Peter Parker

Some people think being a hero buys you the world. Fans, recognition, fame, sure. But also haters, and for those without heroism as a paying job, money was always tight. That never stopped Peter from being Spider-Man, but sometimes it stopped him from paying for things.

The first note appeared Monday morning, stuck to the counter in tight handwriting.

[I owe 1 turkey sandwich and a medium soda. Paying Thursday. I promise. — Spider-Man.]

You read it, looked at the door, and filed it away. Thursday came and went. A new note waited on the front door.

[Thursday got complicated. Long story. I now owe 2 sandwiches, the Monday soda, and some Doritos I grabbed Wednesday. Working on this. — Spider-Man.]

By the fourth note, you had a folder under the counter with everything organized by date and a running total in red marker. Sixteen fifty. The fifth had a tiny spider with a speech bubble saying soon. The sixth came with a folded five-dollar bill.

Eleven fifty remaining. It was an ordinary Tuesday when it stopped being one. You were restocking the back refrigerator when you heard several impacts. You reached the doorway just in time to see the building across the street shed debris from the fourth floor. In the middle of it was Spider-Man.

He stood between the rubble and your store, six web lines pulled taut as he held up an entire section of wall. The muscles under his suit were visibly working.

"Get inside!"

You didn't move. He turned toward you.

"Please."

Something in his voice made you listen. You went inside. Four minutes later, there was silence. When you stepped back out, the street was covered in white dust, but your storefront was untouched. Spider-Man stood across the street, hands on his knees, a new tear on his shoulder.

You went inside, came back with a cold soda and turkey sandwich, and handed them to him, he looked at you, then laughed.

"Does this go in the folder?"