The trouble with the screen door was that it always banged shut. No matter how carefully you tried to release it against the frame, the spring mechanism would overcompensate for it. Even now the aluminum clanged harshly, accompanied by a twelve-year old voice groaning in frustration as he utterly failed to be sneaky.

Mort gave the door a dirty look of betrayal as he heard his father call for him in the living room. On a good day, this wouldn't have been a problem. He'd have let the door slam, grabbed a Sunkist from the fridge, and then would practically hang off the back of his father's armchair to deliver an earful of chatter about his day.

This had not been a very good day.

He skipped the beverage, despite the fact that a cold can would feel very good against his swelling eye, and reluctantly trudged into the living room.

"Oh, Mort," his father sighed, taking in the disheveled and mud-covered clothing, the torn book bag strap, and the split lip that was clotted with drying blood. Mort peered up at him through unruly black bangs, hoping he wouldn't see the shiner forming. "Were you in another fight?"

Which was a manlier way of asking whether he'd been held down by those boys from St. Mary's Catholic School and beaten up. "Yeah," Mort admitted, and licked at his bottom lip painfully.

Gareth Toynbee folded his newspaper, trying to remain calm. It wasn't his son he was mad at, it was those little punks who seemed to have nothing better to do than wait after school to jump on kids who were different. Born with only four fingers on each hand and with skin so fair it was almost white, Mort couldn't really help but be a walking target for such attacks.

He reached out and brushed his son's hair away from his eyes, examining them. Yes, there would be a glorious bruise there in the morning. Mortimer seemed to sense his disappointment and lowered his head, shoulders hunching forward into his customary slump. Gareth hated when he did that; he looked far too old.

"The next time those boys get anywhere near you, I want you to give them a good punch in the nose. You remember how to make a fist like I showed you, right? How to put your shoulder and hip into it?"

Mort nodded, not bothering to say it wouldn't work. He'd tried it the first time and he'd learned that while one hit might get in, it was about as practical as punching an angry hornet's nest; either way you were going to wind up in an awful lot of pain.

Gareth seemed satisfied however and continued carding his fingers through the boy's hair, brushing out dirt and leaves and at least one cigarette butt. He wished Mort would stand up straighter.

"Draw anything new today?" he asked, and like magic, it worked. Mortimer's lips tugged up in a smile and he rummaged in the backpack to produce a worn notebook. Gareth continued grooming the boy's hair as Mort got to the right page, then looked indulgently down at the various sketches.

Anna had told him that Mort's escape from the daily grind was drawing, and that he should encourage his son's interest in the arts if that was what the boy had chosen as a hobby. Not too long ago, Mortimer had told both his parents that he was perfectly content to sit and draw during recess. That in fact, he was much happier sketching than playing rugby or tether-ball with the other kids. Really.

And because neither of them wanted to face the possibility Mort was never invited to play with anyone, they had let it lie.

Gareth let his eyes roam over the rough pencils, noticing how good Mortimer was at drawing hands. Normal, non-webbed, five-fingered hands. Never his own.

"Not bad, kiddo," he said, flipping to another page. Fast sketches of girls - always at a three-quarter turn, or with their backs to the viewer. Obviously they were unwitting models; he'd scribbled their forms quickly before they could look over and see what he was doing. Mortimer was noticing girls at least, which gave Gareth a secret swell of relief in his chest.

Mort fairly glowed under the praise and ducked his head obligingly as Gareth tousled the dark curls. "Why don't you go clean up and we'll see about sneaking in an ice-cream sandwich before dinner? Our secret, eh?" He handed the notebook back and watch Mort scamper off to the bathroom, all injuries seemingly forgotten in his glee.

Soon enough, Gareth thought with a pang, ice-cream wouldn't be able to make the boy shrug off what the rest of the world had to say about his differences. Even now, he wasn't certain it did.

As much as he wanted to take a baseball bat to the kneecaps of the little bastards who tormented Mortimer on a near-daily basis, he knew that letting one's father take care of the bullies was not a man's way of solving problems. It was Gareth's job to lead by example. When life threw shit at you, you either learned to duck or you threw back some of your own.

That was his philosophy on life anyway.

Of course, Gareth's chance to put said philosophy into practice came around shortly, when his job on the road construction site was unexpectedly declared obsolete. Having not quite ducked in time, he was laid off - along with dozens of fellow workers. A press conference revealed that the city's funds for road improvement had been compromised by a new bill written by some yuppie idiot and then passed through by a group of even bigger idiots.

Basically, no road construction projects for at least three years, on the belief that the city's freshwater aquifer might be getting contaminated with salt water from the harbor. The appropriate research had to be done and then the bill had to be re-evaluated and rewritten, or simply tossed out. A sound environmental worry - except that the city's aquifer was located at least one hundred miles inland according to accurate city charts.

Everyone knew it. Gareth's boss knew it. Gareth and his coworkers knew it. The government yuppies representing them had either read the chart upside down or used it for toilet paper instead of reading it at all. There was nothing anyone could do but find work out of city limits, which most of them did. Though the most stubborn of the lot had planned simply to hang up their hats, collect unemployment, and wait with misplaced faith for the world to come to its senses.

Anna had not seen any sense whatsoever in such a plan.

"Gareth, this is not going to fix itself if you just sit on your bum and eat chips all day in front of the television! The unemployment barely covers the mortgage, and my job only just pays for groceries and other bills. And let me tell you something, mister. They are starting to lay off on personnel at the office, so if I lose my job - we're officially screwed."

Mortimer watched his mother from the living room, one hand on her hip and the other holding the cheese-covered spatula to illustrate her point. He wasn't paying any attention to the television, just watching the debate going on in the kitchen. It was far more interesting than the baseball game, which he'd only turned on to make his father happy.

Dad was a lot harder to make smile these days, though. So much that he'd stopped showing off his art notebook after school and he'd started taking different routes home every day to throw off the St. Mary's boys.

"Listen, your mom said she'd help with the mortgage," his father grunted, around a mouthful of macaroni. There was a sudden clang of cutlery that made Mort jump and nearly upset his own bowl onto the carpet.

"You have absolutely no right to ask her for money after you sent her off to live at Pin Oak! I still can't believe you practically bullied her into that!"

"I didn't bully her," Gareth protested vehemently. "I told her the government would pay for her to stay in a retirement home because of her bad hip, and after we talked about it she agreed it was for the best! Look at us, Ann! We're just one inch ahead of being in debt, for chrissakes! Over groceries, because you over-drafted the account!"

"I wouldn't have over-drafted anything if you hadn't spent thirty bucks filling up your truck! Which you never even use, it just sits there in the driveway all week while you eat and watch your damned sport games!"

Mort sheepishly dug the remote control out of the sofa and changed the channel to the news.

"Ann, would ya lay off? Look, the thing with your mom was hard for me too. But you have to agree it's a good thing Myrtle's living where someone can take care of her and she doesn't have to worry about going hungry."

"My mother was one of the only people besides Mortimer who kept me sane around here. At least she helped keep the house clean! That living room is a pig-sty!"

More angry bustling in the kitchen. Mortimer looked down at all the empty chip packets and crumbs and soda cans and crept down off the armchair. He picked up the biggest of the bags and quietly started stuffing trash into it. Maybe it would make his parents stop fighting if he cleaned. They had never picked on each other like this before.

"I'll look for work tomorrow, alright? Is that what you want - for me to go out every day, wasting gas, when sooner or later they're gonna realize how ass-backwards they're being about this whole aquifer thing and start hiring construction crews here again! It's not worth the gas money to drive clear out to Albany every damn day!"

His mother was frostily silent, save for the slamming of cupboards and dishes. Mort snuck out of the living room with his bag full of trash and walked barefoot to the dumpster in the alley. Mom would come out soon and see that the living room wasn't as bad as before. And maybe she and Dad would make up then. In the meantime he'd just stay out here for a while, out of the way.

From inside there was the sound of a dish breaking.

Yep. Staying out here was a great plan. Everything would be just fine by the time he went back in. To while the time away, he glanced down and tried to figure out which side of the family he got his awkwardly long tridactyl feet from. And the webbing - that too was a mystery.

His dad had once told him that he could get the webbing cut out by a doctor when he was older - or maybe even Someday When They Had Money. Webbing between fingers and toes wasn't unheard of; it was just a recessive gene. Doctors did procedures like that all the time. They also could split the middle toe and finger to give him normal hands and feet, if he wanted.

Mortimer had thought it was a wonderful idea despite its scariness. His grandma had an entirely different opinion on the matter. "Just leave the boy alone! So what if he doesn't have the right amount of fingers and toes? Is that a crime nowadays?"

And then, Grandma Myrtle had told him the story of Ann Boleyn, who had not five, but six fingers, who had ended up marrying a king and giving birth to Queen Elizabeth.

Of course the story didn't have a very happy ending, but it was still entertaining considering his mother's first name. It had resulted in fondly remembered daydreams during which he was the secret hidden son of Ann Boleyn, who'd cut off her sixth finger and escaped to the future to live in New York along with her bodyguard knight, Sir Gareth Toynbee. Anyway, it had all made perfect sense when he was eight years old.

He turned his head, listening. The house was quiet. And it was getting cold and starting to turn dark. There was also spooky rustling in the trashcans near the end of the alley. Mortimer turned his back on them, fleeing into the safe circle of light spread by the lights within the house. He heard his mother call his name and went inside, hopeful.

If there was anything worse than being in a doctor's office, Ann didn't want to know what it was. She hated clinics, the sharp smells and the unpleasant music and the out-dated magazines that made it impossible to focus on anything else but the discomfort you were in. Or the discomfort that someone close to you was in.

She flipped through the National Geographic which had been published five years ago and scanned an article about fossils, trying to ignore Mort's attempts to fully disappear into the oversized coat. It was the middle of July, three days after her son's thirteenth birthday, and she had come up with the plan to take Gareth's truck and drive the both of them to see his grandma. Mort had grown up so fast and she wanted her mother to see him while her eyes were still good. Likewise, she wanted Mort to see his grandma before Myrtle was completely confined to a wheelchair.

Ann had never imagined that she would wake up to her son's skin falling off in patches. Or that the skin beneath it would be green and mottled. She had worked hard to conceal her panic in order to soothe Mortimer and to stop him from trying to plaster the old skin back down over his arms. He had refused to leave the house without something to completely cover himself, despite the summer heat.

Frustrated, she turned a page, almost ripping it. She should not have gone to the clinic. Instead she should have taken Mort straight to a hospital, even if they could in no way afford it without insurance. Hospitals at least were air-conditioned. She bit her lip as Mort writhed uncomfortably on the seat, trying to hide from the stares of other patients and find a position that did not yank painfully on the strips of peeling skin.

Not a moment too soon, someone called Mort's name. Ann threw the magazine heedlessly onto the table and got up, gently pulling on Mortimer's arm. He seemed even more reluctant now, resisting her a little. As they followed the nurse down the corridor, Mort went from freezing up to desperately matching her stride in order to stay as close to her as possible. Ann could feel him shaking and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Okay, honey, take off your jacket," the nurse said gently. For a moment, Mort's grip tightened on the ends, keeping it closed more firmly. Then he let go with a shudder and let the parka drop to his ankles. Ann tried very hard to forgive the nurse for recoiling at the sight. At least the woman didn't make a sound and smoothed professionalism back onto her face.

"Just get up on the table and remove the rest of your clothes, down to your underwear. The doctor will be in shortly."

Mortimer gave Ann a pleading look that made her stomach drop. She knew without words what he was asking. "Yes, you have to. He has to see your skin, Mort."

As he took off shirt and jeans, Ann made a point of staring at the pictures on the wall and busied herself with hanging the parka up on the available coat-hooks. She knew what it was like being asked to undress in front of God, strangers, and your own mother when you hit puberty - every kid had to have been there before. But how many of them had turned green on top of it? She heard the paper crackle as her son climbed up onto the table.

Ann longed to just hold him as he pulled his knees up to his chest, but she knew it was probably the last thing he wanted. She was equally sure that he did not want her to leave and wait outside. Even if he asked her to, Ann wasn't sure she could. She didn't know what doctor was seeing him or what he was like.

The examination itself had been incredibly hard to watch. Mortimer had not cried out at any point, but she knew each time he'd wanted to. Several times, he had looked so longingly at the coat hanging up by the door that she nearly reached for it herself. The room was now filled with more of the clinic's staff than either she or her son were comfortable with. Ann darkly suspected about half the people here were only present to gawk at the green kid.

Ann stood up, having finally had enough of people poking and prodding at Mort and generally not doing anything but throw around theories. She put herself between the table and the rest of the room, an action which caused the discussion between two doctors and the clinic's dermatologist to trail off and die.

They stared at her as if just realizing she was still in the room. Ann felt her stomach squirm, wondering if they'd try to kick her out for interfering. Behind her, Mortimer shifted to drop his forehead gratefully against her shoulder and she rediscovered her voice.

"Gentlemen, unless you know exactly what's wrong with him and how to help him, I think I will take him to another clinic."

"Ma'am, I'm actually going to suggest you take your boy to the hospital. This isn't like anything I've seen. It could be a new disease, or parasite. It's for his own safety as well as the public's that he be examined - possibly held for a few nights."

Mort made no sound at all, but Ann could hear his terror. "Do you think it's a disease or a parasite?"

"I'm not saying it is, but I'm not saying it isn't either. It could be nothing but an abnormality in skin pigmentation -"

"If he were your son, what would you do?" Ann persisted, torn. "Would you put him and the rest of your family through hell for possibly nothing?"

Two of the doctors looked at one another. Dr. Klinar, the dermatologist, finally sighed. He said something low to his colleagues and they nodded, promptly leaving the room. Ann folded her arms nervously as he shut the door and turned back to her and Mort.

"For this? Not necessarily. Though I advise you to take him to the hospital anyway, there is something I think you should consider. I haven't seen cases exactly like Mortimer's, but lately parents have been taking in teenagers with very unusual changes to their body. If the skin was peeling off before it was dead, then I would be leaning more toward parasites. But his skin is fully formed and despite the coloration, it seems healthy. So do the rest of his vital signs. To me, this seems more of a genetic mutation than anything hazardous. I can't tell you for sure, but there is no direct evidence pointing to anything else without further testing."

Ann swallowed, feeling something akin to relief wash over her, which made her feel guilty. It wasn't the insurance that was important. It was Mortimer. Her own fear and mistrust of hospitals and doctors was making her worry more about him being trapped there and mistreated, rather than whatever he actually had. She knew she had to get over that.

Right now, she had to discuss this with Gareth and with her mother if possible. She wished the doctors here could have at least given her an inkling as to what was going on. Their complete bewilderment and guesswork didn't do much to install her with faith about the hospital staff's capabilities.

"Thank you," she said after a long pause. "I think I need to talk to my husband before I decide anything."

Dr. Klinar nodded politely at the dismissal and left the office. Ann was left alone with her son.

"Mortimer, get dressed. We're going home."

Mortimer had all but scrambled into the car as soon as they saw it, heedless of the burning seatbelt as he buckled it across his lap. Ann turned the engine on and blasted the air conditioner his way as she sat more gingerly on the hot vinyl seat so that it didn't burn her thighs. The door on her side was left ajar, trying to collect fresh air into the cabin before their drive home.

How Mortimer managed not to pass out in the seat beside her was a marvel. He had his hood up to hide the peeling gashes across his face, despite the fact that it was at least ninety degrees out here. A cold shower would probably do him very good once they got home.

If Gareth was where Ann had left him, they could talk about what this meant. He'd have to find a job now - it was imperative. If they had extra income, they could see about buying health insurance from a non-business provider. Just in case they had to take Mort to the hospital later.

She was still very against the idea. Ann wondered if she was somehow wired wrong. Her own mother had so often taken her to the doctor's office for the least little thing, and it now seemed like such a natural maternal instinct to have. But Ann did not have it. Mortimer's slight birth defects had instead made her want to shield him from such places.

Mort's hand went up and disappeared within the parka hood. With a start, she realized he'd been crying silently. When had that started? He'd never been able to hide it so well before.

"Oh, baby, come here," she soothed and kept her arms out patiently as he hesitated for a moment, then undid his belt and crawled across the seat to let her hold him. His skin probably felt unbearable in this heat, but he stayed put as she rubbed circles on his back. "You can take it off now. We'll be driving."

Mortimer only shook his head. "I'm not that hot. It's okay." He swallowed. "Mom, I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm fine. I know I freaked out this morning, but maybe green skin isn't so bad because it's only the stuff that's falling off that hurts. And anyway, we don't have insurance and we can't afford it if we go. So I don't want to go."

She had difficulty swallowing for a few moments and her eyes were suddenly burning. "I want you to be okay, Mort. Not just okay, healthy."

"I can be healthy with green skin. Lots of healthy things have green skin. The Hulk does, and he's fine."

Ann made a wry face. "Honey, the Hulk is a government-funded project. I don't think he really counts." And wasn't that just a tabloid rumor anyway?

"But he's fine isn't he? And my skin isn't going to go back to normal no matter what the doctors do anyway. If we go to the hospital, they're going to hold me and do tests and if they can't find out what did this, I might never get to see you again."

Mort stopped talking as his throat closed up. Ann bit her lip against a sob and slid her fingers into the hood to stroke her son's face.

"That won't happen to you. I promise, okay? As for the money, don't you worry about that. I'd pay anything just to hear that you are going to be around for a very long time. Whatever that costs, it's worth every penny. So don't you worry about it. We're going to go home now," Ann said, wiping at her eyes. "And we're going to just relax for a bit. Take things one step at a time, okay?"

She felt Mortimer nod and let him sit back up. The ride home was long and defeated.

His skin condition did not change for the better, save for the dead skin at last coming off by the end of the week. Aside from that celebratory occasion, it stayed the same dark green with a mosaic of slightly darker spots down his back. The one thing his parents had unanimously agreed on was that he was not going to go back to school once summer ended.

This was good and bad in different ways; Mort found that he was spared the stress of having to somehow hide his odd coloration on top of his unusual number of digits but he also found that without classes, he was bored. Lately his art subjects were limited to what he could see outside of windows. Over the weeks he'd filled his sketchbook pages with sketches of postmen, cats, stray dogs, squirrels and the occasional rat, then for a change he switched to drawing insects trapped inside. It drove his mother crazy.

"Here, Mort, move -" she'd said once, advancing on the window with a newspaper.

"No! Mom wait -" One good-aimed swat later and the hornet was lying dead on the windowsill. Mort's shoulders dropped in disappointment. "But I was drawing that."

"Well . . . now it's fully pose-able," Ann had countered. Mort's eyes had lit up as he made a considering noise. She'd quickly fled the room, too squeamish to watch him act on that information.

Alternatively, his mother would bring home books or make up problem sheets for him to keep him on the ball. After the initial week of groaning, Mort had actually thrown himself into the schoolwork for lack of anything better to do.

Life seemed to crawl back into its old familiar haunts. Along with Ann going to her office job from morning to afternoon, his father had started to spend less time at home, either looking for a job or working a part-time contract on a building. Mort rarely got to talk to him anymore.

Late at night, Gareth would come home, flop onto the chair and turn on the television. He would never check in on Mortimer to see if the boy was awake. On the occasions that Mort waited up for him, he'd announce that he was completely beat and was going straight to a shower and then bed.

It never occurred to Mortimer that Gareth was avoiding him on purpose - not until the one night he came out of the bathroom to hear furious whispered arguing from his parents' room.

"Gareth, I cannot believe we are having this discussion again. I can't believe you would even bring something like that up."

"Ann, listen. This school actually sounds like the real deal. It's made for people like Mortimer, people with odd conditions or strange abilities. He'd fit in there."

"And how convenient that it's all the way upstate. Far from where you have to deal with him," Ann snapped.

"This has nothing to do with your mother, Ann. This is about our son. Xavier's Institute seems like a great place for him."

"Do you actually know anything about this man?"

"I have his number on his card. Someone gave it to me at a job site, said Xavier took in his own kid last month. Great guy, paid off the medical bills and everything. Only thing wrong with his son was that he was sprouting hair where he shouldn't be. All over his body. Some sort of recessive gene. Maybe that's what Mort has."

"So this man is a collector? He collects people who are different? Has this 'friend' of yours even heard from his son lately?" Ann's voice raised in alarm.

Gareth snorted, amused. "Ann, stop being such a worrywart. Come on."

"You aren't worried enough! Rich people don't just go around taking in kids with odd medical cases and - and then pay the parents off! Not for any good reasons! The whole thing sounds sordid."

"Well, I think Mortimer should go. It's better than him moping around and unable to leave the house. Don't look at me that way - he can't be happy here! No boy in their right mind would be content just sitting in front of a window all day!"

"Gareth, all I can think of right now is you telling me that my mother would be happier living in an old folk's home than here. She was still able to walk when she lived here, still able to live for herself. I went up there to visit her recently and I saw her doing absolutely nothing. She tries to hide it, but she is completely miserable. Can't even stand up without the help of a walker now! For you to just sit here and act like sending family away is the answer to everything wrong in your life . . . it's sick! I am not going to send Mortimer anywhere until he's of legal age, and even then, only if he wants to go! You just have to deal with it."

"Xavier's is a better place for him. You're being selfish. You're frightened, so you want to smother him and keep him close to you."

"At least I talk to him! You've barely said two words to him all month!"

Mort felt a sharp pain in his chest. Had it been that long? He just figured he had bad timing is all. That his father's new job really took the strength out of him each night. He leaned his head closer to the door, reluctantly eavesdropping.

"I can't bear to look at him, Ann! I just can't. He's got no future. He'll never have a girlfriend, never graduate junior high, never get to go to a dance or play football with other kids. He has nothing here."

"He has a family. A mother and a father who love him. So what if he's not going to be perfectly normal. When did that ever matter?"

"I could deal with it when he had just the fingers and toes wrong, but this? He's green, Ann. For chrissakes, that's horrible - he's never going to fit into society unless some miracle turns one half of the population into freaks like him."

There was a stony silence in which Mort could feel his heart break. He bit his lip, concentrating on not making a sound.

"How could you even think that word?" his mother finally hissed, voice breathless with rage.

"You know what I meant. I don't think he's a freak, it's just . . . that's how everyone else is going to see him. He won't feel so alone if he goes to this Institute."

"Gareth, you don't even know what's there! You don't know anything about Xavier, you don't know if there are bars on the windows or restraints on the beds - you don't know who these people are or what they could do to Mort! You don't even seem to care, so long as you don't have to deal with him! Yes, he's going to get hurt by what's out there. He's going to feel isolated and alone and we're not going to be able to make all the pain go away. But sending him away to live with strangers? What do you think that's going to do to him?"

"Give him a fighting chance, maybe?" retorted Gareth. "Ann, if I were his age and I had his defects? I would have killed myself by now."

Mort's face twisted in grief and he escaped to his bedroom, unable to stand out here another minute. He had heard enough and he didn't want to listen anymore. Mom was raising her voice and now so was his father, but Mort shut his door and slipped on a pair of old headphones, blasting music to drown them out.

He curled up on his side and wept bitterly, unable to hear anything but his father's words still echoing in his head.

TBC