by Michael S. Fedison

Peter had always loved the musty smell. It made him think of old things, buried treasures, mysterious secrets waiting to be discovered. But now as he sniffed the comic book in his hands, that smell bothered him. It reminded him too much of decay and brokenness-and of Tanya.

He leaned back against his pillow, and looked absently at the comic book-a worn, brittle copy of The Amazing Spider-Man # 28. The cover was lined with numerous creases, the edges were frayed, and even the staples were loose, barely holding the issue together. But he loved it just the same; he loved all of his old comics, even with their multitude of imperfections. And the smell. That old-comic smell. He'd always savored that. But not today.

There was a knock on his door.

"Peter?" It was his mother.

"Yeah, Mom," he said, bagging the comic in its protective Mylar sleeve and setting it aside. "I'm on my bed."

The door opened. His mother looked tired and sad. "Peter," she began, and he knew where this was going. He didn't want to deal with it, but he knew he had to. "Why don't you go in and see your sister? She's in her room."

"Do you really think that's such a good idea, Mom? I mean . . ."

His mother closed the door and walked over to him. "I don't know," she said. "It's not easy knowing what to do, or what to say. But I really think you should. Avoiding her isn't the answer, Peter. That won't help at all."

No, it wouldn't, Peter knew. But then, if what had happened to Tanya, to her face, had happened to him, he wasn't sure he'd wish to see anyone. He might just hide away in a corner and let the world pass on by. But he didn't want that for Tanya.

"Okay," he said. "I'll go. But I won't stay if she doesn't want me around."

His mother smiled. It seemed to Peter that stubborn rusty hinges were being forced open in her face. But they gave way, however reluctantly. Then the smile vanished so fast, he wasn't sure he'd even seen it. Maybe he hadn't. His mother rarely smiled these days. Why should she, after what had happened to Tanya?

"Would you like me to come in with you?" his mother asked.

"No. Thanks, Mom, but no. I think it would be easier if I went alone."

She nodded and left. Peter picked up his comic again (he didn't know why; it just felt like a friend, a comfort somehow) and walked into the hallway. His sister's room was just across from his. He took a deep breath. He wasn't sure if he could handle this. He wasn't sure if he could stand to look at Tanya's face.

The weight of that thought, the strangeness of it, rammed into him with the force of a pile driver. Tanya had always been beautiful, so much so that Peter had often taken her beauty for granted. It was constant, something you counted on, like the sun rising every morning or the teacher calling on you in class when you weren't paying attention. Tanya was voted Most Attractive in her senior yearbook, and she had no trouble making a new boyfriend once she went to the local university. This would have been her sophomore year in college, but she wasn't attending this fall. There was hope she might resume her courses again in January. But who knew? Who knew if Tanya wanted to do much of anything anymore?

Last summer, she had gone on a camping trip with some girlfriends. They spent four days in the Adirondacks. On their last night there, a stray mongrel dog came up to them as they roasted marshmallows over a low fire. The dog did not seem threatening at first, had in fact wagged its tail when Tanya gave it a marshmallow. But when she turned her head, the dog suddenly ripped into the right side of Tanya's face. The girls she was camping with later said there had been no warning, no provocation. One minute the dog seemed friendly, the next minute it simply attacked. Brutally attacked. The only reason it hadn't killed Tanya was that the other girls threw themselves on top of the dog and pulled it away from her. They beat it and kicked it and punched it, and finally it ran back into the woods. When a search party later looked for the dog, it wasn't found. It probably belonged to some backwoods hermit who didn't keep it chained, they said after returning from their search empty-handed.

Tanya's friends were lauded as heroes, and their bravery made the local news. But they said they didn't feel brave. They just did what came naturally. Maybe that was true, but they had saved Tanya's life. Too bad they couldn't save her face.

Peter knocked on the door. No answer. He knocked again.

"Go away," Tanya said from behind the door.

"It's me," he said. "Peter." No answer. "Can I come in?"

There was silence. It seemed to drag on forever. Then, in a small voice, Tanya said, "Okay."

He opened the door, cringing at what he might see and hating himself for it.

"Close it," she said as soon as he stepped inside her room.

He closed the door. Looking around, things seemed normal, as though nothing had changed. Same flowery wallpaper. Same bookshelf complete with the classics Tanya liked to read -- Shakespeare, Dickens, Bronte. She was an English Lit major at the college. But looking closer, Peter realized not everything in the room was the same. The mirror that had hung on the wall no longer was there. The fashion magazines that Tanya used to have strewn on her dresser top were gone. And something else was gone, too, wasn't it? He couldn't put a finger on it, but he could feel it. It was as essential as it was intangible. Was it innocence? Girlhood dreams? Optimism? He wasn't sure. But he felt its absence, whatever it was.

Tanya was lying on her bed, the scarred part of her face against the pillow. Late-afternoon sunshine, mellow and lazy, streamed through the window.

"Leaves are turning color," Peter said, not sure why. "They're real nice."

"I know," Tanya said. She kept the ruined side of her face against the pillow as she spoke. She wasn't looking at Peter. Peter couldn't tell if she was looking at anything. "I saw them the other day when I left the hospital."

He cringed. He'd hated that place, hated the aura of sickness that always hung in the air as he and his parents rushed through narrow corridors on their way to Tanya's room. And he hated seeing Tanya have to go through so much there. She'd stayed in the hospital for weeks, and she underwent five separate surgeries on her face. When they'd visit her, the right side of her face was always bandaged, and they couldn't see the damage. Then, just three days ago, they all saw it for the first time. After five surgeries, they had hoped it wouldn't be that bad. The doctors warned them not to expect a miracle, but they hoped anyway. How terrible could it be? How-

"Look," Tanya said from her pillow, "you don't need to do this, okay? I know you don't want to be in here with me. So you can go, okay?"

He almost did. He wanted to, that was sure. But it didn't seem like the right thing to do. Instead, he went over and sat on the foot of her bed.

"What'd you do that for?" she said, sounding hostile.

"I don't know."

Silence. Penetrating silence. Peter wished he could think of something to say, but he couldn't.

"What's that?" Tanya said.

Peter turned to look at her. Her voice nipped into him like a gust of wind. He hadn't expected her to say anything. "Huh?" he said clumsily.