did but wasn't 100 percent sure. Then he took a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. "My mom and dad aren't coming back, are they?"
"No, Peter," Ben told him, as gently as he could. "They were killed in an airplane crash. It was an accident."
"No," Peter said flatly. "It wasn't."
"It wasn't?" said Ben curiously.
Peter shoved his hand into one of the bags and extracted a stack of comic books. "They were secret heroes. Like ... spies. And they were helping their country, and a bad guy,
like the Red Skull, killed them." He held up an old issue of a comic, spine-rolled and tattered.
Ben flattened it carefully and looked at the cover. "Cap tain America. You like these old comic book heroes?" Peter bobbed his head. "And you think your mom and dad were like that? Why?"
"Because they were special. Too special to get killed in a stupid airplane accident."
"I see," said Ben, very seriously. "That's an interesting possibility you've got there, Peter. I'll have to think about that one."
Peter nodded and, satisfied that the conversation was over, went back to what he was doing ... namely, watching the corner of the room.
"I see you have a roommate," Ben commented after a time. "Heck of a spider. They're good luck, you know."
"They are?" That surprised Peter. His mother had always hated them and called on his father to squish them whenever one happened to wander unwarily into the house.
"Oh yes. They eat harmful bugs, like mosquitoes. They protect people. That's what they are, Peter. Protectors. They're helpful. And in this world, folks need all the help they can get. Right?"
"Right," Peter agreed.
"Who knows? Maybe my brother—your dad—sent him to watch over you."
"Maybe," said Peter. He was looking back at Ben, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. "I thought only kids had brothers," he said.
"No, grown-ups have them, too. I, uhm . . . I brought you something." He took out the notebook that he'd tucked under his arm and handed it to Peter. "Here you go."
Peter turned it over and over, then opened it. "There's nothing in it," he said curiously.
"I know that. It's for you to write in. You see ..." He shifted on the floor, perhaps to make himself comfortable, or perhaps because he felt uncertain of exactly what to say next. "You said you wanted to talk to your folks. Well . . . they're in heaven now, Peter. But they can see you. They can see whatever you're doing, and they're watching you all the time."
"They are?" Peter asked, looking around, brushing a hank of tousled hair from his face.
"Oh, yes. And if you write to them, in this book ... they can see it. So it's just like talking to them."
Peter stared at the pages, running his hands over the paper respectfully. "But . . . what will I write to them? Say to them?"
"Whatever you want. Tell him about how things are going with you. About your life, about school . . . whatever you want."
"Can I tell them I wish they were here?"
"As much as you want." Ben smiled, resting a hand on Peter's shoulder.
Peter considered it a moment more. "If I'm talking to them," he said at last, "how will I know when they're talking back? Will I hear them?"
"You won't hear them with these," he said, tapping his ears, and then he reached down and tapped Peter's chest gently. "You'll hear them with this."
"My heart? Who listens with their heart instead of their ears?"
"The wisest men in the world, Peter. The wisest men in the world. And I think you can be one of them."
"Oh." He riffled through the pages once more. They made a most satisfying noise as he slid them across his thumb. Then he frowned. "Uncle Ben, I don't know how to write."
"Ah." Apparently Ben hadn't remembered that. "Well . . .
tell you what," he said after pondering the problem. "At first you can tell me what you want to say, and I'll write it for you. As you get older, you can write it yourself. How's that?"
Peter's head bobbed up and down. The entire idea sounded rather exciting to him. The notion
"No, Peter," Ben told him, as gently as he could. "They were killed in an airplane crash. It was an accident."
"No," Peter said flatly. "It wasn't."
"It wasn't?" said Ben curiously.
Peter shoved his hand into one of the bags and extracted a stack of comic books. "They were secret heroes. Like ... spies. And they were helping their country, and a bad guy,
like the Red Skull, killed them." He held up an old issue of a comic, spine-rolled and tattered.
Ben flattened it carefully and looked at the cover. "Cap tain America. You like these old comic book heroes?" Peter bobbed his head. "And you think your mom and dad were like that? Why?"
"Because they were special. Too special to get killed in a stupid airplane accident."
"I see," said Ben, very seriously. "That's an interesting possibility you've got there, Peter. I'll have to think about that one."
Peter nodded and, satisfied that the conversation was over, went back to what he was doing ... namely, watching the corner of the room.
"I see you have a roommate," Ben commented after a time. "Heck of a spider. They're good luck, you know."
"They are?" That surprised Peter. His mother had always hated them and called on his father to squish them whenever one happened to wander unwarily into the house.
"Oh yes. They eat harmful bugs, like mosquitoes. They protect people. That's what they are, Peter. Protectors. They're helpful. And in this world, folks need all the help they can get. Right?"
"Right," Peter agreed.
"Who knows? Maybe my brother—your dad—sent him to watch over you."
"Maybe," said Peter. He was looking back at Ben, staring at him as if seeing him for the first time. "I thought only kids had brothers," he said.
"No, grown-ups have them, too. I, uhm . . . I brought you something." He took out the notebook that he'd tucked under his arm and handed it to Peter. "Here you go."
Peter turned it over and over, then opened it. "There's nothing in it," he said curiously.
"I know that. It's for you to write in. You see ..." He shifted on the floor, perhaps to make himself comfortable, or perhaps because he felt uncertain of exactly what to say next. "You said you wanted to talk to your folks. Well . . . they're in heaven now, Peter. But they can see you. They can see whatever you're doing, and they're watching you all the time."
"They are?" Peter asked, looking around, brushing a hank of tousled hair from his face.
"Oh, yes. And if you write to them, in this book ... they can see it. So it's just like talking to them."
Peter stared at the pages, running his hands over the paper respectfully. "But . . . what will I write to them? Say to them?"
"Whatever you want. Tell him about how things are going with you. About your life, about school . . . whatever you want."
"Can I tell them I wish they were here?"
"As much as you want." Ben smiled, resting a hand on Peter's shoulder.
Peter considered it a moment more. "If I'm talking to them," he said at last, "how will I know when they're talking back? Will I hear them?"
"You won't hear them with these," he said, tapping his ears, and then he reached down and tapped Peter's chest gently. "You'll hear them with this."
"My heart? Who listens with their heart instead of their ears?"
"The wisest men in the world, Peter. The wisest men in the world. And I think you can be one of them."
"Oh." He riffled through the pages once more. They made a most satisfying noise as he slid them across his thumb. Then he frowned. "Uncle Ben, I don't know how to write."
"Ah." Apparently Ben hadn't remembered that. "Well . . .
tell you what," he said after pondering the problem. "At first you can tell me what you want to say, and I'll write it for you. As you get older, you can write it yourself. How's that?"
Peter's head bobbed up and down. The entire idea sounded rather exciting to him. The notion
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