Strange followed the direction of my stare. “The future of beings like the Ancients is easily seen. They have no true sense of self-determination, you see. They are driven by their needs. Ruled by their impulses and fears.” He shook his head. “The future of mortal beings, though, is generally imponderable.”

  “Stop dancing,” I said. “Do you think he can straighten out?”

  “He can, certainly. Though I sense there would be a very heavy price to be paid—perhaps one which would be too high.” Strange shook his head. “The question is will he choose to do so. In the end, his future will depend upon his choices. Just as yours does.”

  I frowned and nodded. “I suppose I shouldn’t expect much.”

  Strange smiled faintly. “Even should he dare to change his path to run along near your own, I think it would little change his attitude toward you.”

  “Gee. Why doesn’t that shock me,” I said.

  Strange actually chuckled. “Let’s get that wrist straightened out, hmmm?”

  Mary Jane leaned into me and murmured, “He is a real doctor, right? Not like a doctor of magicology or philosophy or something? He’s qualified to do”—Mary Jane glanced at Strange and gave him a very mild, elegantly reproachful look—“something? This time around, anyway?”

  Strange blinked at her, then at me, and let out a very brief, very quiet sigh.

  I savored the moment.

  “There,” he said, a few uncomfortable minutes later. He had my wrist set, held stiff by layers of wrapped tape. “It’s a simple fracture. Leave it for a day or so, and you should be fine, given your own exceptional recuperative capacity.”

  I sighed. “Thanks, Doc.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Of course. Is there anything else I can do?”

  I blinked at him. “You know,” I said, “there is. There are two things, actually.”

  His eyebrows went up.

  “Doc,” I said. “I assume your doctoring credentials are still good. You know, like, legal?”

  “As far as I know,” Strange said, his tone cautious. “Why?”

  “And do you know if Wong plays basketball?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Simple question,” I said. “I mean, it’s not brain surgery, is it? Does he shoot hoops?”

  “I’m . . . actually, I’m not sure,” Strange mused.

  Somewhere in the background, Wong started whistling “Sweet Georgia Brown.”

  “Peter,” Mary Jane said, smiling at Strange. “I’m sure you shouldn’t press the good doctor. After all, he’s done so much to help you already.”

  Strange looked helplessly at her and then lifted both hands. “Mercy, lady, I beg you. By all means, Spider-Man, just tell me what I may do.”

  TWENTY SEVEN

  THE gang wasn’t loitering around outside of Samuel’s apartment at eight o’clock on Monday morning. I guess it isn’t exactly gang-hanging prime time. The doc and I took the subway and walked the last couple of blocks. He was wearing fairly normal clothes again, and had added an old bomber jacket to his ensemble, as well as an archetypal doctor’s bag. Even in the “civvies,” though, he didn’t exactly fit in on the street. Strange . . . is. It goes deeper than just mystical mumbo jumbo and Shakespearean wardrobe. It’s no one thing I can put my finger on, but Strange never seems to fit in much of anywhere, unless maybe it’s in the middle of serious trouble.

  It’s probably one reason we get along so well.

  I cruised up to the Larkins’ apartment and knocked. Sounds murmured through the gap beneath the door—children running, talking, laughing, the tinny sound of a television playing one of those seizure-inducing cartoons, and the occasional sound of a strident, confident woman’s voice. I heard rushing footsteps and then Samuel’s little sister, the one I’d seen wheezing on my first visit, opened the door. She stared up at us for a minute, then slammed it shut. Her footsteps retreated.

  A minute or two later, Samuel opened the door.

  The big young man glanced from Strange to me, then frowned like a thundercloud. “What.”

  I made a show of checking my watch. I didn’t have one, since my wrist was still all bandaged up, but I didn’t let that stand in the way of good drama. “You’re late for school, Mister Larkin.”

  “That’s real funny,” Samuel said, his glower deepening. “You know the score. Office lady already got me suspended. I ain’t there no more.”

  “Samuel,” said the woman’s voice. “Who are you being rude to?”

  “Nobody good, Mama,” Samuel said.

  “Look, if you’re more than two hours tardy, you aren’t going to be eligible to practice tonight. We’d better get a move on.”

  “You deaf ?” Samuel growled.

  “Samuel Dewayne!” snapped the woman, and she came to the doorway. She was nearly as tall as her son, her hair was threaded with gray, and she wore a waitress’s apron over a gray dress and comfortable shoes. She regarded me and Strange with a wary eye, then asked, “Something I can help you gentlemen with?”

  “Hi, Ms. Larkin,” I said. “My name is Peter Parker. I teach science at Samuel’s school, and I’m temporary coach of the basketball team.”

  “What do you want with Samuel?”

  “Just to get him to school, ma’am,” I said. “We’re already several minutes late.”

  She shook her head. “I thought he got suspended.”

  “Only if he doesn’t get his vaccinations up to date,” I said. “This is Doctor Stephen Strange. He’s agreed to help with that.”

  Ms. Larkin pressed her lips together. “I don’t have the money to pay you for this. You might as well go on.”

  “There’s no charge,” I said.

  Samuel scowled and lifted his chin—maybe in unconscious mimicry of his mother, who did the same thing. “We don’t need charity,” she said.

  “This isn’t charity,” I told her. “The doc here is part of a new neighborhood health program some of the action groups have kicked off. He’d have been here in a few more days, anyway, to get your kids looked after—he just started here, as a favor to me.”

  Strange arched an eyebrow at me, but nodded. “Indeed.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Ms. Larkin said. She was clearly skeptical, but she didn’t push it. Instead, she just glanced at Samuel, as if waiting for him to speak.

  Samuel looked from his mother to me and back, biting one lip and clearly uncertain. It made him look like the boy he still was.

  “Well?” I told him in my exasperated-coach voice. “What are you waiting for, Larkin? Me to carry you on my back? Let the doc look at you and then let’s get to school.”

  Samuel looked as if he didn’t know whether to sneer at me or hug me, but he finally sighed and said, “Yeah, all right.”

  “If there’s time,” Strange said, “I can take a look at any of your other children, ma’am, and make sure they’re all caught up on their shots.”

  Ms. Larkin almost smiled. “Well,” she said, “if you hurry. I have to drive the rest to school in ten minutes.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “He’s the fastest mouse in all Mexico.”

  “Come in, then,” she said. “Come in.”

  Strange was good to his word, if not precisely popular with the little ones. He diagnosed a burgeoning ear infection and left a bottle of children’s antibiotics for it, as well as providing the wheezy little sister with an inhaler after she described what sounded like a fairly heavy asthma attack.

  “Samuel,” Ms. Larkin said. “Help me get them all in the car, and then you can walk to school with Coach Parker.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Samuel murmured, and set about doing just that while Strange and I exchanged farewells with Ms. Larkin and left to wait outside.

  “A new neighborhood help program?” Strange asked me, once we were alone.

  “Brand-new,” I said. “You up for it? It isn’t glamorous or exciting, and there aren’t any demons or super magical powers involved—but you know how hard it is to get good health care these days. Especially for folks like the Larkins. People in this area can use the help you could give them. It’s not brain surgery, but it’s a good cause, Doc.”

  Strange looked from me, to his medical bag, and then up toward the Larkins’ apartment. He let out a long and rather satisfied sigh, the kind of sound I make after I hear a favorite song that hasn’t been on the radio in a while, and his eyes wrinkled at the corners. “Why not.”

  “Yeah,” I said, folding my arms in satisfaction. “Why not.”

  * * *

  WONG met me outside the gymnasium after school.

  He wore simple gray shorts, a loose gray top, and a gray sweatband around his shaved head. He had worn, simple high-topped basketball shoes on his feet, and held under one arm a standard Wilson basketball so well used that barely any of the pebbling remained on it.

  “You any good?” I asked him.

  Wong gave me his Wong face and a little bow. “I saw the Globetrotters once when I was young.”

  “You shouldn’t brag so much, Wong,” I said.

  When we walked in, it was the same as Friday. The team was all over the place, shooting and jawing and goofing off to no end, with Samuel driving himself hard, working out against several teammates.

  I blew the whistle. No one even looked at me.

  I blew the whistle again, louder. A couple of the kids drifted a few grudging steps toward me.

  I sighed. Then I stripped out of my button-down shirt and my pants. I wore a tank top and shorts underneath. I walked over to Samuel and took the ball away.

  Maybe I cheated and used my super-duper spider reflexes, just for the hand speed. But it was for the boy’s good. I slapped the ball aside when he was in mid-dribble, and bounced it over to Wong.

  That got his attention. The gym got quiet, fast.

  Samuel turned to loom over me. “Ain’t like I don’t appreciate your help,” he said. “That don’t make you Coach Kyle. Give me the ball and get out of the way.”

  “I decided to take you up on your offer, kid,” I said.

  His mouth twisted into a white-toothed smile. “Shoot. Half court. We go to ten. You playing with one hand, so I’ll spot you six. Then when you lose you can go sit down.”

  “No,” I said. “We play two-on-two. No points spotted.”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Two-on-two,” I said, and jerked my head at Wong. “Me and him. You and whoever you like. And when you lose, I run practice the way I’m supposed to, and you go along.”

  “Don’t need whoever I like. Take you both by myself. Don’t need anyone else.”

  “Sure, if you say so,” I said. “But I don’t want you saying it wasn’t fair when you lose.”

  “Whatever, man,” Samuel said after a moment’s hesitation. “A-Dog, you up for this?”

  “Sure,” said the second-tallest kid on the team.

  I bounce-passed the ball to Samuel. “You want it first?”

  He bounced it back. “Age before beauty, Mister Science.”

  I nodded to Wong, who came over and nodded pleasantly to the two boys. Everyone else went to the sidelines to watch. I went to the top of the key, passed the ball to Wong, and the game started.

  Let me tell you something.

  Wong got game.

  He blew past A-Dog while he was still flat-footed, faked to one side on Samuel, then rolled around him for an easy basket.

  Samuel frowned at Wong and narrowed his eyes.

  After that, he got serious. He nearly blocked my next pass to Wong, and was all over him on defense. Wong had more quickness, but not much more, and Samuel’s long arms and prodigious talent made up for it. Wong missed his next shot, and Samuel recovered it, took it out, and then drove back in for his own point.

  Wong gave Samuel a smile and a little bow and then said, “School’s in, Grasshopper.”

  Wong and I had talked it out earlier. Samuel pressed him again, but Wong passed off to me and I mimed a shot, forcing Samuel to turn to me. Instead, I shot it back to Wong, who went through A-Dog and scored again.

  The game went like that, with Samuel getting more and more frustrated, trying harder and harder, his efforts growing almost violent. Every time he pressed one of us, the other was there for an outlet. Neither A-Dog nor Samuel seemed to have a real solid grip on the idea of coordinated effort, and their defense was never quite quick enough to make up the difference. I took a few shots, and made one. Wong did the rest, and I was happy to set him up. I played the harder defense for us. Samuel was too much for Wong to handle, but he rarely passed, and the kid was nowhere near fast enough to get by me. I tried to keep my effort down to just footwork and hand speed, taking the ball from his control whenever he came by.

  And somewhere between Wong’s seventh basket and his ninth, Samuel got what was happening. He started looking for his partner, passing more, actually working with A-Dog, or at least trying to. It was too little, too late. Final score: Team Spidey 10, Samuel and A-Dog 6.

  Samuel was angry about it for maybe a minute. Then he shook his head and snorted, regarding me thoughtfully. “You ain’t never played before, huh.”

  “Not really,” I said.

  “Where’d you find Little China?”

  “Little Tibet,” Wong corrected with a small bow.

  “Friend of mine,” I said.

  Samuel grunted. “Guess I lost the bet.”

  “Guess you did,” I said.

  He passed me the ball, jerked his head at A-Dog, and then started off, running laps around the gym. The rest of the team followed him. I watched them for a moment. My wrist ached a bit, but I didn’t mind. Wong started whistling “Sweet Georgia Brown” again.

  “Thanks, Curly,” I said quietly.

  “You are welcome,” Wong replied.

  * * *

  I went back home, grabbed a shower, and took the wrapping off my wrist. My hand opened and closed without the same sharp pain I’d felt yesterday, though it was still tender. I didn’t want to do any web-swinging or wall-crawling for another day or two, but it could have been a lot worse.

  The injuries I’d received weren’t life-threatening, but recovering from them always left me hungry. My stomach started growling loudly enough that I half-expected a neighbor to pound on the ceiling or a wall, and I stuffed my face on anything I could find in the kitchen that didn’t take too much effort to prepare. Then I crashed on the living room couch.

  I woke up when a square of light fabric landed on my chest. I opened my eyes to see Felicia, in jeans and a T-shirt, her hair held back in a ponytail, standing over me. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and a delicate floral perfume. The red and blue outfit she’d borrowed now lay on my chest, laundered and folded.

  I gave her a smile. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she replied. “I brought your suit back.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. Red and blue aren’t a good combination on me anyway.”

  I shook my head and met her eyes. “No, Felicia. Thanks. For coming here. For staying by me.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “I was stupid, Pete. I led the bad guys right to your home. To MJ.”

  “Not your fault,” I told her. “You didn’t think Oliver would stick a knife in your back.”

  “But I should have thought of it,” she said.

  “Maybe next time. Did you find out how he was tracking you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “How wasn’t he? GPS in the phone, the visor, the power unit on the suit—and tracking chips woven into the fabric of the suit itself. I had to ditch it.”

  “Back to the old outfit?”

  “It’s not old,” she said. “It’s classic. Or at the worst, retro.”

  I snorted out a little laugh. “As long as it isn’t the one with the shoulder pads and the headband. How’s our buddy Oliver?”

  She gave me a smile filled with very white teeth. “He’s out of the company already. He’s probably out there trying to plot a way to keep his money without me ruining his life.”

  “Seems to me if he could subtract you from the equation, he could do that.”

  Felicia shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first to try it.”

  “Just so long as he’s not the last.”

  She gave me a coy little look and shifted her hips. “I’m a big girl, Petey. I can take care of myself.”

  “Just be careful,” I said.

  “Maybe I’ll get a bodyguard,” she said. “If I could find one who would guard my body instead of ogling it.”

  “You and MJ worked things out, I guess?”

  “‘Worked out’ is a rather strong term. We called a cease-fire,” she replied. “News flash, honey: It’s a rare thing for wives and ex-girlfriends to get along. I don’t think she’s ever really gotten past that portrait I had taken for you.” She smiled. “Watson’s got guts, though. I’ll give her that.”

  I remembered said portrait of Felicia, and hoped my blush didn’t show. “And how,” I said. “Thank you for helping me protect her.”

  Her expression grew serious for a moment. “I know you think the world of her. Maybe we aren’t together anymore, but I care about you. A lot. So even if she tried to claw my eyes out every time I came in the room, I’d do the same thing next time. It’d kill you if something happened to her. I don’t want that. And she loves you, too, Pete. She makes you happy.”

  “Yeah. She does.” I smiled for a moment and reached up to take her hand for a moment, squeezing. She squeezed back, then leaned down and kissed me on the forehead. “Don’t be a stranger,” I said.

  “Of course not,” she replied. “And don’t wait for it to get as bad as this before you call me for help, either. No one does it all alone.”

  “I’ll remember,” I said.

  “Tell MJ I said goodbye?”

  “Will do.”

  She winked at me on her way out. “Take care of yourself, Pete.”

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” I replied.

  “You’re no fun at all,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  MARY Jane got in late—after eleven o’clock. But she came through the door smiling and humming to herself. I was dozing in front of the TV. My metabolism gets me back on my feet faster than the average bear, but mending broken bones really takes it out of me.