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For her part, Tanya rarely left her room. Peter tried to get her to go outside with him before the weather turned too cold, but she always refused. She wouldn't eat with the family, either. Mom usually brought a plate of something up to Tanya after the rest of them had eaten. Peter tried to tell himself Tanya would pull through, that she'd be fine. Then he'd see her lying on her bed, without any motivation, without any hope-and he couldn't deal with that. He tried telling her not to feel sorry for herself. She threw her pillow at him and screamed for him to get out. So he did. * * * Two weeks later, Peter stood by his sister's bed. "C'mon, Tanya," he said. "I'm not taking no for an answer this time. Let's take a walk. It's nice out-this will probably be the last nice day of the year. Let's go." "Go away." "Not this time." He reached for her hand and pulled her into a sitting position. "Hey! Watch it, Peter!" "Let's go," he said. He noticed the comic he had brought in with him that day a couple of weeks ago was on her dresser. "You read that yet?" he asked. She shook her head. "Of course not," she said. "Why would I read one of your beat-up old comic books? It would probably fall apart in my hands even if I did want to read it, which I don't." "It's great," he said. "It's a great story. And just be careful with it. It won't fall apart. Just remember, it's special. Now, c'mon." She came. He figured it was just to shut him up. They walked around the block. It was cool but nice, a sunny November Saturday afternoon that felt so clean it made Peter's eyes water. They walked in silence, but he could tell that Tanya was enjoying the air, the sun, the exercise. At one point, a little boy on a bicycle crossed their path. They didn't recognize him, but he stopped anyway. "Wow," he said, staring at Tanya, "what happened to you?" "A big dog bit me," she said. "Ow," the boy said. "That musta hurt. I like your eye patch, though. It's neat. See ya." And he rode off. Tanya laughed. It was the first time Peter had heard her laugh since she'd come home from the hospital. "He didn't think you're a freak," he said. "That's because he's little," she said. But he thought he heard something in her voice that hadn't been there. Later, he sat on his bedroom floor, his door swung open, and he could hear Tanya crying in her room. He didn't know why she was crying. He thought the walk had done her good. Was he wrong? He looked at his windowpane, watching it fog up. Dusk was descending, and the faint warmth that the sun had brought was evaporating like steam rising from a lost river. * * * He drove to the comic shop after supper. He liked going on cold Saturday evenings. No one was ever there, and since the shop closed at nine, he had a lot of time to browse. The old-comic smell was overpowering in the shop. Every time he inhaled, it was there, and it was comforting, like a pleasant childhood memory, or the rock-solid assurances of a faithful friend. He went to the checkout counter. "I'll take a look at that one," he said to Granger, the shop's owner. Granger looked over his shoulder. Various old comic books were taped to the wall. "Which? The FF?" Peter nodded, and Granger gently took it down. He took it out of its Mylar sleeve, and handed it to Peter. This was a measure of trust that Peter had earned. He knew Granger did not allow just anyone to flip through the merchandise. "Whatcha think?" Granger said. "Pretty hosed copy, ain't it? Seen better days." Peter finished flipping through it and gave it back to Granger. "I'll take it," he said. Granger nodded and put the comic back into its sleeve. "Hey," he said. "It's Fantastic Four number thirty-three. They don't exactly grow on trees. And it's a great read. They don't make 'em like that anymore. You could do a lot worse." Yes, you could. The copy he was buying was tattered, it had a bad spine roll, and there was even a corner chewed off-probably by a mouse. But the story was all there. The wonder was all there. The magic. When he got home, he was surprised to see Tanya sitting on the sofa in the living room. "Hey," Peter said, "whatcha doin'?" "I don't know," she said. "Mom and Dad went out to a movie, and I just figured I'd come downstairs for a change." Her good side was toward him, and it was easy to pretend that everything was normal, that Tanya still was pretty, that no dog had ripped into her. Then she turned to face him, and the pretending stopped. "I thought I'd finally take a look at this," she said. She held up the Spider-Man comic that had been lying on top of her dresser. Peter smiled. "Yeah, sure," he said. "And remember, be careful with it. I'm actually gonna go upstairs and read one I just bought. Need anything while I'm down here?" "No, I'm fine. I have your dumb comic, don't I?" He smiled again and went upstairs. He read his comic, loving every panel. When he finished, he sniffed it and then put it back into its sleeve, carefully, making sure not to inflict any further damage to the fragile spine. He looked out his window. A full moon shone at him. As he had done since he was little, he looked for the man in the moon, but he couldn't find him. He thought he'd seen him once, a long time ago, though it was probably just his imagination. But he liked to think it was true. His old comic books had that effect on him-they made the magic seem real. You just needed to look past the deteriorated cover and discover the richness within. That made him think of his sister. Was she still reading Spider-Man? He went downstairs, quietly, and looked into the living room. Tanya was still on the sofa, holding the comic in her lap. Unaware of Peter's presence, she let out a little giggle, then flipped the page, gingerly, tenderly, treating the comic like fine china. A few moments went by, and she turned the page again. She was completely rapt, completely absorbed in the comic book. She
was reading the story. * * * THE END * * *
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