Chapter 8
By the end of the week, Peter is cherishing every last drop of sleep he gets and has to hold back a groan when he awakens after only a few hours in the morning. His feet hurt, his muscles ache, and his arms are sore from all the swinging he's been doing while working overtime as Spider-Man lately.
But there's no better way to spend his time. He isn't going to school, doing homework, running errands for Aunt May, or hanging out with Ned. There's nothing else to do, except maybe sitting on his butt and feeling bad about himself when there are people out there who have it worse, people who need his help. Who is he to deny them help?
Despite his efforts, the name on that scrap piece of paper on his wall inevitably grows into a list.
Someone dies in a car accident.
Someone has a heart attack on a bench and Peter can't carry them to the hospital fast enough..
Someone gets shot during a mugging.
Someone jumps off a bridge and Peter can't catch them in time.
Sure, he pulls a drowning boy out of the river, saves a young woman from being cornered by a gang, and catches a city bus from barreling into a restaurant full of people, but a single life lost feels so much heavier than all the lives he has saved combined.
Peter knows first hand what it's like to lose someone. He knows what happened to Uncle Ben wasn't his fault—he wasn't the one who pulled the trigger and he was a thirteen-year-old boy with new powers he didn't understand yet—but now that he knows how to help people, it's his responsibility. The Avengers deal with aliens and terrorist groups; Spider-Man deals with street-level crime.
A reporter stops him one afternoon while he's patrolling. He's just swinging by and lands on the roof of a short building, surveying the street, when someone calls out, "Hey, Spider-Man!"
His eyes dart to the person. He's a short man with a big coat and a satchel.
Warily, Peter hops down and lands beside the guy. "Hey, man. You good?"
"What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he rushes out as he digs through his satchel. "I'm Elliot Woods from The Daily Bugle, you have a minute?"
"Uh." Peter sends a look over his shoulder. "Actually, I'm pretty busy at the moment, so—"
"Of course, busy with super-hero stuff, I get it. Just, here." He hands over a card. As Peter's turning it over, unimpressed, Elliot continues, "Give me a call when you're free."
Peter looks up from the card to Elliot. "I don't have a phone."
His brow raises. "At all?" When Peter shakes his head, he says, "It's the twenty-first century, man. What are you doing? Anyways, no big deal, just use a buddy's phone or a pay phone."
". . . Right." Peter hands the notecard back, and Elliot frowns as he takes it back. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't really have time to do interviews and stuff."
He starts to turn, but Elliot waves his arms and calls out, "Wait! Can you just give me a quote real fast?"
Peter pauses, listens to see if he can hear any struggles or sense any danger, then sighs. "About what?"
Elliot's face lights up. "Oh! Thank you!" He fumbles with his phone, then presses a few buttons before holding it in the space between the two and asking, "Why are you doing this whole vigilante thing? Why not join the Avengers or work for the government?"
"I just . . . I just want to protect people," Peter says, eyeing the phone recording his voice warily. "I mean, the Avengers are great at what they do, don't get me wrong, but we need someone who looks out for the little guy while they're out fighting the wars."
"So you're the people's hero?"
"I guess you could say that if you wanted to, but I'm just doing what anyone else with my abilities would do." Peter glances around. A few people have stopped walking to look at him. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get back to patrolling now, hopefully that was good enough."
Elliot grins as he stops the recording. "It was perfect, thank you, Spider-Man!"
And then he's off, swinging towards an ATM robbery. After three more days of patrols, Peter forgets about the whole interaction with the reporter, but then he catches a glimpse of a blurry photo of himself crawling up the side of a burning building on the front of a newspaper with the headline: SPIDER-MAN: THE PEOPLE'S HERO. Upon closer inspection, Peter spots Elliot Woods's name.
Huh.
"Either buy a newspaper or scram."
Peter's eyes snap to a burly man perched on a chair beside the newspaper stand. He's got a cigarette stuck between his teeth and a thin sheet of sweat glistening on his forehead beneath his hat.
It takes a moment for Peter to remember that he isn't Spider-Man right now, he's some street rat who is ogling at a newspaper.
He shoves his hand into his pocket and feels around for any money. His fingers brush over some coins and a dollar bill, but he's on his way over to the gas station mini-mart to grab some food. He can't splurge on a newspaper about himself.
Flashing the guy a sheepish smile, Peter says, "Sorry, sir. Have a good evening."
He huffs and turns his attention back to his greasy phone as Peter continues on his way.
Other than patrols and occasionally checking up on family, Peter has one other thing that keeps him going: Death's visits.
She doesn't manifest again, but she does communicate through her astral projection. Little by little, she's been trying to teach Peter more about her and her siblings' roles in the universe and their powers. For example, Peter thought Death could literally kill anyone whenever she wanted to, but it actually takes quite a bit of energy. Killing Peter that one time was the only time she has done it, and it left her with a slight headache. In fact, all three of them—Death, Infinity, and Eterity—have an insane amount of power, but they barely ever use it other than to fulfill their cosmic duties.
Their talks are also a time for Peter to just talk. Before everything happened and his life was turned upside down, Peter chatted animatedly about his day to anyone who would listen, whether that be Aunt May, Ned, or occasionally an Avenger. Clint was usually more than happy to listen to how Peter's chemistry teacher was biased against him, and sometimes Tony was amused by his anecdotes.
Thankfully, Death doesn't seem bothered by Peter's constant chatter.
One morning, after Peter made sure that Aunt May made it to work safely, Death pops by and the two talk for a few minutes about nothing in particular.
There's a lull in the conversation, so Peter smirks and segways, "So, how's Loki? Has he almost died again?"
Death doesn't even need to be manifesting in her physical form for him to know that she is blushing as she stutters over a response. "He is well and alive, so I have not seen him."
"You could just talk to him, you know."
"I do not want to kill him—look how that turned out with you."
"Okay, fair," Peter says, landing on a rooftop and stepping to the edge to look out at the city as he speaks, "but I meant you could astral project into his mind like you're doing to me."
"I'm not projecting anything into your mind."
"You know what I mean."
"I do, but I do not see how speaking with him will accomplish anything."
"It'll give you a chance to talk to him, for him to get to know you and vice-versa," Peter supplies.
Death hesitates. "But what if he doesn't like me?"
Peter scoffs. "Then he's stupid. People can be stupid and still have cool hair and nice style."
"He does have nice style," Death murmurs.
"I doubt he wouldn't like you, you're literally the coolest person—er, cosmic entity—ever!"
"You're biased."
"No, I just know you, so I know how cool you are."
There's a pause. Then, Death says, "Thank you."
Peter smiles. "No problem. So are you gonna talk to him?"
"Maybe."
Peter shrugs. "Better than a no."
Something pricks at the back of his neck. He turns, spots a man and a woman arguing, and just keeps an eye on them without tuning into their heated conversation.
The little danger alarm in his head fades as soon as the woman angrily stomps away and the man throws up two middle fingers at her retreating figure.
Peter looks away, glad nothing came out of it, but then thinks back to the day before when his senses went wild seconds before there was a booming collision on the road below. The lightness in his chest deflates.
"Hey, Death?" His voice is small.
"Yes, Peter?"
He sniffs and sits, his legs dangling off the side of the ledge. "You remember that head-on collision on 26th street yesterday?"
". . . Yes."
Peter presses his lips in a straight line and nods, looking down at his gloved hands. "What was that little girl's name?"
Images of last night flash in his mind. A girl, no older than eight, trapped in the backseat of the overturned car. Peter ripped the car door off its hinges and carried her broken, bleeding body out and tried to stop the bleeding on her head. She was dead, but he wouldn't—couldn't—leave her fragile body alone amongst the chaos until the paramedics arrived.
He flicks a flake of her dried blood off his hand and bites down on his lip.
"I do not see why that information is—"
"Death, just—" Peter stops and takes a deep breath. "Please."
Death sighs. In a softer voice, she says, "It was not your fault."
"I know, I know, just please tell me her name."
There's a pause. "Katherine McAfee."
"How old was she?"
"Peter, I sincerely do not think this information will benefit you in any way," Death argues. "Why do you want to know, if not to feel guilty over a death that was not by your hands?"
"Because she doesn't deserve to be forgotten." Not like me. Clenching his fists, he shakes his head. "She doesn't . . . If I couldn't save her, then the least I can do is make sure that she isn't forgotten."
"She won't be forgotten."
"I don't know that."
"Her parents survived."
"But they might move on and have more kids and get busy with their sports games and their honor rolls," Peter rambles, volume rising slowly as his tone sharpens, "and they'll have birthdays and Christmases without her, and then they'll forget all about their daughter Katherine who Spider-Man didn't save!"
"Peter—"
"Or maybe they'll drive themselves insane with survivor's guilt and then kill themselves and leave no one else on earth to remember—"
"You are driving yourself insane," Death cuts in. Peter ducks his head as she continues vehemently, "You cannot let these things get to you like this. It is not healthy."
Peter's jaw clenches. He wishes Death were there next to him so he could roll his eyes at her.
"You're shaking," Death points out.
Peter tightens his trembling hands into fists before sliding them under his thighs to sit on them. "It's nothing. I just need to eat."
"Then eat something, Peter," Death says, tone going soft again. "Forfeit patrolling for the remainder of the day and rest."
Peter doesn't even think twice before shaking his head. "No, I can't do that. You know I can't."
"I know you don't want to, but you can. You have done enough, you deserve to rest."
"I can't."
"New York City won't fall to its knees if you call it in early one—"
"No, I mean I physically can't rest," Peter mutters, rubbing his temples. When his stomach is rumbling and his head won't shut up, it's hard to do anything besides lying in a painful valley of your own thoughts.
Death doesn't say anything for a while, but when she does speak again, she says quietly, "Go get something to eat, Peter."
He doesn't have much food left, but he doesn't tell her that. He just sighs and says, "Yeah, okay," and then swings back to the basement.
Instead of opening up one of his last protein bars, he uncaps the rusty old pen and adds Katherine McAfee's name to the list.
•
The chilly October bleeds into a brisk November. Peter digs a ratty blanket out of a dumpster for extra warmth at night, preparing for a harsh winter ahead of him. He considers purchasing a candle and some matches for extra warmth for the basement, but from the stomach cramps, constant shivering, and the way his bones press against his skin, he knows he can't afford to put his money towards anything other than food.
He doesn't stop by Mrs. Carter's bakery as often anymore, partially because he's usually out patrolling, and partially because he doesn't want Mrs. Carter to see how bad it's getting. Because he knows he looks bad. It's to the point where his cheeks are sunken in and his chest always feels tight and not even the layering of his sweatshirt and jeans over his suit can conceal his lack of food.
One afternoon, when Peter stops by because he desperately needs the money, Mrs. Carter makes him sit down at a table and brings out a sandwich for him. He digs in without question, but when she sits across from him, he slows.
Mrs. Carter fixes him with a conflicted gaze. "Peter, sugar," she says in her thick New York accent. "Where are your parents?"
He swallows the bite of sandwich in his mouth and presses his lips in a straight line. Finding the crumbs on the table the most interesting thing he's ever seen, he asks, "What do you mean?"
He doesn't like lying, especially not to Mrs. Carter. But he knows that if she knew remotely anything of his living situation, she wouldn't hesitate to call CPS.
"You look like you haven't been fed a home cooked meal in your whole life," Mrs. Carter says bluntly.
Peter frowns. He knows she doesn't mean anything disrespectful—she's just worried about him, is all—but he can't help but feel offended by the statement. Aunt May has cooked him plenty of meals. Sure, sometimes they weren't completely edible, but she tried. Sometimes she'd make a mean spaghetti.
It isn't Aunt May's fault that she doesn't remember who Peter is, or that Peter is shedding pounds faster than most people due to his metabolism.
Peter looks away and says, "We're not rich."
He feels her eyes on him, studying him as he stares at the half-finished sandwich in front of him. His growling stomach urges him to take another bite while simultaneously warning him that what he has already eaten isn't sitting too well in his shrunken stomach.
"Can you promise me something, sugar?"
Peter's eyes flicker to Mrs. Carter's.
"Can you promise me that you aren't out there livin' on the streets?" she asks, sitting forward and pointing out the window. "That you've got a roof over your head every night?"
Peter looks back down at the sandwich. Technically, he isn't living on the streets, he's living in a basement. That's different.
"I'm fine, Mrs. Carter," Peter says, looking up and smiling for reassurance. "I'm not living on the streets."
After that, Mrs. Carter tries to give Peter some money, but he turns it down; he hasn't even done anything, just walked in and ate her sandwich.
Mrs. Carter doesn't let it go, however, so they level with a compromise: Peter helps her out in the kitchen for a few hours in exchange for the ten dollars. He expects to do some lifting or cleaning like usual, but instead she has him be her little assistant as she bakes.
Two and a half hours later and ten dollars richer, Peter makes his way to the Shell mini-mart. It isn't grocery day, but he doesn't have any food in the basement at the moment.
Mr. Bastidas isn't at the front counter when he steps in, but Peter still flashes the guy a polite smile as he passes.
The ten dollars weighs heavy in his pocket. The six-pack of protein bars he usually gets are five dollars, and they don't have any apples in stock. He thinks about some things he could really use—socks, some deodorant, and a toothbrush—but it's a lousy gas station, so there isn't any of that here.
His eyes zero-in on the candy bars. A big, yellow sticker beside the display says: Buy 1 Get 1 Free! They're only a dollar each, so he decides to get two Snickers bars for the deal, then uses the last four dollars on a packet of trail mix. He could really use some fruit, or a vegetable—speaking of, when was the last time he ate a vegetable?
He brushes it off. It isn't important; he needs to quit worrying about himself and worry about the criminals that are roaming the streets. Despite his efforts, the list in his basement of victims keeps growing.
The cold November air seeping through his layers, the pain in his abdomen, and the exhaustion seeping through his pores doesn't help at all.
It's not surprising when Peter passes out mid-swing on patrol later that night. It's a major inconvenience, but he should have expected his body to give out sooner or later. He's basically running on empty—both sleep and food-wise—after all.
He peels himself off the roof he landed on, thanking the Lord he didn't hurdle into the street and flatten out like a pancake. The roof tilts under his feet. His ears are ringing, too, but after a few blinks and smacks to the face, he's right as rain.
He isn't stupid; he has every intention to call it in early and head to bed. But when he hears a scream not even a block away, he has no choice other than to haul ass and intervene.
Peter rushes to the edge of a building and peers down at the street below. There, in a dark alley, are two figures. One is struggling against the other on top of them.
Without a moment's hesitation, Peter jumps down, landing a foot behind the attacker and gripping their shoulder to rip them off.
The person goes flying and hits the brick wall on their right. Peter turns his attention to the victim on the ground and kneels beside them.
"Are you okay? Are you injured?"
"My stomach!" he cries, pressing two hands against his abdomen. Peter freezes at the sight of bright red seeping between his fingers. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the moonlight glinting off of a discarded blade.
"Keep pressure on that!" he instructs, turning around to take down the assailant. Instead of crumpled on the ground, he's sprinting away. "HEY!"
He takes a step, ready to run after him, but a grunt behind him makes him pause.
His eyes flash to the guy on the ground trying to stop the bleeding. He can't just leave him here, what if he bleeds out?
But he can't let the bad guy get away. What if he stabs someone else?
Torn, Peter looks back and forth between the guy and the mouth of the alley. Before he can choose to stay with the bleeding man, a door clicks and is slammed open.
Both Peter and the man on the ground's heads snap to the side door as a middle-aged woman pokes her head out.
"What's going on? I heard—" Her eyes widen as she takes in the situation, then land on Peter. "You're—!"
"Spider-Man, yes," Peter rushes out, already taking steps backwards towards the street. He points to the man and motions to his own stomach. "Help him keep pressure on his wounds and call 911, I've got to go before he gets away!"
He takes off without another word. His legs pump fast but not fast enough, his deteriorating muscles affecting his speed and stamina.
Aiming a web at the corner of a tall building, Peter launches himself up high. In the lull of gravity, his eyes scan the dark street below, and then he's falling.
He catches himself on a lamp post before jumping back up into the air and shooting off another web when he spots movement.
Well, he tries to shoot off another web. His finger presses the trigger and he aims as he leaps off the lamp post, but instead of swinging off towards the dark figure, he crashes onto the roof of a moving taxi. His thin body makes a dent in the metal with a painful crunch.
He wheezes, the air knocked out of him, and squeezes his eyes shut.
Out of web solution again. Dang.
He really should have checked his web supply before going out on patrol that night.
The taxi screeches to a stop. The sudden movement tosses Peter over the hood and has him rolling onto the pavement with a grunt. Had he been in the same shape a year ago, this would have barely even fazed him. Now, it feels like he got hit by a train.
Groaning, Peter sits up, waving apologetically to the taxi driver as he honks his horn and shouts expletives out his window. Peter limps out of the street and the traffic continues.
Pain courses his up spine and back, but it's nothing he can't handle. He can't even focus on it, his mind reeling because he let the bad guy go.
Peter had him—he even touched him—and now he's just gone.
He would feel better about it all, but the morning after he wakes up from a fitful sleep, he has a new name to add to the list of victims. Sure, he saved one person, but that didn't stop the assailant from killing someone else last night. Apparently the guy went on to mug someone else with a gun he had tucked away in his waistband.
Peter's in the library reading some article. It's somewhere between ten in the morning and noon, if the thunderous grumbling in his stomach is any indication. The article is talking about the guy who was stabbed from the night before.
"He came outta nowhere," the man told the reporter. "This guy tried ta grab my wallet, and when I fought back, the lunatic stabbed me right in the stomach! That's when that spider fella came outta nowhere. I probably woulda died if he hadn't shown up and thrown him off me."
He reads on, shocked when the article starts to . . . praise Spider-Man? They go as far as to say that, unlike the police department, he's actually looking out for the little guy.
The article brings in more quotes from people saying things about how Spider-Man is "the hero of the people" and "someone we can all count on."
Peter clicks out of the article and sets his face in his hands.
While he's glad people don't hate him, he can't feel happy about it, not when he isn't doing his job.
The bag guy got away. He let him get away and mug—and kill—someone else. Why are they saying good things about him?
With a groan, Peter shuts off the computer and, after giving the librarian a small smile, exits the library. He buries his hands in his sweatshirt pocket as he trudges against the wind towards Midtown. He usually has enough chemicals stored in his basement, but after running out of webs last night, he realized he's running low on supplies for the solution. That means a run to his old high school. Thankfully, since there are so many students, Peter can sneak into the school during lunch hour without anyone noticing. However, he definitely doesn't look the part of a Midtown Tech student. He was one of the only kids who attended the prestigious high school on a scholarship; everyone else has rich parents to pay for all the fees and tuition. Now that Peter is wearing clothes from the dumpster that sag on his frame, duct-taped sneakers, and unruly hair that could use a trim, he sticks out like a sore thumb more than ever.
The halls aren't too busy when he slips in. There's a few students milling around, talking, but he doesn't spot any teachers or security.
Knowing the school like the back of his hand, Peter makes his way to the science wing, trying to act casual. He pokes his head up and peers through the rectangular glass in the door. Unfortunately, there's a class in session. The teacher—Mr. Harrington—is at the front of the classroom droning on while the students are nearly falling asleep in their seats.
Peter retreats to the bathroom and only has to wait a few minutes for the bell to ring. Students file out into the hall, and amongst the chaos, he is able to slip into the empty classroom undetected while the students and teacher head to their lunch block.
It isn't hard to find the supplies he needs. He only needs to browse a few different cabinets before he has the bottles of chemicals in his large sweatshirt pocket. It isn't technically stealing—well, okay, it is—but even before Peter was living on the streets he'd use the school's supplies for his web solution. It isn't like Mr. Harrington bought them himself, anyways. The school pays for it.
With his pocket full, Peter slips out of the classroom and blends into the crowd.
A rough shoulder slams into his own. Peter winces and steps back, about to apologize, but a voice taunts, "Watch where you're going, you fucking loser."
His eyes snap up.
Flash Thompson.
The boy is wearing his usual polo with his expensive sneakers. Two of his friends flank either side of him.
Peter has to bite his lip and duck his head to hide the smile that creeps onto his face. Man, he always hated Flash's pointless bullying, but he can't say he didn't miss it just a little. It reminds him too much of his old life.
For the moment, he feels like a normal high school student again.
Flash shoves Peter's shoulder. He feels it coming, so he doesn't lose his balance when Flash's hand makes contact.
"Freak. Why aren't you saying anything?" Flash's nose scrunches. "You smell like you just rolled out of a dumpster."
Peter's mouth opens, about to apologize for running into him so he can leave before he gets caught trespassing, but then a familiar voice from behind calls out, "Leave him alone."
Peter freezes. Then, like a deer caught in headlights, he turns.
Ned stands there, Betty walking up from behind with a wary expression. Having only seen Ned from afar in the past few months, Peter finds himself stiffening and unsure of what to do now that they're only feet apart.
Ned's looking at him. He's looking at him. He knows he exists.
Peter looks away and clears his throat. He may know that you exist now, he reminds himself, but he doesn't know that Peter Parker does. There's a difference.
Scoffing, Flash turns to Ned and crosses his arms. "Stay out of this, tubby."
All intentions to get out of there as fast as possible escape his mind. A protectiveness flares in his chest and he blurts, "Don't talk to him like that."
Ned, Betty, Flash, and his friends look at Peter with surprise.
The surprise on Flash's face morphs into annoyance. "Or what? What are you going to do about it?"
"Whatever, dude," Peter mutters, his shoulders hunching slightly as more people look over at the drama. That's one thing he doesn't miss about high school. "Just don't be a jerk. It's not that hard."
Without another word, Peter shoulders his way out of the little circle that formed around them and makes a bed-line to the nearest exit. As he walks away, he hears Betty say, "Who was that?"
He grips the bottles of chemicals in his pocket as he walks off campus and heads back towards the Bronx. His mind tries to process what just happened, and as it does, his lips lift at the corners.
He just talked to Ned. Well, not to Ned, but he was in the hall. And he looked at Peter.
Maybe . . . Maybe he can try to be friends with Ned again. Somehow.
Peter muses over the idea as he strolls down the street, but the happy thought is cut off by a distinct voice.
"Hello, Peter."
He looks around, making sure no one is watching him, and says, "Hey. I'm kinda out in the open, so it probably looks like I'm talking to myself right now."
"It does not appear odd to me. For all the civilians know, you could be talking on the phone through an earpiece tucked in your ear."
"I guess. But I don't really look the type to have one of those things."
"That is fair. Would you like me to visit again another time when you are alone?"
Peter shrugs. "Nah, it's fine. I guess I shouldn't really care what other people think." He glances around. No one's even looking his way, they're all engrossed in their phones or in their own thoughts as they walk by. "So, what's up? How're Infinity and Eternity?"
"They are doing well and staying busy with their cosmic duties."
"Noice." Peter kicks a rock. "You know, you all have different voices, even when they're just in my head."
"It's not in your head."
"Oh. Really?" Peter's brow pulls forward. "But no one else can hear you?"
"Indeed; it is difficult to explain in terms you will understand—not that you are unintelligent, because you are one of the most intelligent humans I have encountered—"
"Are you counting dead people, too?"
"Yes."
"Sweet. So I beat Albert Einstein and Steven Hawking?"
Death laughs. Instead of humoring him, she goes back to his original question and explains, "It is essentially a line of communication directly to you and no one else, so yes, no one else can hear me right now. Using the phone metaphor, it is like connecting with only one other person's phone."
"Hm. Cool." Peter's thumb runs over the smooth surface of the bottle in his pocket. "Anyways, back to what I was saying about your voices, when I said that your voices all sound different, I don't just mean that your voices sound like they're coming from different people."
"Oh? What did you mean?"
"They, like, feel different. If that makes sense." He gesticulates with one hand as he speaks.
"I am uncertain what you mean."
"It's . . . hard to explain. I don't know, it's more of a vibe, I guess. It's like—so basically, for example, Eternity's voice sounds like a royal blue. Infinity's voice is more gold."
"And what about my voice?"
"It's . . . dark, but not black," Peter explains. "It's a charcoal color, I think. I don't know, that's just another way I distinguish you and your siblings' voices."
The conversation switches gears a few times after that, Peter talking about his day—including the whole Ned and Flash thing—and Death lecturing Peter about better self-preservation when he mentions collapsing the day before.
Peter is in the middle of explaining what vines were when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight and his steps falter.
He quickly resumes walking normally, trying to remain casual, but looks around on high alert.
"Peter?" Death prompts, voice sounding confused.
But he acts like he doesn't hear her. He turns in a circle, eyes searching, surveying, scanning . . . and then his eyes land on the source of the danger.
Her long, blonde hair is pulled back in a low ponytail. She's grinning, white teeth on full display, as she leans over to hand some money and a McDonald's bag to a homeless man sitting on a piece of cardboard at the corner of the street.
He tears his gaze away from her and, pretending like his heart wasn't being squeezed like an lemon, turns to walk in the opposite direction.
"Peter? What's wrong?"
He sniffs, remaining casual. "What? No one—I mean, nothing. Nothing's wrong."
"I think you forgot that I can see you."
"I didn't forget."
"Then what's wrong? Who did you see?"
"Nothing, it's—it's nothing." Peter takes a deep breath. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure she didn't spot him, he says, "I'm fine. I accidentally missed my turn, is all."