Miles - Webslinging Speed

“Don’t sweat it, Miles,” he says, taking the box from me. He’s clearly struggling with it more than he lets on, and part of me wishes I could pause time, grab the box, and web-sling across town with it, all the way to Brooklyn. I could be there in thirty minutes tops. Doesn’t seem fair to make him carry it down the stairs, down the street, down more stairs into the subway, swipe his pass with one hand while struggling under its weight, and then lug it onto the train, transfer to a second train, carry it up more stairs, and finally, down the street to our dorm—but I guess this is what Peter meant by “it’s not always easy keeping a secret identity secret.”

***

“Good idea, Mom,” I smile, and I mean it. Fresh air sounds great right now. And walking off some of that pizza. I look out the living room window and take a deep breath as I think of how good it would feel to dive off the top of the Brooklyn Bridge, catch the top of a bus with my webbing, and fling myself back up into the sky before sailing through my old stomping grounds.

But I decide that here in Spanish Harlem, with all these people I’ve never met, in a neighborhood I’ve only been to in passing, maybe a chill walk through the neighborhood is a better choice.

***

Now? It feels more like home than Abuelita’s house.

At least for now.

It’s a long way from my Abuelita’s house by train—around an hour, whereas by web sling it’s about half that.

***

Chapter 1, Chapter 4