The dim glow of street lights reflected off the garish, yellow police tape that barred Peter access to his own home. Flashing cars screeched at him as men in blue scrambled between them. Cries crammed the air, and the front door burst open.

A tearful May Parker slunk out of the house, a female cop placing an arm reassuringly around her shoulders.

Another group of cops slowly clambered outside, in their hands, a stretcher, in the stretcher, a body bag.

Uncle Ben was nowhere in sight.

The counsellor smiled gently at Peter, rubbing a hand soothingly on his back as he sniffed. "It's going to be okay," she coaxed, "your Aunt May will take good care of you, I'm sure. I know Uncle Ben's passing is hard, but you need to be strong! Be a big boy and help her as much as you can!"

'Get over it.' Peter heard the message loud and clear. He couldn't stop himself from scowling at the lady. "Aunt May's sad too," he pointed out, lip sagging in a way only a nine-year-old could pull off.

The woman frowned, retracting her hand and bringing it to her lap. "I'm sure your Aunt May will be brave for the both of you."

Peter wrinkled his nose, the pungent, alcoholic smell still lingering from when May dropped him off.

"I guess."