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This time it was the slippers.
Jack knew where he'd left them. They'd moved. Not all on their own, oh no. Murphy had taken them, that rat bastard. Always stealing Jack's pens, Jack's paperclips, Jack's spare pack of cigarettes, Jack's almanac when Murphy needed to know the capital of Botswana. It was Murphy, it had to be, thought Jack, and then he remembered that Murphy had died of a heart attack in 1983.
Slowly, Jack turned back toward his desk. It was smaller than it ought to be. Because it wasn't his desk in the National Register newsroom. It was his desk in --
Jack sat down heavily on the bed.
After a long moment, he stretched out a hand to the pen and notebook on the nightstand. He flipped past the cover ("property of Jack McGee, room 206"), past the first few pages ("Hi, Jack, this is a letter from yourself. Here's what's going on, just in case you don't know…"), past pages dense with scribbling, to a fresh, blank sheet. Murphy is dead, Jack wrote. He didn't take anything. He flipped the notebook closed, and wondered if there was a purpose in writing in it. He didn't read back through it any more. He should, he knew. Make it a habit. He needed those.
The knock on the door was different from usual. It was a knock, and then nothing. Usually, whoever was knocking would wait two beats and then push the door open whether Jack had said to come in or not. After a few moments, the person knocked again. "Yes?" Jack said. When nothing happened immediately, he called, "Come in!"
The girl who stepped inside was tall and broad-shouldered, with short blonde hair and good cheekbones beneath slightly bulging eyes. Her jeans were baggy, and her sweatshirt bore, in arched text, a probably-collegiate name Jack didn't recognize. "Mr. McGee?" she said, hitching the strap of her backpack back over her shoulder. "I was wondering if I could talk to you."
"Let me guess," Jack said. "You want to be a reporter."
The girl stared for a moment. Then she laughed. "It's obvious?"
"A little. Whose kid are you? On the staff here, I mean."
Her smile was wide and delighted. "Okay, that's seriously good. How'd you -- "
"You dropped in unannounced, you want to talk to a reporter, and the reporter you want to talk to is me. I didn't quit at the top of my game, I'm not exactly up to speed on the field, and being in here you've probably gathered I don't function so good any more." Jack tossed his notebook onto the desk, harder than he'd meant to. "Nobody's gonna seek me out. No kid, anyway; nobody like you. So I'm guessing it's just that I'm readily available."
The girl hesitated. One foot was halfway off the floor, angled as if she were about to take a step back through the door. "I'm not mad at you, honey," Jack said. "Come on in."
Slowly, she lowered her foot. "I read one of your columns in school," she said. "The one on Nixon?"
"I wrote a lot of columns on Nixon."
"We were supposed to go through old newspapers and find articles we thought were good, and I found yours. And the picture they had of you looked a little familiar. And then I realized, it's because I drive Mom to work all the time, and you're on the photo board, up front." She smiled, a little. "You really don't like having your picture taken, huh?"
"Hm?"
"Same face on the board and the column picture -- mm!" She pulled a Frankenstein monster's grimace, by way of illustration.
"One I was hung over," Jack said. "The other, I was moving in here. Look, what do you want?"
"I don't know," she said. "Just -- you were a reporter. What's the one thing you'd tell me to do?"
"Read everything," Jack said.
"What?"
"If I felt I needed more words, I'd've used 'em."
The girl looked baffled as she turned away. Jack felt a surge of pity, coupled with disbelief. Had he ever been that young? "Wait," he said as she put her hand on the door. "Why do you want to be a reporter?"
"You know," she said. "Change the world. Comfort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable, all that stuff."
Jack winced. "Do you even know who said that? Or did you get it from Inherit the Wind?"
The girl blinked at him. "What? It's just something people say."
"That," said Jack, pointing a finger at her, "is not you being a reporter. Your job is not comforting the afflicted, or afflicting the comfortable. The reporter's job is to tell the story. Sometimes it comforts people, mostly it afflicts them, but either way, you know who says what, you learn the story, and then you tell it. You don't move the needle. You are the needle. You want to change the world, run for city council."
"You don't have to shout," she said.
"I'm not shouting!"
She took a step back.
Jack brushed his hair back off his face. Wiped his mouth. "I'm shouting," he said. "I'm sorry."
"No," she said. "It's okay. Thanks. I'll... I'll go read everything. Okay?"
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Jack slumped into his chair. That was the future. The thought was depressing, and he tried to shake it off. She's young, he told himself, she's young and she doesn't know better. His ego answered him: but I did.
Or had he just dropped the remnants of his own youthful idealism on her?
Jack didn't know. It didn't matter, anyway.
His notebook was on the desk. He picked it up and wrote, "Kids mean well. Don't yell at them."
Another knock sounded. It was harder this time, which Jack expected, but again the person didn't come in immediately, which he hadn't. Maybe the girl had come back. "It's still open!" he yelled.
The man who opened the door and peered cautiously around the edge of it was neatly-dressed and slim, slightly shorter than Jack. He wore a dark brown suit, which contrasted with the lighter overcoat over his arm. "Hello," he said. "Ah, yes. Mr. Jack McGee."
Jack blinked. "Were you a girl a few minutes ago?"
The man laughed. "No, not that I've noticed."
"Huh. Well, c'mon in. Apparently I'm accepting visitors today."
The man did. His suit was good, his coat better. It was camel-hair, Jack noted. The man had money. Jack cast a more appraising look at his visitor. Early thirties. Blond hair. A good smile, which he deployed early and often. A little too often. "Mr. McGee," the man said. His voice was pleasant, lightly accented, the enunciation overly precise. "A pleasure to be with you." He glanced at Jack's armchair, not far from the desk. "Do you mind if I sit?"
"Please," said Jack, with a wave of his hand. "I didn't catch your name."
"My name is Benet." The man settled himself into the chair. "Ah. Thank you. I walked from the train station."
"Where'd you get the train from?"
"Chicago, Mr. McGee. I was visiting the National Register."
"The old girl's still around!"
"Barely. Mostly celebrities and quick diets these days. But there was a time when they stocked something different. Something... wilder." Benet leaned forward. "They said you took the Hulk file with you. I was wondering if I might take a look at it."
Jack leaned back in his chair. "You come to the point, Mr. Benet."
"I've made quite a long journey to find you, Mr. McGee. And the root of your, er, obsession." Benet settled himself more easily. "I would... very much like... if I could, to examine your Hulk file."
"Why me?"
"Pardon?"
"If you want to know about the Hulk, the fellow you should ask is Emerson Fletcher. He got John's whole story, sat down with him. Try his office, it's just down the hall."
Benet cocked his head slightly to one side. "Mr. McGee?"
"He used to share this broom closet with me, but after the renovation was finished here he moved out. He's heading off the paper, back to science reporting, but that's not for a couple weeks yet -- "
"Mr. McGee," Benet said softly, "where do you think we are?"
Jack bristled. "Look, you walked into my office, mister, not the other way around."
Benet frowned. After a moment, he stood up and walked to the door. He pushed it closed, and turned the lock, then turned back around and began to walk towards Jack.
"Hey!" said Jack. "Hey, what're you doing?"
"Mr. McGee, you are my last option. My very last." Benet's voice dripped with disgust. "You were my first option when I came to you at the Register eight years ago. You would not help me then, and you cannot help me now. Do you know how that makes me feel, Mr. McGee?" His hands reached out, grasped the collar of Jack's shirt. "It makes me angry."
Benet's hands pushed. His right heel was somehow behind Jack's legs, and Jack fell hard on his back across the desk. Benet, face twisted, leaned above Jack; Benet's teeth were bared, and his eyes blazed unholy fire. "The Hulk file, Mr. McGee. Give it to me." Jack grasped Benet's hands and tried to pry them off. They were inhumanly strong. "Now, Mr. McGee," Benet hissed. He slammed Jack harder into the desk. Benet's head dipped, and his eyes squeezed shut. "Now. Now. Naaaaaaooooooowwwww --"
Benet's eyes opened. They had gone stark white.
Jack had seen eyes like that before.
"The desk," he gasped. "Second drawer! Second -- " and Benet tossed Jack onto the bed as if Jack had been a doll. Jack pulled himself to the other side of the bed and dove behind it. He braced for what he'd been near, what he'd seen himself before. But the roars and sound of tearing cloth he expected never came. He waited a few moments, then cautiously peeked over the mattress to see Benet frozen in place, one hand pushing into the desktop, fingers, Jack saw with horror, sinking into it, crushing the wood.
Benet abruptly sagged against the desk. The flicker in his eyes had faded. Jack still froze, not knowing if some horrific transformation's like John's was in the offing. After a moment, Benet gathered his wits with a shake, opened the desk drawer, and pulled the bulging Hulk file free. He opened the cover and began to quickly flip through it. He barely glanced at the newspaper clippings from the Register and other papers; those went scattering across the floor like snowfall. The other pages -- looseleaf, legal, torn from notebooks -- he kept. They were Jack's notes from all his years of work, the raw material from which the articles had been drawn.
Benet headed toward the door. Jack, terrified, pushed himself back into the corner. Benet saw the movement, and turned toward him. "You'll forget me, won't you, Mr. McGee?" Benet whispered. Then he chuckled. "No, I don't need to extract a promise from you. Because you'll forget me anyway."
Then he was gone. Jack sat on the floor, and shuddered, and after a while he managed to pick himself up. He began to gather the Register articles that lay scattered across the floor. HULK SEEN, they said. HULK RAMPAGES, HULK DESTROYS. HULK ESCAPES.
He was scooping the last of these up when he saw the edge of a piece of paper underneath the dresser. He managed to get a grip between the nails of thumb and forefinger and slide it out. It was a page of handwritten notes. Jack didn't remember writing them, but he must have, because it was his writing.
The notes consisted of a detailed recounting of everything Jack had seen the night the Hulk had first appeared. It was strange to read, now that he couldn't remember the events himself anymore. But he'd seen it all: the explosion in David Banner's laboratory. Banner running inside after his colleague, Dr. Elaina Marks. The Hulk, emerging with Marks's body. The explosion that completely destroyed the lab, burying Banner's body under so many tons of rubble that it was unrecoverable. A scribbled note said, "University will place Banner memorial marker in cemetery, near grave of Marks."
And suddenly Jack saw what he'd never seen.
He was an idiot. What had he told the girl? You learn the story, then you tell it. He'd seen the evidence out of order, and he'd clung to the original narrative. He'd never gone back to revise his basic preconceptions.
David Banner went into the burning building. The Hulk came out.
John Doe was a man who turned into the Hulk.
David Banner's body was not recovered.
John Doe was David Banner.
David Banner was the Hulk.
And Jack had just sent somebody after Banner, somebody who wasn't a reporter like Jack, somebody who had motives Jack didn't know and could only guess at, somebody who had all the clues Jack had had and the advantage of youth and money. Somebody whose eyes went white.
Jack leapt from his chair. Hurriedly, he pulled drawers from the dresser and dumped the contents onto the bed, then snatched at what he saw: socks here, underpants there, shirts there again. He dumped them into a duffel bag he pulled from the top of the closet, then grabbed his toothbrush and razor and medications. He tossed them in and bolted clumsily for the door, snatching up the Hulk folder and his notebook on the way. He was halfway down the hall when he realized that he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to drive, and didn't have any idea if he owned a car.
He was so startled by this realization that he nearly plowed into the girl who'd been in his room a few minutes ago. "Mr. McGee?" she said.
"How old are you?" Jack bellowed.
"Nineteen."
"Do you have a car?"
"Yes."
"Do you still want to be a reporter?"
"Yes?"
"Then come with me! We've got a story. You drive."
The girl had a lead foot. That was one point in her favor. Jack would still feel more comfortable if she'd spend more time watching the road than him. Chicago was a good couple of hours away.
"What are you doing?" the girl said.
"Sorting through articles about the Hulk." Jack had gotten them into a rough chronological order; now he flipped open his notebook. The inside front cover, opposite Jack's letter to himself (he hadn't glanced at it lately; he was afraid to), contained four numbered points in thick black marker:
1. Take your pills.
2. Check your notebook.
3. Answer the nurse's questions.
4. If you have any questions, check the rest of this notebook before asking them.
Jack skipped over the rest of the notebook and fumbled his way to the first blank page. The girl was still frowning at him. "The Hulk?" she said.
"Oh, God, you're young. Here, look." Jack held up a front-page clipping, with the Hulk roaring into the photographer's camera. "That's the Hulk. I chased that creature all across the country, years back. He shows up somewhere, destroys things, goes on a rampage, and then he's gone."
"Seriously?"
"Look, I'm not well," said Jack, "but I've never been crazy. And I never made up a news story in my life. Not that I can remember, anyway." He looked over at the girl. "I know how to do this job, I think. It's deep. It's in my bones. But I don't know what I have or haven't done. I can't keep track of things, and I can't work for hours on detail, not any more. I might get confused. That's why I need you to help me."
"Maybe we should go back."
"No. Please. Look, this is the biggest story I ever worked on in my life, and I never cracked it. I got close. But now I've got it. Except it's not just about the story anymore, it's about a man, a good one -- and I need to help him. Then I'll get the story. Just... keep me on track. Do the things I tell you to do. We can do this. Okay?"
"Okay," she said.
Jack grinned. "What's your name, honey?"
"It's Abigail," she said. "I've told you twice."
Jack nodded. He lifted his pen and wrote, Her name is Abigail. He'd tried to write her name once before, he saw, below his notes on the confrontation with Benet, but had paused halfway through and hadn't gotten back to it. He hesitated, then added, she is helping.
Oh, God help me, he thought, I think this is the dumbest and scariest thing I've ever done.
He changed his grip to jot some notes from Banner's obituary -- "David Bruce Banner, born in Treverton, Colorado, January 1934" -- and dropped the notebook. Jack grunted with irritation, picked it up, and thumbed through the pages again to get back to his place. The writing, he saw, was surprisingly dense. How long had he been using this notebook, anyway? He opened it to a random page, and stared at the palimpsest he saw there. The base layer was ballpoint, and thickly scribbled; over that, in block letters, was written, "DAVID BANNER = HULK!!!!!" The words were written in heavy pen, circled, and underlined, all in Jack's own handwriting.
He'd solved the mystery of his lifetime once already, and didn't remember doing it.
Or -- had he been taking notes during the drive? How many pages had he filled since they'd gotten in the car? It couldn't be more than one or two, that wasn't possible --
Jack's skin crawled. He flipped the notebook closed.
"So who are we looking for?" the girl said.
"Well --" Jack hesitated, and then flipped the notebook open again. "-- Abigail, we're looking for a fellow named Emerson Fletcher." It was written just above her name: FIND EMERSON FLETCHER. GET HULK TAPES. "The Hulk isn't the Hulk all the time, there's a man who turns into the Hulk. He's talked to Emerson, told him the whole story. Emerson kept the story secret, to protect him. Emerson will know things I won't. He might even know where to find him."
"And Emerson Fletcher is at the newspaper you worked for?"
"We'll ask, and if he's not there somebody there will know where to find him. Maybe I can borrow an office, make some telephone calls."
"Can you do that? How long is it been since you've been there?"
"Look, I'm not really sure."
Abigail stepped hard on the brakes and yanked on the wheel. The car slewed to the side of the road and came to a halt in a cloud of dust. She put the car in park, then turned from the wheel to face Jack.
"Mr. McGee," she said, "please tell me exactly what is wrong with you."
Jack hesitated. Then he handed her his notebook. "Read the first part," he said.
Abigail flipped the cover open and began to read. She read quickly at first, then more slowly. The letter went on for a few pages.
When she was done, she looked up at Jack and said, "On a practical level. What does 'dementia with Lewy bodies' mean?"
"For me? I get confused. I get lost easily. I have memory problems. I'm lucky: I'm not hallucinating, not yet. I can't keep track of what I'm doing, not for long. I can walk pretty well, but if I do it too fast I run into things or fall down. I'm lousy with faces, a lot of the time. And I'm not too good with time, so I'm not really sure how long I've been the youngest guy in the old-folks home."
"A bit more than a year. It's 1989."
Oddly, that was a relief. "Not so bad," said Jack. Something struck a bell, he thought. What was it? Was he remembering something? "Could I have that back?" he said. Abigail handed him the notebook, and he leafed through it. "Aha. That is what he said."
"Who?"
"Benet. He said he came to me at the Register eight years ago. I've been sick for more than a year. Now he comes back." Jack looked up at her. "So where was he for the other seven?"
"You said he had an accent. Out of the country?"
"Maybe." Jack frowned. "And he said -- he said I wouldn't help him. I probably put him out on his ear. He strong-armed me now. So why didn't he try to strong-arm me then?"
The girl -- what was her name? -- didn't answer. She put the car in gear, and began to drive again.
Jack could get lost looking for his bathroom, on a bad day, but he knew exactly where the Register was and how to get there. The parking lots had changed -- there was a new one, now, and Jack wasn't sure if it had been there when he'd left or if it had been added since his time.
It was disconcerting to not know what period of his life his memories were coming from.
He waited by the car while Abigail read through the section of his notebook that Jack referred to as his care and handling manual. "You've got an hour till your meds," she said. "Will this take long?"
"Not if we find Fletcher."
The redecorated lobby threw Jack a little. But there was a front desk, and behind it, blessedly, a plump, brown face he recognized. The face was more lined than he'd expected, but not a wisp of gray showed in the hair, and Jack found an unexpected comfort in the familiar, even if it was an old acquaintance's vanity. "Hello, Mabel," Jack said cheerfully. "How's tricks?"
"Jack? Jack McGee?! Oh, as I live and breathe! Jack, what are you doing here? I heard you were sick, they said you weren't ever coming back -- "
"I am," said Jack, "and I'm not. I just need a favor. Could you call up to Mr. Fletcher's office for me, see if he's in?"
Mabel froze with her hand on the telephone. "Mr. -- Fletcher?"
"Yes, Emerson Fletcher. Is he still here?"
Mabel said, "He left here a long time ago, Jack." Her voice was very cautious, and the tone was eerie.
"How long? Do you have a number for him? Or, or an address, or -- " Jack realized Mabel's hand was hovering over the button on the phone labeled SECURITY. "He's dead, isn't he. I'm sorry. I've forgotten a lot, Mabel. I should have just called; I didn't mean to frighten you."
She relaxed, and her hand floated away from the button. "You haven't frightened me, Jack. I knew you were sick. I just never knew you to forget anything that mattered." She gave him a little smile, and Jack tried to ignore the pity in it. "He passed last year. And he went back to the science magazines right after that Hulk thing. Must've been '81 or '82."
"Do you have a number for any family? He was married, I think, or used to be. There's a man. Emerson's friend, I'm trying to find him."
"I'll check with Personnel. If there is, I'll make the call for you, all right?"
Jack stepped away from the desk to let Mabel work. Abigail came over to him, and the look on her face was painful to see. "All right, dammit," said Jack. "I muffed this one. You don't need to look so upset about it."
"You forgot your friend was dead."
"Look, it's not bad, okay? If it was bad, I wouldn't have believed her when she told me was dead and I'd be making a scene in the lobby right now. This thing isn't great, but I can work with it. I can work around it."
Abigail's gaze was level. She said, "Then why don't you have a job?"
Jack didn't have an answer for her.
Movement caught his attention. Mabel was holding up the phone. She mouthed the word 'widow.' Jack turned from Abigail and made the desk in three long steps. He grasped the phone eagerly. "Yes -- Mrs. Fletcher? I'm sorry, Ms. Burdone. I'm Jack McGee, I used to work with Emerson. I'm trying to get in touch with one of his old sources, about a story he was doing that involved a scientist named David Banner -- Banner, B-A-N-N-E-R -- and I know it's a longshot, but -- I see. How long ago? Yes. So there's nothing -- what? What university? Thank you very much. Yes, I'd appreciate it if you would call ahead for me. I'm on my way right now, thank you. Goodbye."
He turned back to the girl and gave her a grin. "Emerson did all right for himself. He won a couple of awards after he left the Register. Became downright prominent as a science journalist."
"So?"
"So there's a box or two of his papers in the library at his alma mater."
Jack McGee was standing in between two bookshelves.
He wasn't sure why. Had he gone down into the archives of the Register, where the oldest copies were bound in volumes? No, the books were the wrong sizes, for that. And the shelves were wrong. The Register's were battered wood, and these -- he wasn't sure where these bookshelves were --
He stumbled out from between the two shelves to find more and more stretching out before him. He turned, looking for an exit; he couldn't see one. He stepped forward anyway, and then panic took him, and he moved too fast, and fell. He caught himself on a bookcase, barely, and pushed himself up, and leaned against it for support.
He had begun, he thought, to cry.
"Mr. McGee?"
He turned to the sound. It was a girl, young, and she knew his name. "Where did you go?" she was saying. "They've got the box you wanted. It's ready for us." She paused. "Where's your notebook?"
Jack looked down helplessly at his hands. They were empty. He checked his pockets, found lint.
A babble of sudden noise cut the air. Jack whirled, thinking of white eyes, but instead he saw only a crowd of students, clutching backpacks, some of them in the act of sticking nametags to their chests.
"It's first-year orientation," the girl said. "It's okay." She stepped closer to him. She didn't look like it was okay. "Wait a minute," she said. She took a few quick steps after the students, and buttonholed one, and took something, and bent over it. When she turned back, she was wearing a sticker printed MY NAME IS. Underneath she had handwritten ABIGAIL (i'm helping you).
"Abigail," Jack said.
She nodded. "Does it help?"
"I get confused sometimes," said Jack. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. But I really think I'm a little out of my depth now. Maybe we should go home."
"Go home? Where are we now?"
"John Crerar Library. The University of Chicago. We're here to look at a box of records, from Emerson Fletcher."
"Emerson Fletcher. God, I haven't seen him in a while. Did we talk to him?"
"He's dead."
Right, thought Jack. That made sense. "I think I need my notebook," he said. "Can you see it anywhere?"
Abigail was standing next to him. Carefully, she took his hand. "I think you must have left it on a shelf," she said. "Let's go look for it together."
Jack nodded.
They found his notebook at chest-level, twelve shelves back. Jack flipped through it again. It felt, he thought, like a stranger's writing. Had he really solved the Hulk mystery? And he didn't remember this Benet fellow at all, beyond a flash of white eyes --
"Do you want to go home?" she said. "Or do we really have to look in that box?"
"Hell," said Jack, "we better, after all this trouble."
"What are we looking for?" Abigail said. "Do you still know?"
Jack spread folders across the table. "Anything pertaining to the Hulk. Or -- there's a researcher named David Banner; first place it was seen was near his lab. See if there's anything about him." Jack didn't think he'd told her about Banner yet. He didn't know why. Maybe he wanted to keep something for himself.
Abigail read in silence for some time. Jack tried his hand at one folder. By the time he'd reached the end, he couldn't remember if he'd seen anything at the beginning. He couldn't focus on the task, and he kept having to reread the post-it note he'd put on the cover of his precious notebook (HULK. BANNER.) to be sure of what he was looking for.
"This says David Banner," said Abigail. She was holding a thin sheaf of papers, stapled together at the corner. "And -- curriculum vitae?"
"Let me see." Jack took the pages, and looked. "Dates, schools, labs -- it's a resume, it's Banner's resume." Why Banner couldn't call it a resume, Jack didn't know. He turned the page over and saw a bewildering list. "What's this part?" he said, handing the paper to Abigail before he could get lost in the words.
She looked. "It's articles," she said. "Research he wrote about. That's who he wrote it with, and when, and what it's called -- and that's where it was published, see?"
That idea was at least familiar. "Like his clippings, you mean?"
"Well, not the whole article, just where to find them. Like, Jack McGee and Emerson Fletcher, 1979, 'Hulk smashes stuff,' the National Register."
"And you say he wrote a lot of these papers with other people?"
"I guess scientists do that."
"That's it," Jack said. Carefully, he got to his feet, took the paper in hand, and walked toward the librarian's desk. "Listen," he said, holding Banner's resume out to her, "I know this is a long shot, but would you recognize any of the names on this list of publications? And could you tell me if any of them are faculty here?"
The librarian glanced up from her novel. She stretched out a thin hand, and glanced down the list. Then she pointed at a line that read, SANGERMAN, H., BANNER, D., AND MARKS, E. "Sangerman," she said. "That could be Dr. Helen Sangerman."
Jack said, "Where can we find her office?" After a moment's thought, he added, "And do you have a copy of her resume?"
Abigail said, "Let's just stop for a minute."
Jack hadn't realized he was walking quickly. He eased, then turned to face her. "Was I going too fast for you?"
"You're lurching. I don't want you to fall down." Abigail's face was a little pale. "Can we talk for a second, Mr. McGee?"
"Call me Jack."
"Jack, we need to talk about what happened back there. I thought -- " she waved her hands uselessly. " -- I thought that this was going to be a little weird, and a little fun, and I might get something out of it, like a learning experience or a story for the college paper. But you went away, you were gone, and it was scary. And I'm not ready for it, okay?"
"You need to go home?"
"Jack, you need to go home. This is like -- it's like watching an alcoholic who wakes up with his hands shaking so bad he can't pour the first drink, so he uses a punchbowl and a straw. And thinks he's being clever. Because he's working around his problem." She spread her hands. "This is not working around your problem, Jack!"
"You're right," said Jack. "I'm not being fair to you." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Look, tell you what. We go talk to this professor, then we go home. I think that's about all we can hope to do. This line will probably end here anyway. Okay?"
"Okay." Abigail came to stand next to him. Then she reached out and squeezed his hand. "You were a good reporter," she said. "I can tell."
"Good?" said Jack. "Honey, I was the best."
Abigail was missing. Jack looked left, looked right. He would have called out, but the place was an office building; maybe he'd cause trouble if he yelled. He glanced down at his notebook, and blinked. The notebook was on a new page. Below Jack's scrawled "Dr. Helen Sangerman, Biosciences -- ask about Banner, prob ID cover," there was unfamiliar writing: "I'm in the bathroom," in a looping, feminine hand.
Bathroom, thought Jack. Probably a good idea.
He was standing in front of the men's room, and so he turned and went in. He was tired, he realized; he must have been going fast not too long earlier. There was a janitor in the men's room, and he was mopping the floor. The janitor looked up as Jack entered, and then stared, frozen.
Jack couldn't blame the man. He could only imagine the sight he made: disheveled, nearly panting, lurching along like a tin robot. "Sorry," said Jack. "I must look a mess. I didn't mean to interrupt you."
The janitor was silent for a long moment. Finally, he said, "That's all right."
Jack made his way to the urinal, used it, flushed. He turned back, then crossed to wash his hands. The janitor was still staring at him.
"Restroom isn't closed, is it?" said Jack.
The janitor said, "No."
"Look, sorry," Jack said. "My name's Jack McGee. I'm a reporter. Was a reporter. Am." He realized that he was digging in his pocket for a nonexistent business card. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. A Dr. Helen Sangerman? Can you tell me which office is hers?"
"Are you all right, Mr. McGee?"
"No, not really."
The janitor said, "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Well, I appreciate that. I'm afraid I don't have much time, though. I need to be getting back home, you see. Do you know where her office is?"
"Yes. Would you like me to show you?"
"Yes," said Jack, "that would be terrific." Outside, Abigail was calling for him. "Just a sec!" he called back. He turned back to the janitor. "Thank you, Mr. --?"
"Berger," the janitor said. "David Berger."
"Dr. Sangerman," the janitor said, "there's a gentleman and a young lady here who would like to speak with you."
Dr. Helen Sangerman was short and stout, with gray hair and dark-rimmed glasses. She looked dour and disapproving, and her hands were dusted with chalk; the chalkboard on the wall of her office was covered with math, molecular diagrams, and chemical formulas. None of it made sense to Jack, who had been forcibly removed from chemistry class in the tenth grade. There was an open door behind her; Jack glimpsed chemical vials and laboratory equipment. "Thank you, David," Dr. Sangerman said.
"Would you mind me getting the trash and sweeping up a little in your storage room, while I'm here?" Berger said. Sangerman looked puzzled. "Oh," Berger added. "I forgot to introduce you. The young lady is Abigail Swenson, and the gentleman is a reporter. Mr. Jack McGee."
Sangerman said, "Yes, David. Please do tidy up for me." Berger nodded, and went to the tasks.
"What can I do for you, Mr. McGee?" she said.
"I'll be brief, and I won't waste your time. I'm looking for a man named David Banner. He's a scientist."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you."
Jack held up the heavily scribbled-on photocopies he'd made at the library. "Yes, you can. You published articles with him in 1973, 1976, and 1978. You overlapped at the same graduate school, you had the same advisor." He leaned forward in his chair. "You know Dr. David Banner."
"I used to know a man by that name," Sangerman said stiffly. "He was a friend, and a colleague. But he died several years ago."
"Yeah, I know that story. I wrote it. But let's say that he didn't."
Sangerman didn't move in her chair. Behind her, just beyond the storeroom's doorway, Berger wiped dust from a glass bottle.
"Let's say," said Jack, "that Banner didn't die. That his body wasn't buried beneath tons of rubble. Let's say that he survived, but that he developed... a condition." Sangerman's fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. "Let's say that he led a fugitive's life, running from one city to the next, as his 'condition' kept getting the better of him. Now, he could do small jobs and manual labor forever, but Banner's a brilliant man, he'd need more than that. And he'd be looking for a cure, which means he'd need, at least at intervals, scientific jobs. Am I right?"
Sangerman said nothing. Jack shrugged and pressed on. "But you can't just get hired for a scientific job. You need references. You need a track record of things you've done. I mean, if I'm an editor, I hire a journalist because either I know his work or I've read his clippings. So how does a dead man get clippings? Where do his bylines come from?"
"I don't know," said Sangerman.
"Yeah, well, I do. When I started out I worked with a guy who was a great writer when he was sober. Unfortunately, most of the time he was dead drunk. So a lot of his bylines read, 'by Whooziwhatsis and Jack McGee.'" Jack flipped Banner's resume aside, then picked up the second sheaf of paper. "Now, I've got a list of your clippings here, and I couldn't help but notice --"
"Get out, Mr. McGee."
" -- 'D. Belgrade, D. Boorman, D. Bellingham,' -- the funny thing is, these papers aren't just him and you, they've got other scientists on 'em, too. So I wonder: if I look up their resumes, would I find that a couple of them also went to school with you and Dr. Banner, or published papers with him before -- "
"Perhaps this is where you speculate that if said research involved government grants, fraud charges can be meaningfully pursued? But you'll be silent if I cooperate? Get out, Mr. McGee."
"I'm not here to be the heavy, Dr. Sangerman. I just want to make sure you realize that I know what I'm talking about. And I have to make that impression hard, here and now, because I have early dementia and after I get up and walk through that door I probably won't remember very much of our conversation. The only reason I'm here is to get a message to Dr. Banner.
"I know David Banner's alive," Jack said. "I know he's in touch with you, and I know he's the man I used to call John Doe. I don't know what he's told you about me -- I can only guess -- but I'm not looking for his story. Not any more." Jack tried to smile, but felt the corners of his mouth trembling. "I can't do it. I can't find a news story any more and I couldn't write it if I did. I'm looking for him because I need to warn him. There's someone out there -- there's -- he's --" Jack fumbled in his notebook. "He's a young man, named Benet, thirty or so, blond hair, and he's got Banner's condition, too. Or something like it, maybe not as bad. But he wanted the Hu-- wanted a file I had, and he took it. I think he may be looking for Banner the way I was. I don't know what he wants, but my guess is it's nothing good. So will you help me tell Banner that he's in danger? Please."
Abigail's hand fell onto Jack's arm. Jack looked up. The janitor had set down the glass and the cleaning cloth, and he was leaning against the doorway to the storeroom.
"David?" said Dr. Sangerman.
The janitor said, "It's all right, Helen." He rested a hand on her shoulder. Sangerman reached up with her own, and squeezed it. Jack stared at them and thought, sonofabitch, I couldn't even remember what he looks like.
The janitor said, "Hello, Jack."
Jack said, "Hello, John."
The tea that Dr. Sangerman had made was strong and black. Jack dumped a few sugars into the bottom of his, and stirred. When he sipped, he could barely taste them. Banner sat with his hands around his own mug. He hadn't put anything into it.
"You're something of a legend on alt.fan.hulk, you know," Banner said.
Jack blinked. "What the hell is that?"
"It's a Usenet group. Online." Banner leaned forward. "I lurk there. You know, there's a man in Pennsylvania who's typed up almost every single one of your Hulk articles for their FTP archive." He smiled as he said it, as if it was something for Jack to be proud of.
Jack said, "I have no idea what you're talking about."
Banner smiled again. "It probably doesn't matter."
"No, I know what you're talking about," said Abigail. "It's sort of cool."
Jack said, "Sort of?"
"How long have you been sick?" Banner said. Jack handed him the notebook. Banner set down his tea to take it. He opened the notebook and read in silence. When he was done, he closed the notebook and then held it for a long moment. "I'm sorry, Jack," he said softly.
"It's not that bad, where I am," Jack said. "I can almost feel like I'm back in the Register." He frowned. "Maybe that's a problem. But it's comfortable. Familiar. I think I shut myself away there before I really needed to."
"Why?" said Banner.
"Because I was changing into someone else. I didn't like it, and I didn't want anyone to see what I was becoming. I was ashamed. I guess you can relate."
Banner said, "It's different for me."
"Yeah, you blow up whatever little life you've made for yourself every time."
Banner blinked. "That isn't what I meant," he said. "I change back."
Jack couldn't say anything in answer to that.
It was the damnedest thing. Jack had chased Banner across the country, and Banner -- Banner had the gall to feel sorry for him. Jack wanted to say something back, push it off, but his vision blurred and he looked down at the ground before Banner or the others could see. Looking up again took longer than he'd expected. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and surreptitiously wiped away what he could. His other hand rested on his knee; he felt a pressure on it, and thought it might be Abigail. But when he looked, the hand on his was Banner's. Banner didn't say anything, but his hand gave Jack's a slow, sympathetic squeeze. Jack hesitated, then squeezed back.
"Thanks," Jack said, when he could. "Look, it doesn't matter." He pulled his hand free of Banner's and waved it airily. "Hell, I bullied a nineteen-year-old girl who wants to be a reporter into propping me up and chaffeuring me around. God knows what I've put her through."
Banner smiled. He flipped through the notebook again, paused at a page. "These are your notes on the conversation with this man who's after me?" He read for a few moments, then shook his head. "It's vivid, but -- Jack, I hate to ask you this, but are you sure it wasn't a hallucination?"
"It's not," said Abigail.
"How do you know?"
"I saw his desk. There were fingermarks in it."
Jack said, "I showed you my desk?"
"I made you show me."
Jack and Banner traded a look. "She's good," Banner said.
Jack shrugged. "She has her moments."
"She's your ride home," said Abigail.
"Lots of moments," Jack said. "Look, Jo- Banner --"
"David."
"David. This Benet fellow -- what do you make of him?"
"I don't have any idea. You said, he started to transform, but stopped?"
"Yes. Have you ever done that?"
"I was stuck once, halfway. The meteor -- you saw me, then. Was he like that?"
"No. White eyes, that's all. And then it seemed like he forced it down. Can you do that? Force it down?"
"No." Banner -- David -- frowned. "I wish we knew something."
Jack said, "Did you ever think if you'd let me do a story all those years ago, we'd have an answer?"
"What do you mean?"
"You've always thought you were so smart you'd have a better chance of reaching a cure on your own than a million doctors and a million physicists would have. You stayed hidden when you could have had the best minds all around the world working for you. There would be other people working on this. I mean, we don't have anyone we can call to get ideas, let alone an answer."
"You were in the Air Force," said David. "Korea, you said." Jack nodded. "Remember what the Chinese did to their soldiers? They dropped them into battle by the truckload. A lot of them didn't have rifles. Like the Russians, in World War 2, they were told to wait till the guy next to them got shot, and take his. And they were brave and loyal, and did what they were told, and they died. Do you think a government that would hesitate to do something like that to a man would hesitate to make more of them Hulks? Whether or not they had a choice in the matter? What about our government? On patriotic men who volunteered?"
Jack said, "That might explain this Benet fellow. What if a foreign power were trying to make people into Hulks? Trying hard, for years, only it didn't quite work with him?"
"Why wouldn't it work?" said Abigail. "Other people have done it, right?" Jack looked at her blankly. "You talked about it in the car, it's in your articles -- that scientist, Dr. Clive. He turned another guy into a creature like this Hulk thing, only it was back in the forties." She looked at Banner. "Did he do the same thing you did?"
"Something similar, yes. Helen, do you think --"
"A failed experiment, perhaps," Sangerman said. "Clive was extremely fortunate to have a suitable subject at hand for his experiments."
"Suitable?" said Jack. "What do you mean?"
"Exposure to a particular type of radiation is only part of what created the Hulk," David said. "But there's another, innate, factor. Not everyone has it."
"So maybe Benet has that other factor." Jack's mind was working, but oh, so slowly. He could feel the ideas trying to rub against each other, but nothing would gel. "I can't think," he said desperately. "It's in the notes. Read it to me."
"It says -- 'said came to Register 8 yrs ago & I told him shove off.'" David frowned. "Wait. There's something in the margin. It says, 'No strong arm then why?'"
"Yeah!" said Jack. "He wanted to look at the Hulk file and I wouldn't let him. But he didn't try to take it by force."
"You were in a building," said Sangerman. "There were witnesses."
"But no break-in. Nothing at my home. Why?"
"Maybe he didn't need to," Abigail said. She opened the Hulk file and began to rummage through the clippings. "Eight years ago? What happened eight years ago?"
"Vissaria," said Jack. "That was the town where we got mixed up in that thing with Dr. Clive's creature -- "
"Dell Frye," said David. "His name was Dell Frye."
"There was a scientist in the forties who created a creature like the Hulk. Then it vanished, for over thirty years. Then Frye turned back, started killing people. I was there when the Hulk fought him. It was the Sheriff's bullets that ended it for Frye, and his creature. Why did he go away?"
"Frye made a cure," said David.
"There's a cure?"
"No," said David softly. "Not any more."
Jack wanted to press him, but knew better. "Okay. So Benet, whoever he is, came to my office on a fishing trip. He thought he could get information out of me, but then the news about Vissaria broke. He didn't care about the Hulk. He wanted Dr. Clive's old lab."
"The Hulk didn't leave much of it. There was a fire --"
"No, I was in that room when the Hulk left it," said Jack. "The notes were there, the pieces were there. Think about it, if a foreign power was trying to get its own men to become Hulks, like you said, why bother chasing you when they had the lab?"
"And you think for the intervening years --"
"They were experimenting. Whoever they were. Might not even be a country. Plenty of fringe groups around." Jack frowned. "So why is he looking for you now?"
A knock sounded on the office door. The knob turned. Nothing happened; Sangerman had locked it, against any students coming in. The knob turned again.
"Hello?" said a voice. It was pleasant, and lightly accented. "Dr. Helen Sangerman? I would like to speak to you regarding some of your research. May I please come in?"
No one said anything. Jack found he was holding his breath.
"I believe," said the pleasant voice, "that Mr. Jack McGee is with you. He may be able to tell you why defying me would be a very bad idea."
Sangerman said, "Everybody up and out the back."
"Open the door," said the voice. It deepened, roughened. "Open -- open -- open the dooooooorrrrrr --"
Jack was last into the storeroom. He looked over his shoulder in time to see the office door came off its hinges. Benet, dazed, staggered into the room, then turned to follow them. His gait was clumsy, unbalanced. His mouth was open in a horrible snarl, and his eyes were white.
"MkGeeeee," Benet said. "MkkkGeeeee."
Sangerman and Abigail were at the storeroom's exit door. Sangerman shoved it open. Jack shambled as quickly as he could toward them. He moved too fast and tripped over his own feet, falling heavily against a workbench.
"Jack!" called Abigail. She turned back in the doorway, even as Sangerman tugged at her arm.
"I'm okay!" Jack yelled. He waved a hand. "Go, go!" Abigail hesitated, then stepped away. The door closed behind them, leaving only a slight gap. After a moment, a shrill ringing split the air; Sangerman must have pulled the fire alarm.
"Mr. Benet," David said. "Can you understand me? This problem you have, we can help. Do you understand? Help."
Benet reeled against the doorframe. He clutched his fists tightly and threw his head back, as if he were suffering a seizure. Choked sounds came from the depth of his throat. Then he slumped, and opened his eyes again. They were blue.
"Problem?" Benet said. His voice was back to normal, too, with only a slight hoarseness to it. "What exactly is my problem?"
"You've been deliberately exposed to gamma radiation, in an attempt to trigger a transformation."
"Oh, no, no, no. My problem is, it doesn't work." Benet's voice was mocking. "You can see that's rather disappointing to some people."
"And now they're coming for you, huh?" said Jack. He pushed himself up against the bench, but his legs were still clumsy. "Erase the evidence of an embarrassing failure. What bunch of loons are you working for, anyway? Red Brigades? Baader-Meinhof? Last holdouts of the Symbionese Liberation Army?"
Benet gritted his teeth. "McGee --"
David backed up to Jack, bent, helped him stand. "I wouldn't make him angry," said David.
"It's all right," said Jack. "Don't you get it? He's like me."
"What?"
"Physically, I mean. Did you see? When his eyes go white, that strength is flowing, but he can barely move."
"Jack," said David, "I don't know what you're thinking here --"
"You didn't even read the file," Jack said to Benet. "Did you? You just saw me go and followed me and hoped you'd get lucky."
"Be quiet," Benet hissed.
"You don't even know how lucky you got. Boy, how scared were you when I threw my fit in the library, huh? Bet you went into a cold sweat at the thought of having to do the work yourself."
"Shut. Up."
"You're even a failure as a monster -- go on, get angry, you'll get stuck, and then we'll just walk away while you get all white-eyed and twitch." Jack watched. Benet's hands were balled into tight fists, his eyes screwed shut. "Bet your bosses just love that, huh? Did they get angry, or did they just laugh at you? I bet they laughed at you, I bet they laughed -- "
Benet's eyes snapped open. They were white. "Grrggg," he said. "Grrraaaaa --"
"He'll be like that for a while," said Jack. He clapped David on the shoulder. "C'mon, let's get out of here."
The exit door to the storeroom opened. A tanned, moustached man appeared in the doorway. He wore a hat and dark glasses; despite the weather, he wore a long coat and gloves. He glanced at Benet with no reaction, and then turned to apprise Jack and David.
Jack said, "Uh-oh."
"Let me guess," said David. "Hit squad from Benet's group?"
"Yeah, and we're the guys who know too much -- "
David's eyes widened. "Look out!"
Jack looked. Benet had seen the hitman, and his seizure had grown even more frenzied. He was propping himself up against a workbench -- no, realized Jack, Benet's muscles were standing out on his neck like piano wire and his arms were straining, and the groan wasn't coming from Benet but from the floorboards --
Benet tore the workbench free from the floor and threw it at the hitman. David pulled Jack back as the bench flew by them. The hitman leapt back through the door, and the top of the workbench hit the doorframe. The impact corkscrewed the desk around, and it caught Jack a glancing blow on the shoulder and sent him hard to the floor.
As Jack reeled, he realized that sound he had heard was a human scream. He pushed himself up with one hand and saw, with horror, that David Banner was lying on the floor next to him, and the desk had fallen crushing David's hand. David, his eyes screwed shut, was making choked, agonizing sounds of pain.
Jack reached out a hand to him, but stopped short. The door opened again, and the hitman stepped into the room. Benet staggered back, grasped at another desk. Flames -- Jack guessed from a gas line -- burst up from where the previous workbench had stood, and smoke was starting to fill the room. Oh, God, thought Jack. Now what? He looked back to David, and then his blood turned to water.
David's head whipped around and his eyes opened. They were stark white.
Jack slowly began to push himself backward and away, stopping only when he reached the wall. It didn't feel nearly far enough.
The hitman stepped farther into the room. He glanced at Jack -- Banner, most of him, was hidden behind the bulk of the desk -- then turned to watch Benet, who was fighting in vain against his seizure. Benet was still making noises, but Jack heard them only faintly against the sound of his own heart and what might have been tinnitus. Banner's face was thickening, the skin darkening. Jack glanced up; the hitman, satisfied no further desks were coming, had reached into his jacket and withdrew first a pistol, and then a silencer that he began to screw onto the end.
Banner's shirt tore along the arms, and down the back; his growing feet split his leather shoes. The tinnitus in Jack's ears grew louder, and his mouth was desert-dry. He looked up at the hitman -- finishing adjustments, readying the gun -- and then he looked back, and Banner was gone, and in his place was something Jack had chased across the country and every night in his dreams. The white eyes stared at him for a moment with curiosity, perhaps recognition, and then the green hand that was free grasped the desk and heaved, sending the desk flying.
It was curious, Jack thought, how time seemed to compress at moments of intense stress. The desk flipped up, spinning, and fell to the ground as if it were in slow motion. The flames in the background seemed to beckon gracefully, like dancers. In slow motion, Benet gasped in recognition. In slow motion, the gunman turned.
In slow motion, the Hulk rose to its feet.
It reached up with one huge hand, grasped the torn remnants of David's shirt that still hung around its shoulders, and pulled them away. Then it balled its fists, flexed its arms, and roared.
The gunman's jaw dropped. He turned his gun to aim at the Hulk, and the Hulk reached out its great fingers and grabbed the gunman's weapon, and squeezed. As Jack watched, the Hulk's grip crushed the barrel, bent it; the suppressor angled up toward the ceiling. The Hulk shoved the gunman back, and he fell heavily against the workbench, and was still.
Benet took a clumsy step forward. He lurched toward the Hulk, growling incoherently. At the movement, the Hulk stepped toward Benet. It made no move to attack. It cocked its head and regarded Benet with curiosity. "Shhhhll. Bgggg. Meeeeee," Benet said. Should be me, Jack thought. Benet growled, then grasped at a large metal tank, obviously preparing to swing it at the Hulk.
Jack said, "I wouldn't do that."
Benet ignored him. He grasped the tank, and swung. It bounced off the Hulk's head with a clang, and the Hulk swayed with the blow. Benet growled in triumph. Then the Hulk straightened, and turned on Benet, and Benet's face went as white as its eyes.
Jack said, "I told you. You won't like him when he's angry."
The Hulk grasped the front of Benet's shirt with one hand, and the crotch of his pants with the other. It lifted Benet overhead, and then tossed Benet through the closed door of Sangerman's office. Benet fell hard, and didn't move.
The Hulk roared in triumph, then turned to Jack. "Hey," he said. "Can I get a hand up?"
The Hulk blinked. It bent over him, slid one arm under his armpit and the other below his knees. "Not exactly what I meant," Jack began, but then the Hulk was carrying him out of the storeroom and down the hallway to the building exit. Abigail and Sangerman were standing in a small crowd outside the entrance. The other evacuees let out yelps of alarm at the sight of the Hulk, but Sangerman ran forward and Abigail was only a little behind.
Abigail helped Jack stand after the Hulk set him down. He turned to say his thanks, and the words stopped in his throat. Sangerman, her eyes shining with tears, reached out to the Hulk. Her hand fell just short.
The Hulk looked at her blankly, and then turned, and ran away.
The knock on the door, two days later, caught Jack by surprise. He was reassembling his file on the Hulk; now it included a National Register front page headlined MONSTER OF THE MIDWAY: HULK RESURFACES AT U OF CHICAGO. A smaller story halfway down the page noted UNDER ARREST! EXTREMISTS FOILED BY REGISTER ALUM JACK MCGEE.
"Come in!" Jack called. He didn't look up as he finished tucking the clippings away. He expected it to be Abigail, but instead -- "David?" he said. "What're you doing here?"
"You recognized me," said David Banner. He was smiling. "I'm glad you remembered. From what Abigail said, I wasn't sure."
"I have my notebook," Jack said. "And I have good days. I'm glad this is one of them. Come on in, have a seat."
David stepped inside. "Is it good to be home?" he said, looking around Jack's small room.
"This isn't home," Jack said. "Home is where there's love."
"That's something your father used to say, isn't it? You told me that once."
"I guess I must've, if you say so."
They looked at each other for a long moment. "I can't stay," David said.
"Yeah," said Jack. He pointed at the brown leather duffel over David's shoulder. "I figured that." He held out his hand; David shook it. "Look, I'm sorry. For what it's worth."
"It's not the worst shock I've had. The last time you came sniffing around, I'd been comfortable for two years. Maybe it goes to show that I shouldn't stay in one place too long."
"Well. Send a postcard, when you can. I might even remember you, on a good day."
David smiled. "That's it?" he said. "No tranquilizer gun, no tape recorder?"
"In my shape?" Jack said. "Even if I could write it, Abigail's soundly in your corner. I think she'd kill me. Probably a mercy for us both."
"The great mantra of journalism: 'comforting the afflicted, afflicting the comfortable.' Who was that? H.L. Mencken?"
"Finley Peter Dunne," said Jack. "And I have no idea why I remember that."
"I've never heard of him."
"You shouldn't have. Nobody reads him."
"They still read Mencken."
"Who made up news stories."
"No!" David took in the look on Jack's face. "Really?"
"He admitted it. Cheerfully. In his autobiography."
"I didn't know that."
"That's the moral lesson," Jack said. "If you're gonna lie, be a good writer." He laughed, hollowly. "That's the only thing that's ever given me hope, you know. A good story."
David said, "Will you be all right, Jack?"
"Yeah, sure. I'm scared and angry and I'm upset, but I'll be all right, I guess. Until I'm not." Jack shrugged. "Goodbye, David."
"Goodbye, Jack."
"Listen," Jack blurted as David opened the door, "was it strange? I mean -- for you, was it strange. To realize just how much anger you carry around inside of you?"
David paused for a moment. "No," he said. "In all of this, that's the only thing that's never been strange at all."
He slipped out, and closed the door behind him.
Jack turned back to his desk. The Hulk file was turned upside down on top of it, and he picked it up and gave it a tap to rearrange it before he put it back in the drawer. He'd check through his other active stories, see if there was anything left to do, and then -- his mind drifted, and for a moment he couldn't remember: was there anything? No, he didn't think so. He'd say goodnight to Mabel at the front desk on the way out, and he'd go for a sandwich and a beer and then home, for once, for a good night's rest.
And maybe in the morning, when he came in, there would be something new, there would be a story to knock his socks off.
Jack thought, wouldn't that be something?