Klein drove the F-150 across the bridge from Brooklyn and found a parking spot on the street opposite Empire State University's main gate. He pulled out his phone and called Peter.
It rang a few times before connecting, background noise spilling through — voices, footsteps, the general hum of a campus between classes.
"Hey — school just finish?"
"Klein?" Peter sounded slightly out of breath, like he'd been walking fast. "Just got out. Was heading to the cafeteria. What's up?"
"Skip the cafeteria. Come to the main gate. I'll feed you, and I need to talk to you about something." Klein hung up before Peter could ask anything.
Seven or eight minutes later, Peter appeared at the gate with his old backpack, looking around in the slightly lost way of someone who didn't know exactly what they were looking for. Klein hit the horn once.
Peter turned toward the sound. His eyes landed on the blue F-150 across the street — clean paint, afternoon sun catching the hood — and his expression moved from confusion to obvious surprise. He crossed over, approached carefully, peered through the windshield to confirm it was actually Klein, and got in.
"Is this your car?"
"Bought it a few days ago." Klein pulled out into traffic. "Good, right?"
Peter twisted around to look at the back seat and truck bed, which were stacked with bags and boxes. "What is all of this? Did you take a job as a delivery driver?"
"Props for the shop I'm opening. I'll explain over food."
He found a Mexican place nearby, got a booth by the window, and ordered tacos, a barbecue platter, and two large Cokes. While they waited, Peter lasted about ninety seconds before he couldn't hold the question anymore.
"What shop? What did you want to discuss?"
Klein took a sip of Coke and leaned back. "I'm opening a consultancy. Specializes in unusual situations — mysterious events, things that don't have a normal explanation. Paranormal work, essentially."
Peter's eyes went wide behind his glasses. "You mean like — exorcism? Ghost hunting? That's — that's actually really cool." Then he scratched his head. "I mean, I have school, and the Oscorp internship is coming up, so I don't think I can—"
"I'm not asking you."
Peter shut his mouth.
"Let me finish." Klein pointed his fork at him once for emphasis, then set it down. "You have an aunt. From what you've told me, she mostly takes on odds-and-ends work from home, nothing steady. Is that right?"
Peter nodded slowly. "Aunt May. Yeah, she does some sewing work, helps neighbors with alterations, that kind of thing."
"I need someone to run the front of the shop. Not complicated — keep the place clean, receive walk-ins, handle marked-price sales if someone wants to buy something directly, take appointment inquiries and log them. Light work, flexible hours. The main things are reliability and a calm manner with people." Klein looked at Peter. "I think she'd be good at it. She's someone I know through you, which means I'd trust her. And I'll pay better than odd sewing jobs — weekly, stable."
Peter was quiet for a moment. Klein could see him thinking it through properly rather than just reacting.
"Klein," he said finally, "that's — that's genuinely a good offer. I appreciate you thinking of her." He paused. "I'd need to go home and talk to her about it properly though. It has to be her decision."
"Of course. My renovation isn't done for another week anyway. No rush — take the time, talk it over, let me know what she thinks."
The food arrived. They worked through the tacos and the barbecue platter with the comfortable ease of two people who'd shared enough meals to not need to fill the silence.
Afterward, Klein drove Peter back to the university gate.
Peter had one foot out the door when Klein leaned across. "Oh — I need you to cover for me with the department. A few days, maybe more. Tell Professor Walsh a pipe burst at my place and I'm dealing with emergency repairs."
Peter turned back with a pained expression. "Klein. Your attendance this semester is already—"
"I'm opening a business. There are a thousand things to sort out in the first week and I can't do them from a lecture hall." Klein waved him off. "Go. Remember the excuse. Pipe burst."
He didn't wait for the protest. He pulled away from the curb, the truck rumbling through a U-turn, and headed back toward Brooklyn.
In the side mirror he caught a glimpse of Peter at the gate, shaking his head. But the corner of his mouth was turned up.
Peter walked home that afternoon turning the proposition over in his head from every angle.
The shop itself was unusual, he'd grant that. But stripped of the paranormal framing: a calm, easy job a short subway ride from their apartment, flexible hours, reliable weekly pay, work that involved talking to people rather than hunching over a sewing machine in a back room. For Aunt May, who had spent years taking on whatever piecework she could find to keep their small household going — work that was hard on her hands and uncertain by nature — it was genuinely better.
Peter had always carried that awareness like a low-grade weight. She'd taken him in without hesitation. He'd never been able to do much about the material side of it.
This was something he could actually do something about.
"You're home." Aunt May's voice came from the kitchen as he pushed open the front door.
"Yeah." He set his bag down. Stood in the hallway for a moment. Then walked to the kitchen doorway.
Aunt May was at the stove, her back to him. She turned the burner down and looked over her shoulder. "Long day? You look like you're working something out."
"I am, kind of." Peter leaned against the doorframe. "There's something I wanted to talk to you about. Klein offered you a job."
She turned fully around and dried her hands on the dish towel. "Klein? What kind of job?"
He laid it out carefully — the shop, what it would involve, the hours, the pay. He kept it straightforward and didn't editorialize.
Aunt May listened without interrupting, her expression moving through surprise and then thoughtfulness and then something harder to read.
"That kind of shop," she said carefully. "The paranormal sort. Would it be safe?"
"Klein said the day-to-day work is just reception and keeping the place clean. He's the one who'd handle the actual cases. You'd be front of house." Peter met her eyes. "He's my closest friend. He wouldn't put you in something that wasn't safe."
She was quiet for a moment.
"Where is it?"
"Brooklyn, near Chinatown. Subway-accessible from here."
Another pause. Then she looked at him with the particular expression she had when she'd made a decision but wanted to be careful about it.
"If it's what you're describing — I'd want to meet Klein first. See the place, talk to him directly." She folded the dish towel. "But if it checks out... I'm open to it."
Peter's face broke into a genuine, slightly stunned smile. "Really?"
"Don't look so surprised." The corner of her mouth turned up. "Go call your friend."
Peter was already reaching for his phone.
[End of Chapter 20]
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