The helicopter was just seconds away from crashing into the Kents’ field when Clark tossed away the shovel pieces and took off.
“Clark!” his dad called after him. “Wait!”
Clark tore across the field, hyperaware of everything around him: the thick drops of rain suspended like teardrops in the sky, the deafening silence cocooning his body, the breath suspended in his lungs. In instances like this one, when his powers took hold and his thoughts receded, Earth felt smaller and more fragile, as if its rules no longer applied. Yet Clark knew this was only an illusion. Gravity would still yank down the chopper. The collision with the ground would still be catastrophic. The people inside would die.
He was the one somehow breaking the rules.
But could he break them in time?
With a desperate leap, he made it just before impact, grabbing hold of the landing skids a fraction of a second before they slammed into the ground. He clutched the thick steel in his hands and braced himself with his feet. But Clark’s knees buckled under the tremendous weight of the chopper’s momentum as he attempted to absorb it with his back and shoulders. His muscles screamed, his neck tweaked so far forward that his chin was nearly flush against his chest.
It took all Clark’s strength to kneel in the mud as the massive machine jolted and twisted in his grasp. Spinning out of his control, it landed on its side with a tremendous crash, blades digging into the soft earth with a wet thwacking sound, shrapnel flying everywhere.
The chopper settled only inches from the side of the old barn, at the lip of the crater that had always marked this part of the Kent farm. Clark stared in shock at the helicopter’s battered underbelly, smoke and steam spewing out of the wreckage.
“Hey!” he shouted, scooping his glasses off the ground and putting them back on. “Anyone need help?”
No answer.
He thought maybe he’d failed again, but in a few seconds the smoke had thinned and he spotted someone hanging halfway out the cracked back window.
Clark hurried over and pulled the limp body down from the vessel. Just in time, as the remainder of the window fell from the frame in a single sheet, shattering against the side of the chopper. Clark held the guy in his arms, looking him over. It was a kid he recognized from school. Bryan Something. He must’ve been thrown from the cockpit when the blades smacked against the ground. His head had punctured the window.
Bryan’s eyes were closed, and his pale arms hung lifelessly.
“Son!” Clark’s dad was calling for him in the distance. “You all right?”
A sick feeling spread through Clark’s stomach the longer Bryan stayed still. But eventually the boy groaned weakly and blindly reached a hand up toward the raw scrape on his forehead.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Clark set him on the ground.
Bryan tested his arms and legs as if trying to confirm that he was still alive.
Clark studied his dark, scraggly hair. His deep-set eyes and stooped shoulders. He was thin, like one of the fence posts Clark and his dad had just been repairing. Yet there was a fire in his eyes. Then Clark remembered how he knew Bryan. He was new at school, having started just before the end of the year.
“What…happened?” Bryan managed to say.
“There’s been an accident.” Clark motioned toward the ground near the helicopter. “You’re lucky you landed here. In the mud.”
Bryan scrambled to his feet. “Corey!” he shouted, hurrying around to the battered cockpit.
Two other people were now cautiously climbing out of the wreckage. They each had several cuts and bruises, but miraculously none of their injuries appeared to be serious. One was a middle-aged, balding man. He wore thin glasses that were slightly bent, and he was holding a cell phone in his right hand. He stood in the mud, looking back and forth between the helicopter and Clark, something unsettling in his gaze.
The other passenger wasn’t much older than Bryan. He was taller, though. And broader. They looked like brothers.
“Thank God you’re okay, Corey,” Bryan said.
His brother marched right up to Bryan and jabbed an angry finger into his chest. “What were you thinking up there! You could’ve killed us!”
“I just looped back around like you—”
“This is the one thing you’re supposed to be good at, Bryan! But you suck as a pilot, too, don’t you? God, no wonder Mom and Dad think you’re such a loser!”
Clark watched Bryan turn away silently.
Jonathan showed up, breathing heavily after sprinting across the field. Mercifully, he stepped between the brothers, saying, “Easy, guys. I’ve already called for help. What matters is that everyone’s okay.”
Clark marveled at how quickly Bryan’s older brother’s demeanor shifted. Two seconds ago, he’d been berating his brother. Now he was smiling at Clark’s dad like some kind of overcaffeinated tractor salesman. He held out his hand, saying, “I was just explaining that to my brother, sir. The main thing is we’re all okay.”
Clark’s dad tentatively shook the guy’s hand.
“I’m Corey Mankins,” he said through an artificial grin. “This your farm?”
Jonathan nodded.
Clark realized these weren’t just any brothers. They were the sole heirs to the powerful Mankins Corporation. But what were they doing in a helicopter above his farm? He glanced at the middle-aged man with the bent glasses, who appeared to be discreetly snapping pictures with his phone. He aimed it at the wrecked helicopter, and the barn, and the crater, before slipping it back into his pocket. Clark watched the man suspiciously.
When the rain picked up again the man pointed to the old barn and said, “Why don’t we duck inside here, wait for this to pass—”
“Unfortunately, I don’t have the key with me.” Clark’s dad looped around the wrecked chopper so that he was in front of the barn doors. He grabbed hold of the rusted padlock and looked up at the dilapidated building. “Roof’s pretty much shot, anyway. We can duck under the eaves here.”
All of them crowded under the part of the roof that extended over the ground. It was broken in several places, but it gave some relief from the rain.
Jonathan had always been oddly protective of the most run-down structure on the Kent farm. He’d told Clark it was dangerous. That the whole thing could come crashing down at any moment. Clark had never really given it much thought. But now, watching Corey and the man in glasses share a curious glance, he wondered if there wasn’t more to it.
“Where are my manners?” Corey said to Jonathan. “This is Dr. Paul Wesley, a renowned scientist from Metropolis. And you’ve already met my brother, Bryan. The three of us were out here taking atmospheric measurements to help inform our harvest schedule.”
Jonathan gave his name and shook hands with them.
Clark did the same. The scientist’s handshake was especially aggressive, like he was trying to establish some kind of unspoken dominance. Clark fought the urge to show the guy what a tight grip could really feel like.
“Listen, I’m sorry about your field,” Corey went on. “My father would be happy to pay any damages—”
“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” Clark’s dad said, cutting him off. “Just a bunch of mud and dirt out here. And a barn on its last legs. I’m more concerned about you fellas.” He turned to the scientist. “So…atmospheric measurements.”
“That’s right,” the man said, pushing up his glasses. “My company specializes in agricultural gene editing and environmental strategies.”
“Future of farming,” Corey added. “By tracking weather patterns, we can better predict when to plant, what to plant, and where to plant. It’s like crop disease and pest scouting on a whole new level. The more science we bring to farming, the more efficient we’ll be. And efficiency, as I’m sure you know…It was Mr. Kent, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“Efficiency, Mr. Kent, brings prices down and production up. Everyone wins.”
Jonathan nodded politely, but Clark could tell his dad was just as skeptical as he was. Corey was a smooth talker. Clark and his dad had never liked people who pretended to have all the answers. No matter how rich they were.
Soon a couple of fire trucks arrived at the scene.
Then an ambulance. And the county deputy sheriff.
Deputy Rogers had a long yellow raincoat on, and he peered out from underneath the oversized hood after each question. Corey did most of the talking, while Clark tried to stay out of it, standing beside his father and occasionally glancing at a dejected-looking Bryan.
EMTs took the three crash victims to the back of the ambulance to check their injuries, and Deputy Rogers followed with a notepad and pen, occasionally barking directions into his crackling radio.
By the time a special flatbed tow truck had arrived, the rain was a full-on downpour. Clark and his dad huddled under a worn-out umbrella Deputy Rogers had given them while the crew worked to load the wrecked helicopter awkwardly onto the truck, Corey insisting they do it according to his special instructions.
Before the truck pulled away, Dr. Wesley climbed up onto the bed and reached into the helicopter cockpit to retrieve some kind of small briefcase. Clark kept expecting Deputy Rogers to ask about that, too, but the rain was so heavy now, everyone seemed focused on finishing things up so they could get back to their vehicles, where it was dry.
Clark pulled Bryan aside. The kid’s arm was now in a sling similar to the one Paul had been wearing at school, and a fresh butterfly bandage covered the cut on his forehead. “You okay?” Clark asked, motioning toward his arm.
“It’s nothing,” Bryan said, forcing a smile. “Just a precaution until they can do X-rays.”
Clark’s eyes widened as he stared at Bryan’s arm. Suddenly, he could see right through the sling. Through the skin and muscle and cartilage. He found himself staring at Bryan Mankins’s bones—as clear as if they were outside his body. Seeing all the stuff inside a human arm didn’t bother him. He was mostly curious. Fortunately, all the bones he saw were intact. There were no cracks or breaks or dislocations of any kind.
“You pulled me out the window before it came down on me,” Bryan said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re like…you’re a hero, man. I could’ve been seriously hurt.”
Clark scoffed, adjusting his glasses. “I’m definitely not a hero. Just in the right place at the right time, I guess.”
“Well…” Bryan turned to look at the battered helicopter lying on its side on the truck. “Can’t believe I lost control like that. I’m not even sure what went wrong exactly.”
“Had to be the storm,” Clark told him. “It got bad really fast.”
“But it’s not like the wind was that strong. A little rain shouldn’t have thrown me off like that.” Bryan turned back to Clark, shaking his head. Lightning flashed, illuminating the concerned look on his face.
A powerful roar of thunder followed.
“Bryan!” Corey called out from beside the ambulance. “Come on. Let’s go.”
After Bryan turned to leave, Clark glanced over at his dad.
He’d been watching the entire exchange.
So had Dr. Wesley.
Clark stood in the shower, running through everything that had just happened out near the old barn. How he’d darted clear across the farm in a matter of seconds. How he’d grabbed the plummeting helicopter in his bare hands and somehow wrestled it to the ground without anyone incurring serious injuries. But the part Clark kept circling back to was his conversation with Bryan.
He’d called Clark a hero.
No one had ever done that before.
Clark knew he wasn’t supposed to use his powers in public, yet he couldn’t deny the exhilaration of being referred to as a hero. It made him feel important. It made him want to go out there and save someone else.
As the warm water continued pelting the back of his head, Clark found himself thinking about his rapidly changing powers. As he’d raced toward the falling chopper in the rain, he’d had the sudden urge to just…leap into the sky. To soar up toward the two-ton machine and catch it. In midair. Which was ridiculous, he knew. Humans couldn’t fly. But the instinct had been incredibly powerful.
“Clark!” his mother called from downstairs, breaking the spell of his daydream. “Dinner’s ready!”
Clark cranked off the water and toweled dry and went to his room to get dressed. On his way downstairs, he imagined what it would be like to play football now. He pictured himself taking a handoff from the quarterback, juking left, then soaring into the air to avoid a wall of converging defenders. Not coming down until he’d crossed the goal line some forty yards later. Spiking the ball from up near the goalpost as the opposing defense stared in awe.
He pictured Lana cheering wildly from behind the bench.
Pictured Gloria cheering.
Tommy, Paul, and Kyle hoisting him up onto their shoulders and carrying him into the locker room to celebrate.
When Clark sat down at the table with his parents, his dad passed him the bowl of green beans, saying, “I was just telling your mother what happened.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen anything like it, son. You saved three lives out there today.”
Clark beamed, thinking of that word again: hero.
Martha Kent eyed him as she buttered a roll. “As long as you’re being careful.”
“I just reacted.” Clark scooped himself a healthy serving of beans to go along with his chicken and mashed potatoes. His mom had always longed for a simpler, more peaceful life for him. A happy life. And she worried that the burden of his gifts would one day become more than he could bear.
“Your mother’s right, Clark.” Jonathan set down his fork. “What you did today…,” he began. “It really was a wonderful thing. I’m sure Montgomery Mankins would see to it that you’re set for life if he knew you saved his sons.”
Clark took a big bite of potatoes, mumbling, “But…”
“But we don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks. Like I was telling you earlier, some people in this world…they don’t appreciate anyone who’s different.”
“It could make things really difficult on you,” his mom added.
Clark glanced out the window. He knew his parents were only trying to protect him, but was it really fair to ask him to change who he was in order to appease closed-minded people? He turned back to them. “I understand what you guys are saying, but if I have an opportunity to help someone…I mean, shouldn’t I help them?”
“Of course,” his dad said. “We’re not asking you to turn your back on someone in danger.”
“But our main concern is you,” his mom said.
Jonathan nodded. “There’s a quote that comes to mind, son. From the Bible. ‘To whom much is given, of him will much be required.’ It’s a good thing for you to remember.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, Clark thinking about what his parents were trying to tell him. It was obvious his powers were intensifying. And he had a feeling that, as his dad’s quote said, more power would somehow lead to more responsibility. Would there ever come a time when he’d have to go against his parents’ wishes? When he’d have to step out of the shadows and reveal to the world who he really was?
He snuck a glance at his mom and dad, then closed his eyes briefly and listened to the muted sounds of his home. Forks clinking against plates. Rain pelting the thin roof above their small kitchen. Mice scurrying inside the walls of the attic and bugs burrowing holes into the wet soil outside.
This house.
The farm.
His parents.
If anything ever happened to any of them…
Clark opened his eyes
, recalling Dr. Wesley’s cold stare. And the pictures he’d been taking with his phone. What had he been looking for? And why had he been looking for it on the Kents’ farm?
Deep down, Clark knew his parents were right. Being called a hero was nice, but he could never let anyone find out the truth about his powers. Not if it meant putting his family, and the farm, in jeopardy.
The following afternoon, as Clark was walking to the public library to meet Lana—their long-standing, post-chore ritual on Saturday afternoons—a bright red sports car came speeding down the highway toward him. When it got close, the driver swerved directly at Clark, as if trying to run him off the road.
Clark didn’t budge.
He stood his ground, staring right at the tinted windshield as the car whizzed past, missing him by a fraction of an inch.
“I’m right here!” he shouted after the car as it continued down the road.
Clark had never seen anyone drive so recklessly on Highway 22, the narrow two-lane road that connected many rural farms to downtown Smallville. The driver had to have been going a hundred at least. Nearly double the speed limit. And who was it, anyway? Clark had lived in Smallville his entire life and knew pretty much every car in town, which family owned it, and who might be driving. There were a ton of pickups, of course. And old sedans. And minivans. But nobody in Smallville owned a bright red sports car with tinted windows.
Had to be an outsider.
He readjusted the straps of his backpack and continued until he reached Alvarez Fruits and Vegetables, the covered produce stand run by Carlos Alvarez and his son, Cruz. It had been a staple of Highway 22 for as long as Clark could remember, and the Kents stopped by every weekend. He’d seen Cruz go from a shy elementary school kid handing out plastic bags, to a confident middle schooler who managed the cash box and translated whenever his dad needed help communicating with customers. Cruz was tall for his age. Almost as tall as Clark. So most people assumed he was in high school—until he opened his mouth, that is.
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