The dreamlike sensation intensifies when he sees the apartment. It's huge; at least twice as large as the one he lived in with Ben, and ten times as neat. The entrance opens onto an open-concept living area, with a kitchen as large as the whole upper floor of the halfway house to Peter's left, a cozy living room to his right.
In this living room is a girl, sitting on the sofa and watching the flat-screen TV on silent. She gets to her feet as Skip locks the door behind them, and smiles at Peter.
She's a few years older than him, and very pretty. Peter immediately blushes, surprising himself for the dozenth time since the ER: the only girl he's been around all summer is Karen, and he never thought of Karen as a girl girl—more like an older sister. He didn't even know he could think of girls like that anymore.
"Hey, Bea," says Skip. "Can you stick around a minute? I'm gonna show Peter his room."
The girl—who must be the babysitter—nods.
"Welcome home, Peter," she says.
Peter allows Skip to steer him down a hallway, now certain this is a dream, and bracing himself for how awful it will be when he wakes up.
But he doesn't wake up. Instead, Skip leads him to a bedroom that is small compared to the rest of the apartment but still larger than any Peter has ever slept in. Larger than Uncle Ben's room was, at the old apartment. It is mostly bare, but there is a desk with a lamp in one corner, and a full-size bed under the window, neatly made with fresh sheets.
While Peter is wondering at this beautiful mirage, Skip sets his duffel bag on the bed, goes to one of two more doors in the room and opens it, revealing a small attached bathroom.
"Just some basic toiletries—toothbrush, soap. But the towel is clean at least, if you want to take a shower. I usually do my little shpiel right about now, but I'll be honest, Peter, you look dead on your feet. Wanna save it for the morning?"
Peter nods dumbly. His fingers feel numb.
"Alrighty. Anything else you need?"
Peter shakes his head.
"Right. Well, my room is next to yours, if you think of something. 'Night, Peter."
He turns to leave.
"Wait—!"
Skip turns back. Peter feels tiny, standing in the middle of this huge room in this huge apartment, wearing his bloodstained clothes and his crooked glasses and smelling like sweat and hamburger grease. He's never felt more out of place in his entire life.
"Do you know who I am?" he says.
Skip frowns. "Only what they gave me in your file. Why?"
"Because—because I'm. I'm Peter. Peter Parker. This doesn't—I don't—why are you being so nice to me?"
Skip smiles as Peter's words fail him. His eyes sweep over Peter, just once, but in that up-down glance Peter has the feeling Skip is taking in more than his appearance, and his feeling of unbelonging increases tenfold.
"Get some sleep, infamous Peter Parker," he says. "We can talk more in the morning."
He nods, and walks out, closing the door behind him.
"What the hell?" says the infamous Peter Parker into the darkness.
(What the hell indeed,) says the ghoul on his shoulder.
In the dark, Peter shivers. But he is too tired, then, to figure out why.
Peter wakes with no memory of having gotten into bed and no notion, for a second, of what has woken him.
Then he opens his eyes and finds that he is staring into someone else's, round and blue and mere inches away from his own.
"Augh!" says Peter.
The pair of eyes drops out of sight as Peter scrambles to sit up and reaches for his glasses. By the time he has them perched on his nose he has registered that it is daytime, judging from the light filtering in between the curtains. For a moment he thinks he must have imagined the eyes, because a quick sweep of his room tells him it is empty, the door closed. But when he hears a giggle coming from under his bed, the pieces click into place.
Peter takes a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to get oriented. He is not in the halfway house. He is not at the Arlington's, either. He is in an air-conditioned apartment, lying in a big bed, and the person who woke him is not some ham-fisted sixteen-year-old here to punch his guts out for being a snitch but rather—hopefully—one of the seven-year-old girls Skip spoke of last night.
Peter lets the breath out.
"Oh, no," he says. "I think there might be a monster under my bed."
The giggles are suddenly—and badly—stifled.
"What am I gonna do?" Peter says, feigning fear. "I have to get out of bed somehow, but I can't put my feet on the floor. They might get eaten!"
Peter hears the sound of tiny teeth gnashing beneath him.
"Alright, Parker," he says seriously. "Get it together. You don't even know what monster you're dealing with yet, and you don't wanna be the kind of guy who stereotypes mythical beasts. He might be a pacifist for all you know. Or a vegetarian."
"Am not!" says a muffled voice.
"No," Peter corrects himself, pretending he didn't hear, "probably not a vegetarian. But possibly a really nice guy. Or girl. Guess the only way to find out is to—look!"