Although he said he would go get the medicine in a little while, Peter did not go until the afternoon. Matt's leg had kept bleeding, and he had to try several different ways of bandaging it. By the time he finished, it was already afternoon.
Peter had not had time to eat. He was starving when he arrived at the clinic and caught the scent of something delicious.
Hearing the doorbell, Schiller came out and saw a big boy in a hoodie standing at the door, sniffing hard as though he wanted to inhale the entire aroma into his stomach.
Schiller wiped his hands and said, "Come in."
Peter scratched his head. "Good afternoon, sir. A friend asked me to come here for some medicine. He said you'd know."
"Oh, I know," Schiller said. "But you'll have to wait until I finish eating. He isn't in that much of a hurry, is he?"
"He's all right," Peter said. "The bleeding has stopped, but he's in a lot of pain. He needs some painkillers."
"Have you eaten?" Schiller asked. Peter blushed a little. He felt that his overly fervent gaze toward the kitchen had probably been noticed by the Doctor.
Schiller said, "If you haven't, stay and have something. You can bring a portion back for Matt too."
As he spoke, a little yellow creature came running to the table with a huge bowl balanced on its head. It even sniffed eagerly at the bowl, then licked its lips, clearly unable to wait any longer.
Schiller had made Chinese food: rice, sweet and sour pork ribs, hot and sour shredded potatoes, and a bowl of tomato and egg soup.
Peter was so hungry he was practically panicking. He stared fixedly at the table and simply could not bring himself to refuse.
Ever since gaining Spider-powers, Peter's appetite had grown considerably, and he got hungry especially easily. After finishing an entire rice cooker's worth of rice, Peter was genuinely embarrassed. His ears turned bright red as he set down his bowl. "I'm really sorry, Doctor. I think I ate all your food. Um... I'll pay for it..."
"No, there's no need," Schiller said. "I was going to make another pot of rice anyway, since I need to bring some back for my old friend. There are still some ribs in the pot. Serve them yourself, put them in that lunch box in the cupboard, and take them back to Matt."
Spider-Man ran into the kitchen. Not only did he make another pot of rice, but he also washed all the pots and dishes clean.
Schiller felt that this version of Spider-Man was quite likable.
By comparison, Pikachu had eaten until his belly was round. Once he finished, he flopped into a chair and began snoring. Schiller grabbed his lightning-bolt-shaped tail and gave it a shake. "Even if someone is washing the dishes today, that's no excuse for you to skip work. Go take out the trash."
"Oh, sir, I can take it out on my way," Peter said.
"All right, thanks. Oh, right, Hell's Kitchen doesn't have any garbage disposal fees. Walk straight ahead, and there's a corner with a pile of debris. Just throw the trash there."
Peter carried two large bags of kitchen waste out through the clinic's back door. At a glance, he spotted the place Schiller had mentioned. It was some distance from the clinic, piled high with broken bricks, scrap wood, and other garbage people had thrown away. It gave off a heavy stench.
Several beggars sat beside the garbage heap, relying on other people's leftovers and discarded food scraps to fill their stomachs.
When Spider-Man walked over, the beggars were on the other side of the debris pile, so he did not see them. Perhaps because he was full, or perhaps because Schiller's Chinese food suited his taste so well, the gloom in Peter's heart had been swept away. Happily carrying the two bags, he made a short sprint and swung his arms forward with all his strength, sending the garbage flying to the very top of the heap.
"Bingo!" Peter shouted. He used to do this whenever he went to throw out the trash with Uncle Ben—standing far away, then giving the bag a hard toss and hoping it would land right in the bin.
But he had not been that strong before, and Uncle Ben usually had to clean up his mess. Peter thought that the next time he took out the trash, he had to show his uncle the strength of his arms now.
One of the garbage bags burst when it hit the top. Inside were bones left over from someone's meal, scraps of meat from Schiller's cooking, a little unfinished shredded potato, and half a sprouted potato. Yet the beggars looked at it as though they had seen an incomparable delicacy and rushed to seize it for themselves.
The debris pile had become a small mountain. To climb it, the beggars had to step on broken bricks and wooden boards. At the peak stood a triangular structure formed from several large pieces of shattered wall. As the beggars struggled upward, Peter finally noticed that people were scavenging through the trash.
He felt a little embarrassed, so he dashed to the middle of the heap, intending to climb to the top and bring the garbage back down.
The beggars were not Spider-Man, blessed with mutant powers. They had already gone hungry for a long time and had little strength left. An older woman was closest to the top, but in her haste, she broke off the piece of debris she had been gripping. Without support for her hand, she fell straight backward.
Spider-Man had just reached the top of the heap when he saw a beggar across from him fall. He reached out to grab her, but he was a step too late.
That debris pile contained everything imaginable: shards of liquor bottles thrown down from upstairs by drunks, rebar, wooden boards studded with upright spikes. Hitting any one of them could cost someone half their life.
Fortunately, Peter had powers. He bent down at incredible speed and caught the falling beggar. Before he could feel proud of himself, he heard a violent roar, followed by the shriek of brakes and the dull, heavy sound of something being struck.
Blood splattered. Peter turned toward the nearest intersection in disbelief. The figure that flew through the air was one he knew all too well.
It was Daredevil.
A great deal of blood flowed from where he had landed. The thick scent of it cast a hazy red veil over Peter's vision.
He rushed down like a madman. Matt lay there, blood seeping from his eyes, nose, and mouth. His spine had been twisted into a grotesque shape, as though it had already broken.
But he was not dead yet. Having lost the nerves connected to his brain, he was completely unable to move.
Peter's whole body shook. He could not think about anything else. He quickly picked Matt up and charged through the back door of Schiller's clinic, shouting, "Doctor! Doctor! Someone needs treatment here!!!"
One look at Matt told Schiller that the people trying to assassinate him had probably ambushed him again. "The garage is next door. Put him in the car and take him to Presbyterian Hospital immediately."
With injuries this severe, perhaps only the very best hospital had even a slight chance of saving him.
Schiller drove recklessly through the streets of Manhattan, but still got Matt to Presbyterian Hospital as quickly as possible. He had some standing at this hospital, and Matt was swiftly sent into the emergency room.
Before long, however, the attending Doctor approached them with a grave expression. "This gentleman's chances of being saved are slim. Unfortunately, he no longer has the ability to write a will or leave verbal last words. If you are his family, you may want to see him one last time."
Peter was on the verge of collapse. Everything connected in his mind. He had never imagined that the person the gangsters had wanted to murder that day was precisely the only good man in all of Hell's Kitchen—Matt, Daredevil.
What he could not accept even more was that it was all his fault. If he had killed those gangsters when he heard about it—no, if he had only told Matt about it, Matt would surely have been more careful.
If he had not stayed at the clinic for lunch and had left immediately after getting the medicine, Matt would not have come out looking for him.
If he had not been fooling around and thrown those two garbage bags so high, perhaps he would have had time to tackle Matt aside the instant the car came charging out.
He had had so many chances to save his friend, yet he had still failed to do anything.
Daredevil was about to die. Peter could not accept that fact at all.
Schiller, however, remained calm. He asked the attending Doctor, "What is the main issue? Cardiopulmonary function? Brain trauma? Or internal abdominal injuries?"
The Doctor shook his head. "None of those. There's a problem with his spine. The nerves probably can't be reconnected. Even if we barely manage to save his life, he won't be able to move for the rest of it."
Schiller took a deep breath. "I only want to know how to save him."
The Doctor hesitated before saying, "Perhaps Doctor Strange can do something. He's our best neurosurgeon. Perhaps only he can reconnect that many nerves."
Schiller immediately turned around. "Peter, I'm going to find someone who can save Matt, but you have to stay here. Matt has been taken to the hospital, but the people who want to kill him won't give up. After I leave, you must make sure no one gets into the operating room. I'll be back as quickly as possible."
With that, he left at once.
Trembling all over, Peter kept muttering, "No one will get into the operating room. No one will get into the operating room. I won't let anyone get in..."
After leaving the hospital, Schiller called Pepper directly. "I need the home address of a Doctor named Strange."
Pepper did not ask why. Soon, a string of addresses arrived on his phone. It was not far from Presbyterian Hospital, in one of the most upscale apartments nearby.
Schiller activated Blink and arrived at the apartment building at top speed. He did not take the elevator, nor did he intend to knock. With several consecutive Blinks that let him pass through walls, he appeared behind Strange, who was having afternoon tea.
Strange heard a faint sound. When he turned around, a cane was pressed directly against his Adam's apple.
"Listen, I don't have time to waste on nonsense. A friend of mine has been severely injured and is being resuscitated at Presbyterian Hospital. You are the best neurosurgeon there. Take your things and perform the surgery immediately."
Strange wore an absurd expression. Schiller released the cane, but it continued floating in midair, pointed straight at Strange. Strange raised both hands and backed away. Though no one held the cane, it remained pressed against his neck.
Schiller reached toward the air, and Strange's coat flew off the hanger. Strange's eyes widened as he stared at the scene in disbelief. Schiller threw the coat to him and said, "I think you understand that you have no right to refuse. Come with me immediately."
Before you continue