his head. And, of course, Harry.

"At least this way I won't disrupt his social life," Peter muttered to himself. The idea made him feel petty and mean, so he shrugged it off. "Never mind."

He navigated around the boxes and headed for the basement steps. On the way, he walked by the old secretary roll-top desk. It's top was rolled down.

That caught his eye. He could never once remember it being rolled down before. He touched it, adhered to it, tugged.

Not only closed but locked.

"Or not," he muttered to himself. He flexed just slightly, and the weedy lock on the desk was sprung. He rolled it up, quietly, listening to Aunt May making his bed and adjusting things.

The first thing to catch his eye was the dismal sheaf of bills. He sat down at the desk, his heart sinking.

Utilities, second notice. Mortgage, third notice. Second mortgage, second notice. Gas, shutoff notice. Credit card, third notice and increase in interest. Second credit card, same. Third credit card, late. He felt his hands start to shake as he shuffled through the stack. Aunt May… why didn't you tell me?

Then he got to the doctor bills.

The rest of the doctor bills.

"This is all my fault," he whispered, and he saw Voorhees's sneer in his minds eye.

Oh yeah? Then what are you going to do about it?

xXx

Wylde walked toward the back of the warehouse, hefting a sizeable box. "Chief!" he yelled. "Fisk's people dropped this off."

"Just a minute," Beck said, carefully scooping powder into a glass tube. He then moved the stone plate he had been working on into the fume hood and slipped it closed. "What?"

"Box. For you. From Fisk," Wylde said. "What do you have over there?"

Beck smiled. "This one," he said, tapping one with blue powder, "has your worst nightmare. Whatever that may be. This one," he said, tapping the next, "turns to a narcotic gas when exposed to air. This one is itching powder."

"Wow," Wylde said. "You got a lot of chemical badness going on."

Beck shrugged. "If Parker wants to turn it into a confrontation," he said, "I prefer to be ready to put him off his guard so I can beat him. Raw speed and strength aren't enough."

"Do you know what's in the box?" Wylde asked.

"Yes," Beck said with a grim smile. "Yes I do. Go get Grummins. I have a job for him."

"Aye captain," Wylde said. He turned and walked away as Beck scooped up a crowbar and descended on the box.

xXx

Peter finished his calculation in his check register. He had just enough in his savings account to cover the immediate bills and a couple doctor bills. He started stuffing envelopes with bills and checks as he heard the slight creak of the stairs as Aunt May came down. He resolutely continued in his task.

"Peter?" she said. Then she saw him at the desk. "Peter!" she said. "What do you think you're doing!" He almost flinched; he had never behaved badly enough as a child to extract that much shock in one sentence.

"Paying rent," he said. He stood up and turned to face her.

"No," she said, horrified. "I can't accept."

Peter smiled at her gently. "We're family, Aunt May. And you've done the same for me. This is my choice. We're in this together, pretty lady. I just got paid for my last batch of pics for the Planetary. I can think of no better way to spend it." He walked up to her and gave her a hug. "Let's get some dinner going."

She gave him a squeeze, and when he stepped back her eyes were shining with unshed tears. She grabbed his hand and squeezed it, patted it. Her mouth quivered just a little. But he sensed a tremendous relief. She nodded, and they walked into the kitchen.

Sunday, November 24

Grummins lay in the back seat of his car. He popped a pretzel in his mouth and munched. Then he put up his small periscope again, looking over the front seat and out the windshield. Nothing. He lowered it and listened, waiting.

Not thirty seconds later, the front door to the Parker residence opened, and Peter helped Aunt May down the steps. They started walking down the sidewalk. Grummins popped up the periscope and watched them go. They turned the corner.

"Right," he muttered. "Off to church." He opened the car door at his feet with the toe of his cowboy boot, then he pushed it open and managed to wriggle to a sitting position and up out of the car. He brushed the crumbs from chips and crackers off his chest. He shut the door, looked both ways, and crossed the street.

He strolled up to the front door and pulled a small, peculiar gun from his pocket. He stuck its tip in the door lock and squeezed the grip. The tumblers tripped, and Grummins strolled right in.

He closed the door, then jogged up the stairs to the second floor bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out the bottles. He opened all the small bottles, then compared sizes and shapes. With half a grin he started mixing and matching…

xXx

Peter sighed and looked over at the clock. Almost three o'clock already. He glanced over the quick list of homework he had from the previous week and the weekend that he really had planned to do, but things kept coming up… he groaned softly to himself.

Then he buckled down and got lost in the work, moving fast and with confidence, whirling over the objective ground and skirting subjective issues for the moment.

He heard a thump from downstairs, a quiet thump. Without his senses he would not have caught it. He stood, and glanced down the stairwell. "Aunt May, you okay down there?"

No answer.

He was down the stairs and in the kitchen in a heartbeat and a half. Aunt May lay on the floor, on her back, mouth open, eyes glazed. Peter quickly knelt by her; she had a pulse, however faint and erratic.

"I have no car," he realized as panic squeezed his heart. He gritted his teeth, scooped her up, and sprinted out the front door.

Down the block, Grummins started his car and smiled to himself. "Fait accompli," he muttered.

It was just as well Aunt May was unconscious during the wild ride through the city at night, carried by the spider ghost as though she were weightless, fragile, and precious.

Peter burst into the emergency room with Aunt May in his arms. "Somebody's gotta help me! I don't know what's wrong with her!" he shouted.

"Does she have insurance?" asked one of the nurses.

"Yes, Medicare and Medicaid and all that crap," Peter said. "Quick help her!" and two orderlies wheeled up a gurney. Her eyes opened a little. She struggled with fear and words as they carted her into the intensive care unit, Peter alongside.

"I don't know what happened," he said to the doctor who fell in with the procession.

"Medication? Did she fall?"

"She might have had her medication, sure, she was on the floor when I found her."

"What medications is she taking?"

"She was here last time when she had all that proscribed," Peter said. "Can you find out?"

The doctor nodded curtly, then they were through the doors and Peter was left behind.

Let them do their jobs.

For a moment, standing in the waiting room, Peter felt deeply helpless. He looked around, jingled the change in his pocket. Looked over at the pay phone, and shrugged. He walked over and picked up the receiver, dumped in his change, and poked the number.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up. "Osborns, 'siz Harry."

"Harry, how's it going, it's Peter," he said. "How you feeling?"

"Better," Harry said. "I'm in a lot of pain, but they gave me lots of good stuff for it. Makes playing video games a real pip, let me tell you."

Peter stuck a finger in one ear and turned away from the room. It was noisy in the waiting room, and the overhead public address kept paging doctors. "Good to hear you're getting better. That was kind of scary there for a few hours."

"Yeah," Harry said. "How's your car, by the way?"

"Totaled," Peter shrugged. "Don't worry about that though. Good to talk to you."

"Where are you, a car dealership?" Harry said. "Hell of a p.a. they got."

"No, I'm in the waiting room at the hospital."

"You okay?" Harry asked.

"Me? I'm fine. Thing is, Aunt May collapsed, they're looking at her right now."

"Hell of a thing," Harry said. "How are you holding up?"

"Just another crisis, right?" Peter said, on the edge of something like a laugh. "I think I got her here on time."

"Hang on," Harry said. "I'll fill in MJ. She's right here."

"No, Harry," Peter said. "Harry? Come on, don't have to—"

"Peter, this is MJ," she said a moment later. "I'll come on over."

"No, don't," Peter said forcefully. "Stay with Harry. He may be out of the hospital, but he still needs you, MJ. Trust me on this. I got it here. It's just waiting. I brought a book," he lied.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the doctor coming. "Hey, it's the doctor. Gotta go."

"Peter—"

He hung up. "What news?" he asked.