Clark hopped over to the nearby Stacy house.
There were only two people living there. Gwen had lost her mother when she was very young.
Even Clark did not have many memories of her.
So now, in Gwen's room, New York's newly appointed police captain, George Stacy, was doing everything he could to care for his daughter alone.
Then, all at once, he saw a man appear at the window.
But no matter how hard he looked, he could not make out the figure's face.
This was one of Superman's stranger abilities, a kind of subtle hypnotic effect that blurred recognition and kept Captain Stacy from identifying him.
With a single wave of his hand, Clark gently lulled George Stacy into temporary sleep, then stepped to Gwen's bedside and let his power flow into her.
Gwen, who had been suffering in obvious pain, gradually began to relax. The tension in her face eased, and her breathing steadied.
Seeing that he had accomplished what he came to do, Clark gave her one last look.
Like Santa Claus after dropping off a gift, he was already moving on to the next house.
That meant the Moons'.
At the Moon house, Clark finished quickly and left just as fast. He could not stay too long in the room of an unconscious girl.
His conscience would never allow it.
After returning home, Clark went right back to caring for his little brother.
By the next morning, Peter's face no longer showed that same pained, tortured expression. He looked normal again.
Once Clark was sure Peter was no longer in danger, he went downstairs for breakfast.
May, who had spent the whole night worrying, had only managed a very simple breakfast that morning. Toast and hot milk, barely enough to count.
While the three of them were eating downstairs, Peter slowly opened his eyes.
He stretched hard, trying to shake off the exhaustion of the night, but the moment he really put force into it, he scared himself.
One punch went straight through the bedside table.
Peter did not even notice at first. He just thought maybe he had hit something weird.
He was still halfway through a satisfied, "Ahhh~" from the stretch, feeling great.
But when he fully opened his eyes, he suddenly realized his nearsightedness was gone.
Even so, he instinctively reached for the glasses on the bedside table, fumbled around for a while, found nothing, and then looked beside the bed.
The nightstand had already been smashed apart.
"Whoa," Peter said, stunned.
It was not just the sharpness of his vision.
It was the ruined bedside table, and the strength filling his body, making him feel unbelievably light and powerful.
Then he looked down at himself. The abs he used to have only because he was skinny were now full and defined. His biceps were solid and powerful too. Eight perfect abs, clean lines, the kind of proportions that looked like they belonged on a Greek statue.
"I... am I dreaming?" Peter pinched his own thigh hard, but the sharp pain told him this was all real.
Peter was completely dazed now.
If the room around him had not still been familiar, he would have thought he had somehow woken up in someone else's body.
Clark had already heard the movement upstairs. He carried a tray with breakfast and headed up.
"Well, looks like Sleeping Beauty's awake," he said, leaning against the bedroom doorframe with a glass of warm milk in hand and a mischievous grin on his face. "Want me to go get Princess Mary Jane? She's been really worried about you."
"Clark... I... I..." Peter stammered helplessly, pointing at himself, then at the destroyed bedside table. He had no idea how to explain any of this.
"I know, I know." Clark soothed him and handed over the milk. "Don't panic yet. Your body's changed, but remember to keep it under control. Did you already forget everything Norman said yesterday?"
Peter took the milk and drained it in one gulp.
Then, when he went toward the upstairs bathroom to wash up, something even stranger happened.
His hand suddenly stuck to the doorknob.
Peter froze in embarrassment. He pulled hard, but instead of his hand coming free, there was a sharp crack, and the entire doorknob tore right off in his hand.
At that moment, Peter stood there like some poor monkey being watched at the zoo, a fake smile plastered across his face while, internally, he wanted to die.
"Why," he asked weakly, "is the doorknob sticking to my hand?!"
The second he said it, he locked eyes with Clark, who had just stepped out from another bedroom.
Clark took one look at his little brother standing there like a confused chimpanzee and burst out laughing.
He really could not help it.
Then he calmly took the doorknob from Peter, quietly stuffed it into his backpack, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Don't worry," he said in a lowered voice. "Just go downstairs and tell Ben and May you're fine. Don't make them worry more than they already have. Today is going to be... interesting."
In the upstairs bathroom, Peter stood staring into the mirror.
Everything felt so absurdly unreal that it seemed like something out of a movie or a comic book.
He had been in there for a long time.
Not because he needed the bathroom, but because he had been quietly testing his strength.
And yes, that white stuff splattered over there was not anything inappropriate. Even if boys his age absolutely did dumb things like that, this was toothpaste.
"Feels like a dream..."
Peter took a deep breath, turned, and headed downstairs to say a few reassuring words to Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
He crept down the stairs cautiously. Clark was still sitting at the table, spreading jam on toast while casually watching TV.
"Good morning, Peter!" May brought over a fresh plate of eggs and set it on the table.
Then she hurried right up to him, cupped his face in both hands, studied him closely, and even reached up to check his forehead.
"Thank God. When your brother said you were fine, I wanted to believe it, but I wasn't completely convinced. But now? You don't just look better, you look positively radiant!"
Ben set down his newspaper too, looking Peter up and down.
He gave Peter's arm a pat and immediately noticed how much healthier the boy felt than before. In fact, Peter felt like someone who had been living in a gym for years.
"How do you feel, kid? Any discomfort left?"
"I feel... better than I ever have, Uncle Ben," Peter said, pulling out a chair and sitting down while trying his best to act normal. "Just... kind of hungry."
"That's good. That's good!" May said happily as she turned back toward the kitchen to get him more food.
But before Peter even got to eat, the plate shattered.
He had messed up again.
Peter froze in place, heart hammering, sweat breaking out all over him. He had no idea how to explain this one.
Then a large hand reached in and solved the problem for him.
"Sorry, Aunt May," Clark called toward the kitchen. "Peter's still a little shaky from the aftereffects of the fever, and I think this plate might've already had a crack from when it was washed. It slipped and broke."
"Oh, it's fine. As long as he didn't cut his hand," May called back from the kitchen, not sounding suspicious at all. As far as she was concerned, as long as her son and nephew were unhurt, nothing else mattered.
Peter let out a long breath and shot his brother a grateful look.
And just then, there was a knock at the front door.