The object descending upon us was egg-shaped, with a flat bottom; it sprouted retractable landing gear with disc-shaped pads from its underside as it descended from the night sky over Ann Street.

Pammy and Matt, who by now had come out onto the porch, were also gazing up at the sky.

“Looks like one of those old-fashioned beauty shop hair dryers,” said Matt, “like old ladies would sit under in hair curlers.”

He was right—that’s exactly what it looked like.

“It’s just Preston,” said Pammy, “making a big, show-offy entrance, as usual.”

“Preston?” I said. “Secret Agent Preston Percy? What’s he doing up in outer space?”

“He must have been watching us from ICHHL’s orbiting satellite,” said Trent. He should know; he had recently visited it, the last time he was Megaton Man.

The pod disappeared behind the house, presumably landing softly in our back yard. A figure in a golden space suit came around the side of the house to the front lawn where Yarn Man lay. The space man wore an egg-shaped helmet mimicking the shape of the vehicle we had just seen. When he removed his helmet, sure enough, it was Preston.

“I came as soon as I could,” he said. “Everyone, grab a limb—quickly. Let’s get him out of sight.”

We all responded to this order: Stella, Trent, Preston, and I all grabbed one of Yarn Man’s arms or legs; Matt and Pammy grabbed the hem of his boxers. Together, we barely managed to lift Bing off the ground; no wonder the Partyers from Mars had struggled.

“Woo!” said Trent. “Bing sure has gained weight.”

To avoid the spectacle of clamoring onto the porch and in through the front door, Preston guided us back down the short side of the house to the back yard. “This will be quicker and less cumbersome,” he said. As we got to the patio, Stella said, “Wait—I don’t want puke all over my kitchen—not on Thanksgiving.” She was right; we hadn’t finished putting away the leftovers.

Instead, we flopped Yarn Man over on his back on the picnic table. Trent found the garden hose and started washing off all the vomit covering Yarn Man’s torso.

“So, this is one of the Megaheroes you covered in your controversial column,” Matt said to Pammy. “But, why’s he here? Are you sure it’s within journalistic ethics to maintain a personal acquaintance with one of the newsmakers you write about?”

Apparently Pammy had neglected to inform her boyfriend that she was renting a house with the former See-Thru Girl and Megaton Man.

“It’s a long story,” said Pammy. “And complicated.”

“You must be the old boyfriend,” Matt said to Preston, extended his hand. “That must be your ride.” In the middle of the back yard sat the egg-shaped pod that had descended to earth. “How many lightyears to the gallon do you get with that thing?” Matt asked. “And does it dry your hair, too?”

Preston shook Matt’s hand but ignored the attempt at humor. “Yarn Man started carousing with that lout, Colonel Turtle, over the summer,” said Preston. “The two of them went off on a bender somewhere on Long Island, where we lost track of them. Later, Bing crossed paths with the Partyers from Mars—this was apparently after he won and lost a fortune in Las Vegas and cut a record in Nashville. Then, things went from bad to worse. Even the Martians got fed up with him.”

“When even the Partyers from Mars get fed up with your behavior, that’s saying something,” said Trent.

“Colonel Turtle?” I asked. “Wasn’t he one of the Partyers I just saw?”

“That was a tortoise,” said Preston. “Completely different character. Colonel Turtle one of the Devengers—short for Doomsday Revengers—a Megahero team across the bay from Manhattan in New Jersey. Yarn Man and Colonel Turtle go way back, almost to World War II.”

After Trent rinsed him off, Bing revived enough to sit up. “Where am I?” he said, sputtering and wiping his eyes with his red mittens.

“You’re in Ann Arbor, Bing,” I said. “It’s Thanksgiving. Do you remember me?”

“Clarissa,” he said. “Hey, baby!” Then he flopped back onto the picnic table, unconscious.

“At least he recognizes you,” said Pammy.

“Bing’s going to need to dry out for a good, long spell,” said Stella. “We had to go through this every once in a while, back when Yarn Man and I were both members of the Megatropolis Quartet. Rex had to lock him into a special, reinforced containment unit until he got over his delirium tremens. We’re not going to be able to do anything for him in Ann Arbor. Preston, you’re going to have to take him back to New York.”

“The Megatropolis Quartet Headquarters no longer exists, remember?” said Preston. “Besides, Bing can’t go back to his old lifestyle in Megatropolis; he’ll just fall in with Colonel Turtle and that Devengers bunch again—you know he never could control himself. You don’t want your old teammate to die, do you

“I suppose not,” said Stella. “But—”

“How about the ICHHL satellite?” suggested Trent.

“That’s a one-man space pod,” said Preston. “I won’t be able to lift off with him aboard.”

I looked at the pod; it looked plenty big enough to hold Yarn Man. I think he just didn’t want to get puked on.

“But we can’t hold him here in Ann Arbor,” said Stella. “He’ll demolish the house.”

“I’ve planned for just such a contingency,” said Preston. “Come on; let’s get him down to the basement.”

“Basement?” I said. “You’re not going to put him in the rec room, are you? My daddy fixed that room up all nice; he’ll tear the place apart.”

“Clarissa’s right,” said Trent. “Drywall and paneling will never hold Yarn Man—not while he’s detoxifying. And you know he’s liable to become violent as he goes through chemical withdrawal.”

“The rec room will hold,” said Preston. “ICHHL provided Clarissa’s father with specially-reinforced materials.” He saw that none of us were convinced. “Trust me; Bing is going to need your love and support.”

Reluctantly, everyone again grabbed an orange arm or leg—or the hem of Yarn Man’s shorts—and we somehow wrangled him through the back door and down the stairs into the basement.

Once we had him on the bed in the rec room, I removed everything breakable or easily damaged from the space, including the portable TV, the lava lamp, and the black light posters and other wall decorations—even the costume trunk.

Preston locked the door and tucked the key inside the vest pocket of his spacesuit. “He’s going to need vitamins, and plenty of ‘em,” he said. “You can slip them under the cat door.”

I hadn’t even noticed the hinged flap in the bottom of the door my daddy had installed. What had they envisioned—conjugal visits from Kozmik Kat?

“Of course, we had no idea the safe room would come in handy so soon,” said Preston. “But in my line of work, you’ve got to be ready for anything.” As if to demonstrate this, he promptly unzipped his golden space suit and stepped out in his usual dress slacks, shirt, tie, and spiffy shoes.

Upstairs, we heated up some turkey and fixings for Preston, who sat down in the dining room. He explained that Yarn Man should be out like a light for the next forty-eight hours.

“If you’d rather not hear Yarn Man bellowing like a caged bull for the next week or so,” Preston said to me, “I suggest you stay as far away from that basement as possible.”

Preston was right; Yarn Man was quiet at least until Avie picked me up the following morning. She took me home to Detroit, where I spent the rest of Thanksgiving weekend with my sister and family. I tried pushing it out of my mind that Yarn Man—the middle-aged Megahero who had deflowered me—was locked in our basement rec room on Ann Street, drying out from what had been weeks if not months of severe alcohol and drug abuse. It almost worked.

I had taken my book bag with me to Detroit to do homework; I hadn’t needed an overnight bag, since I kept clothes at home. On Sunday afternoon, three inches of snow had fallen, so I didn’t return to Ann Arbor until Monday morning. Mama drove me back in her new Chevette, not at the Ann Street house, but right on campus for my first class. After that, I walked up State Street and Border Worlds Used and Slightly New Bookstore, where I knew I’d find Trent at work. Sure enough, he was straightening shelves in the true crime section.

“How’s Bing doing?” I asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“He’s still violently ill,” said Trent. “He was bad all weekend; he hasn’t been able to keep anything down. We’ve been slipping vitamins and broth under the cat door. Stella wanted to let him out last night, but I reminded her what Preston said: Under no circumstances is anybody to unlock that door before ten days have passed.” I already knew that was impossible, since Preston had taken the key with him back to his orbiting satellite, or wherever he had gone after dessert and shooting the breeze with Matt.

Luckily, Daddy had installed a bathroom adjacent to the rec room, so at least Bing had a toilet and a shower. But it was horrible to think of my former lover confined like a prisoner. Somehow, I couldn’t help but feeling responsible. For me, our dark and stormy night of passionate love had been purely physical—I was only using Yarn Man to lose my virginity. Sure, I had thought warmly of him since—I’d feel myself get aroused by crocheted pillow covers and stuffed teddy bears, which I filled my room with since he left—but I never confused such feelings this with love. But I had never stopped to think of his feelings—I couldn’t imagine little old me breaking his middle-aged heart. Had our wild fling somehow instigated his spiral into self-destruction? Had Yarn Man regretted leaving Ann Arbor? Did he miss me?

When I expressed these thoughts to Trent, he said, “Don’t beat yourself up. Bing’s incapable of genuine emotion; if you cut open his chest, you’d find the same stuffing as he has in his head and in the rest of his body.”

“But Yarn Man is always going on about being Megaton Man’s best pal,” I told him, recalling something Bing had once told me. “At least Megaton Man’s being a great pal, helping out Yarn Man in his time of need.”

“We didn’t have much choice in the matter, did we?” said Trent. “To tell you the truth, I never really knew Bing Gloom all that well. He used to pal around with my Uncle Farley and Clyde Phloog”—the Original Golden Age and Silver Age Megaton Men, respectively—“a lot more than he ever did with me. Honestly, when he goes around saying he’s ‘Megaton Man’s best pal,” I wonder if it’s ever sunk into his fuzzy noggin that we’re three completely distinct generations.”

“Still, Bing’s fiercely loyal, isn’t he?” I patted Trent on the arm. “And I’m sure he’s grateful that you’re helping him through this rough period of adjustment.”

“As long as its temporary,” said Trent. “I can tell you, Stella wants Yarn Man the hell out of the house as soon as he’s back on his feet; after this weekend, she’s more firm than ever that Megaheroes shall play no part in our son’s life.”

I was very sad as I returned to class. All I could think of was how lonely and dejected it must feel to be Bing Gloom, living with the horrible, disfiguring aftermath of the accident that left him Yarn Man—a useless, hideous freak. Useless except in the sack.

My afternoon classes over, I finally made my way home. Pammy and Stella were both still at school—Stella must have taken Simon along for the day in his new stroller—and Trent would still be at the bookstore for another few hours. Preston Percy was nowhere to be seen. I looked inside the refrigerator, which was still loaded with Thanksgiving leftovers. There’s nothing less appealing, especially when you’ve been home all weekend gorging on Thanksgiving leftovers, than more Thanksgiving leftovers. Besides, I was more worried about Bing.

For a moment, I stood listening for any sound coming from the basement, but everything was quiet. Then, with trepidation, I tip-toed downstairs to the basement.

Much of the basement—where the washer, dryer, furnace, and work bench area were—was still unfinished, with only painted cinderblock walls and the naked rafters of the first floor above. The white sheetrock walls of the rec room my daddy had built, shiny and smooth, stood in stark contrast to the rest of the basement. I hadn’t noticed before how much the rec room resembled a prison cell.

I knocked on the door. Inside, Bing moaned.

“Bing, how are you?” I asked.

“Clarissa?” came a voice, weakly. “Is that you, Missy?”

“I just wanted to see if you needed anything,” I said. “I can heat up some Thanksgiving leftovers for you, if you like.”

“No thanks,” came the reply. “I don’t have the appetite. But thanks, sweetie.”

I tried turning the door knob. It was firmly locked.

I had seldom taken notice of my daddy’s improvement projects around the rented Ann Street house in the last several months; I hadn’t realized how solid the walls and door of the rec room were as he installed them. I looked around for a spare key, perhaps hung up on a nail in the rafters—that was something our family would do; but Preston was too much a control freak to allow such practices. He had locked Bing inside for the duration, knowing that the rest of us—especially me—would be too weak to trust with a key.

“Bing,” I said, a tear rolling down my cheek, “I’m so sorry I can’t at least visit you.”

“That’s okay, Missy. I appreciate it. But it’s for the best.”

“I wish I could give you a hug.”

Inside, I heard him move from the bed. He came to the door. At my feet, the cat door swung inward; Yarn Man’s red mitten appeared.

I knelt down and took his hand.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” said Bing. “I have newspapers and the Sunday funnies and crossword puzzles. You do your homework—and stay in school.”

I started to cry.

Upstairs, I finally did fix myself some leftovers, then I finished my homework. It was late afternoon, and still no one else was home. From my upstairs bedroom, I couldn’t hear anything from the basement. What if Bing had suffocated? Died? What if he was crying his eyes out over me, and I couldn’t hear him all the way upstairs? I would never know.

I went back down to the basement and knocked on the rec room door.

“How are you doing in there?” I asked again.

“I’m fine, except all the pesky door-to-door salesmen who drop by.”

I laughed. “You need a good vacuum in there, I’ll bet.”

I knelt down again and sized up the cat door. It might be a tight squeeze, but I might just barely be able to squeeze my fat ass through, I thought.

“I’m coming inside.”

“No—I don’t want anybody seeing me like this,” said Bing. “I haven’t showered or changed my socks or nothin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Honest—I’m still running a fever, and feeling queasy,” he said. “Seriously. Give me a few days, until I’m back to my old self.”

Reluctantly, I stood up, wiped my nose, and walked back upstairs.

The two weeks following Thanksgiving were the last of classes before finals and the end of the semester. When I wasn’t pouring coffee for other harried students at the Drowned Mug Café, I was consumed with my own last-minute, late-night studies in the libraries, revising term papers and cramming for exams. When I was home, I stayed away from the basement—it was too emotionally difficult for me. Stella or Trent took turns sliding vitamins and newspapers under the cat door down in the basement.

As Bing started feeling better, they started sliding trays of food he could hold down: soup, saltines, and Vernors ginger ale, which he consumed by the six-pack. They were happy he was getting his appetite back, but it was also costing them money. I had them save the receipts—a page I had taken from Daddy’s notebook—but even as finals loomed, Preston still hadn’t returned to Ann Street.

“Maybe he forgot about Yarn Man,” I said one morning over breakfast.

“I doubt that,” said Trent. “Preston probably wants to make sure Bing is completely dried out before he opens that door. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brings Professor Rex in from Megatropolis to give his old teammate a physical.”

Stella blanched at the mention of her ex-husband’s name. “Preston better not,” she said. “I don’t want Liquid Man ever setting foot in my house.”

“What if Preston doesn’t come?” I said. “We’ll have to bust Yarn Man out—I mean, we can’t just leave Bing in there to rot, can we?”

Trent and Stella looked at one another, then looked at me. They both gave me a funny look that suggested that, yeah, they probably could leave Yarn Man locked inside the rec room to rot.

Two weeks passed quickly and finals were upon us once more. To take my mind off Bing’s plight, I studied extra hard; I was reasonably certain I was going to make the Dean’s List again. Usually, I would be looking forward to pulling up stakes and heading home to Detroit for Christmas vacation. But something kept pulling me back into the basement of our Ann Street house.

One day I was down there doing some laundry—probably my last load before heading home—when I noticed the items I had pulled out of the rec room. The portable TV, lava lamp, black light posters, and other items sat forlornly on top of the costume trunk next to the work bench. I realized it had always been Bing I imagined visiting me the rec room—of us cuddling up and watching TV and doing other stuff—before the harsh reality of his confinement there.

While my clothes tumbled in the dryer, I walked over to the door of the rec room. I thought to knock, then paused.

“Clarissa, is that you?” came Bing’s gruff-but-loveable voice from behind the door. “You must be in your bare feet, tiptoeing out there. Aren’t your poor feetsies getting cold?”

“I’m okay,” I said. I was barefoot, but was wearing my old Abyssinian Wolves sweat shirt and sweat pants. “How are you doing in there? Do you need anything before I go back to Detroit tomorrow? Would you like me to bring anything back?”

“Trent gave me some dirty magazines,” said Bing. “But no box of tissues or lotion.” He laughed, “Har, har!”

“You’re terrible!” I said, pounding my fist against the door. But I couldn’t help but laugh, too. I was glad Bing was getting his sense of humor back. “I’m coming in,” I said spontaneously.

I paused a moment; he didn’t object this time. So, I crouched down, laid on my back, and scooted under the cat door, pushing myself with my feet. My arms had to go in first, otherwise my shoulders would have been too wide; Bing grabbed my hands and gently pulled me through, and then to my feet.

Inside the rec room was dark and kind of smelly. “Pee-yew,” I said, holding my nose. “When’s the last time you showered?”

“I wasn’t exactly expecting visitors,” he said. “We can shower together, though.”

I turned on the lights; judging by the way he was squinting, Yarn Man hadn’t bothered to turn them on in a while. The bedding was filthy and half of our dishes from upstairs were stacked on the floor.

“You take a shower,” I said. “Let me launder these sheets.” I pulled the blanket and sheets from the bed and shoved them under the cat door. I gathered the dirty dishes and put them on a tray and slid that under as well.

Bing gave me a bear hug. “It’s great to see you, Missy,” he said.

“Ugh!” I said. “Shower first—and brush your teeth. I’ll be back.”

Outside the rec room, I ran the bedding through the washer. In the meantime, I slid the lava lamp, the portable TV, and other stuff I had removed from the rec room—except for the trunk, which was too big—through the cat door. Inside, I heard the shower running, and Bing whistling.

I took the tray of dishes up to the kitchen and set them in the sink, then dashed up to my bedroom to slip a strip of condoms into my pocket. From the linen closet I grabbed some fresh sheets, pillow cases, and a blanket. Back downstairs, I slid them under the cat door. Then, I slid under myself, again.

I set up the TV and the lava lamp, and rehung the posters, then I made the bed. I finished just as Bing came out of the shower, wrapped around his waist in a towel. On a towel rack in the bathroom, his damp polka-dotted shorts hung on a towel rack.

“Could you fix me an omelet now?” he said. “I’m feeling kind of peckish.”

I punched him in the shoulder. Then I pulled off his towel.

I didn’t leave the basement rec room for the next several hours; by the time I came up for air, I made a mental note to grab more condoms. Upstairs in the kitchen I found Stella feeding Simon; Trent was in the dining room eating dinner.

“Where have you been?” Stella asked, startled. She’d had no idea I had been downstairs, but immediately realized the answer to her own question. “We were wondering how those dishes got back up here.” She stared at me for a split-second, then averted her gaze entirely. “So, how is my old team mate? I was just about to fix him a sandwich or something—assuming he can hold it down.”

“He wanted an omelet,” I said.

“Fine,” she said, still not looking me in the eye. “Would you like to take it down to him?”

“No, I—oh, crap!” I looked at the clock on the kitchen all. “I was supposed to cover for some other girl at the café tonight—I’m late!” I had completely forgotten. I ran upstairs to change.