He grunted and slid out of his sedan. Paul Harvey had his good days and his bad days.

Stephen's employers would never begrudge hum the extra five minutes after the hour - the offices of the Make-A-Wish Foundation didn't officially open until eight-thirty. He always did like to get an early start on the day.

He paused in the lobby to straighten his tie in the mirror by the reception counter, more out of habit than any real attempt at changing the knot. He had been wearing a tie every day for thirty-four years and he rather thought he had it down by now.

Besides, it wasn't as if he was going to be receiving visitors at seven in the morning.

"Ohh, Ste-e-ephen," a raven-haired woman breathed excitedly, hurrying from the hallway with tripping little steps. As usual, she held her hands up and out in front of her, her fingers arranged, Stephen thought, as if she were carrying a couple of dead fish.

"Morning, Robin," he said. He idly wondered what had her upset this time - either she couldn't start the coffeemaker or her computer had frozen up again.

"You have a visitor!" she whispered, eyes alight.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "At this hour?"

The plump woman nodded vigorously, practically bouncing up and down.

He had known Robin long enough to know she wasn't about to say any more. He tossed the remains of his coffee in a wastebasket and headed down the hall to his office.

"Hello, what can I - "

He stopped in the doorway.

Standing across the small room was a tall black woman, with broad shoulders and well-defined arms and legs. She wore a shining leotard of bright red topped with star-spangled blue. A wide stripe of gleaming silver ran between the two colors, and at the tops of her white gloves and boots.

She was admiring a photograph on the wall, and as she turned at his voice he was instantly struck by the softness of her brown eyes.

They looked... out of place, on one so powerful.

"Americana."

He said the name with not quite enough inflection to make it a question.

"Hi," she said, smiling.

Stephen hurriedly extended his hand. "Hello, I'm Stephen DeSantis."

The heroine took it. "Nice to meet you."

"Believe me, the pleasure is mine," he said as he motioned her to a chair. "After all, if not for you, I wouldn't even be here."

"Hmm? ....Oh! Right, the plane."

Yes, he had been on the tarmac with the other passengers, shouting, cheering, trying to get her attention.

Lately it seemed as if every news broadcast or magazine trumpeted an interview with someone who had been on the plane Americana had rescued; Astrea thought that it was beginning to sound like the old joke about the Mayflower having had to have been bigger than the Queen Mary just to hold all those relatives people always claimed to have had come over on it.

"I must admit," DeSantis said, "I am more than a little surprised. I didn't really think you'd even heard me, what with all the goings-on."

"I was a little preoccupied at the time," Americana smiled. "What can I do for you?"

"Not so much for me, thank you. There's a boy in Kansas City who's contracted a serious neurological disorder called Krabbe's disease. It... eats away at the myelin sheath around the nerves - a terrible, painful disease. And ultimately, unstoppable."

"Ohh," Americana said quietly. "How awful."

"His wish.... is to meet you."

Americana blinked.

"You are the group that helps kids go to Disney World and football games and all that, right?"

"Yes?"

"And he picked me."

Desantis smiled slightly.

"That is about the size of it, yes."

Americana pursed her lips as she exhaled.

Since being imbued with her powers she had met famous statesmen, fought super-powered maniacs, and been on the covers of national magazines. But being a child's last wish - that, that shook her.

Astrea had been reading stories to kids in the children's ward at George Washington for a few years now, but most of the children she read to would eventually go home. Even so, there was nothing more heart-wrenching than seeing such little ones in pain. The thought that one so young would even have to think of making a final request, knowing he was dying...

"Of course I'll help. What do you want me to do?"

"Just... chat with him, say hello," DeSantis said. "He's only five, so he'll probably be full of questions."

Americana winced. Five years old.

"Um, he's where, did you say?"

"Kansas City. Plains Memorial Hospital."

Americana looked a bit uncomfortable. "I... don't think I can fly that far. And I, well, I can't really afford the bus fare right now..."

"Oh, we'll fly you out, no problem. That's what we do. Sometimes we'll fly the child and his family, but this little fellow is really too sick for that."

Americana paused.

"I think maybe a bus might be better."

He raised an eyebrow.

"The last time I flew - inside a plane, that is - they asked me for picture 1D. I'm a little protective of my true name... "

"Oh right, the whole 'secret identity' thing, right?"

DeSantis grinned. He was actually talking with a superhero - a real one. Oh, to be eight years old again!

"Not a problem. We can get you a cash advance, and you can buy your own ticket."

"Oh. That would be fine. Thank you.

"Can I get back to you this afternoon on the timing? I've got to... check some things out."

Yeah, like work, Astrea thought. And Jason. And school...

"Oh, you're not one of those independently wealthy superheroes, like Catman?"

Americana looked up.

For a moment DeSantis regretted his alleged wit. She couldn't swing a bus trip - what if he had insulted her?

"Sorry," she shook her head, then smiled slightly.

"Catmobile's in the shop."

"I didn't ask you here to talk shop."

"No?" Nick D'Arcangelo shifted uncomfortably in the soft leather chair. Given the late hour of their meeting, long after most everyone else had gone home, he had certainly suspected that this was more than a social call.

That he personally and professionally disliked his host only made the invitation more intriguing.

"Why, then?"

"Mister D'Arcangelo. I've had my eye on you. You wear your ambition on your sleeve. I know you have your eyes set higher than Assistant District Attorney.

"I also know that there are three candidates poised in better stead to take over when Lowell retires."

D'Arcangelo sat upright. "Lew is retiring? When?"

"Still a few months down the road," his host said, waving a hand dismissively. "There's been no announcement yet."

The man smiled - that Nick thought he'd have a few years left to move up, to position himself for the head job, was evident on the Assistant D.A.'s face.

"A shame you haven't a case, a crusade, that could not be ignored. That would brand you as a rising star in the District, perhaps beyond."

Nick felt his heart race faster as his host's small, dark eyes narrowed. Thus must be what it felt like to make a deal with the devil.

"Go on."

"I've heard you've stated that being nice or morally right is not the same as being legal."

D'Arcangelo opened his mouth but was silenced by an upraised hand.

"Commendable. We live by the rule of law, after all; anything less begets chaos. A loss of control. You understand that, don't you, Mr. D' Arcangelo?"

Nick nodded cautiously.

"But for some people, mere popularity allows them to run rampant over those laws.

"These loose cannons must be reined in. Don't you agree, Mr. D'Arcangelo?"

Nick nearly jumped when his host thrust his face close to his own.

"S-sure."

"I want you... to bring in Americana."

D'Arcangelo blinked.

He thought he had heard him say -

His host nodded slowly, smiling. "That's right. Americana."

"My God. Y-you're serious?"

"Hell, yes, I'm serious! Don't tell me she's got you hoodwinked too!"

"But - "

"The last time I looked, D'Arcangelo, vigilante justice was illegal! Never mind that every two-bit criminal on the coast is coming to this city dressed like some damn kind of professional wrestler!"

"But - "

"You think it's all right when a citizen interferes with police operations?"

"Well, no, but she's saved so many lives! That plane -"

"Saved lives? Endangered lives, you mean! That plane was brought down by one of those costumed nutjobs that come here because of her!

"Saaaay," he brightened. "Maybe we can we have her declared an attractive nuisance?"

Nick stood, hesitantly, and shook his head in disbelief.

"She is a national hero," he said, enunciating each word for emphasis. "The President's going to give her a medal, for God's sake!"

He stared at his host.

"And you expect me to arrest her?!"

"I expect you to do your goddamn job, Mr. D'Arcangelo! Do I make myself clear?"

Nick D'Arcangelo nodded.

"Perfectly, Mr. Mayor."

Astrea pulled her coat tight around her as she walked past another of Kansas City's innumerable barbecue restaurants.

She had had the cab drop her off several blocks from the hospital, a concession to her keeping a secret identity. The charity had offered to have someone meet her at the airport, but she thought that would rather defeat the idea of her not revealing which flight she had taken.

Astrea had spent her time on the plane reviewing some literature on the boy's disease, to perhaps gain some understanding of what he was going through. What she did manage to make it though, before bleary eyes forced her to close her notebook, was enough to make her heart ache.

Krabbe's disease is a genetic mutation, an error that doesn't allow for proper nerve development in the brain. It destroys the myelin sheath which surrounds nerves and carries electrical impulses - messages - to every other nerve. Because the messages don't get through, every involuntary movement from breathing to digestion is affected.

The symptoms were terrible. Inconsolable crying that lasts for days. Legs and fingers going rigid, unable to bend enough to even fit in a car seat. Inability to roll over or hold his own head up. Vomiting from inability to digest food. While all this is going on, seizures and fevers occur.

And there is nothing anyone can do to relieve the symptoms.

In the later stages, children may lose eyesight, hearing and experience paralysis. And since the disease eventually affects all brain areas, bit by bit the brain shuts down... and the child dies.

Thank God, Astrea thought, that no one in her family had ever been affected by something so horrible.

Well, there was Uncle Jeff, who died from lung cancer, but she had been young then arid her parents had spared her seeing him near the end.

And her mom, of course - but she didn't die.

These were babies - and they'd be lucky to see their third birthday.

She took a deep breath.

Come on, Astrea, think of something else. Vacation. Christmas. Anything so you won't cry.

She walked right by the hospital, carefully noting the surrounding buildings. Plains Memorial was, thankfully, an urban hospital - there were any number of places where she could change unseen.

Let's see, she still had a good fifteen minutes before she had to meet the man from the local Make-A-Wish chapter; she absently wondered if her signal watch would work all the way out here, or if it only worked around Washington.

Hmm, something to ask sometime.

She stood with her legs apart and arms out to her sides, and concentrated. A silver-white flash of light appeared on her chest, quickly expanding outward to engulf her, then receding just as rapidly.

In its wake Astrea Starr was gone. In her place was a taller, powerfully-built woman in a high-necked, long-sleeved leotard; the star-spangled upper third separated from the lower red by a stripe of silver. Similar silver bands lined the tops of her long gloves and boots, and a large white star shone in the center of her chest.

Americana slipped through the late afternoon shadows to the building's north door. Granted, it could hardly be considered a hidden entrance, but given her propensity to draw a crowd it was better than strolling in the front door.

"Mr. Robinette?"

"Americana!" A man in a green sweater brightened.

"Chuck Robinette - pleasure to meet you!" he said, pumping her hand enthusiastically.

"Nice to meet you, too," she smiled.

"Well!" he clapped. "If you'll follow me we can head right upstairs. As per your request we've kept this fairly low-key; about half the hospital doesn't even know you're here."

He pressed the call button for the elevator and smiled. "Of course, we'll see how long that lasts."

"I... hope that I haven't put you out or anything... with the no media requests and all..."

"Oh, not at all. You'd be surprised how many celebrities we deal with who make the same request. I think it's kind of nice, actually - lets you have time with the kids."

The door opened onto a tiled hallway whose bright colors and cartoon character decorations couldn't disguise the fact that it was a hospital corridor.

Two kids, who appeared to be ten or eleven, were at the soda machine next to the elevator.

"Wow!" one exclaimed. "Americana!"

"Aw, it's just some girl in a costume."

"Oh?" Americana smiled. "What makes you think I'm not the real one?"

"Well, you don't look like a superhero."

"I don't?" Astrea said, puzzled.

She paused, running a finger behind her ear.

"I'm... not sure I follow. You mean my costume?"

The boy gave an impatient sigh. "You know - you don't... look like one."

He handed her a comic book from his backpack.

On the cover, three post-pubescent females with breasts bigger than their heads teetered atop three inch heels as they pointed guns the size of howitzers at off-screen opponents. They wore masks and high boots and very little else - their `costumes' were more like exotic lingerie that had shrunk in the wash.

Americana raised an eyebrow.

This... was a comic book?

"You know, hon," she finally said, "Real women... don't look like that."

"They're superheroines," the boy said with annoyance, as if he were trying to explain that the sky is blue. "The `Peril Girls' is the best comic Mr. Todd has ever done!"

"Really?" Americana said as she casually drew up her legs off the floor and folded them underneath her.

"Uh huh," the kid proclaimed proudly. '`Even better than `Brawn' or `Lady Deathknell'!"

"Uh, Tommy," the other boy poked him in the shoulder.

"The first issue is already worth fifteen dollars, if it's got a gold foil cover!"

"Tommy!" his friend hissed, pointing at the space where the woman's legs no longer were.

Tommy's face went white as he realized that the `some girl in a costume' was now floating in front of him, sitting cross legged in mid-air.

Americana smiled at him.

"Nice meeting you guys, but I do have someone to see. Mr. Robinette?"

The man in green chuckled and led her down the hallway to the nurses' station.

After a suitable fuss, during which seemingly every nurse, doctor and orderly on the floor "just happened" to take their breaks, she was led into the pediatric critical care ward.

Americana swallowed hard - seven beds had been moved as far from the walls as the patients' monitors and intravenous tubes would allow, all arranged in about three quarters of a circle... and each bearing a small child with wires and tubes stuck into them.

Gathered by the beds were their parents and siblings and quite a few nurses, all looking at her.

"Americana," Robinette said, "These are Kelly's parents, Tom and Cheryl James."

"Hello," she said, taking their hands. She hesitated - she couldn't very well say she was pleased to be here, under the circumstances...

"And this," Robinette saved her, "Is Kelly."

Americana crouched down. "Hi, Kelly."

The boy was frighteningly thin, and hunched over slightly in his bed. When he took her finger in his hand Americana was afraid to move lest she break it.

Still, his face was lit up. "Hh... mare cana."

"Hey. That's a pretty strong grip you have there, hon."

The boy grinned.

"S... aw you... n TV."

"Really? You know what's funny about that? It's really strange when I see myself on TV. I'm out here, but I'm also in there," she pointed to the monitor suspended from the ceiling.

Kelly laughed, wheezing slightly.

Americana gently tousled his hair. "Say. Would you mind I said hi to your friends here? I promise I'll be right back."

"0..." he struggled to form the word. "... kay."

The heroine circled from one bed to the other, asking each child his or her name, and chatting a little bit. They were all within a few feet of each other, but Astrea thought it best to give each a little attention.

She then pulled up a chair next to Kelly and talked a bit with him; about what she could do, about his brother's fish, about her own recent stay in the hospital.

And about stories.

Some of the children had begun to yawn, and the head nurse gently suggested that perhaps the little ones be read a story and then get some needed rest.

"What book do you want, Kelly?" his mother asked.

"Cure-yus George!"

"Ohh. We don't have that book, honey. It's only when Miss Rita comes in, remember?"

Astrea ran a finger behind her ear. How many times had she read that darn story aloud?

"We might not need the book," she said softly.

"Come again?"

Americana drew a deep breath and announced, "Curious George lived in a small house with the Man in the Yellow Hat..."

And she was off and running.

Perhaps she didn't remember every word of Margaret and H.A. Rey's children's classic, but Astrea knew it well enough, to her own surprise, to tell the story from memory.

.

And well enough not to simply recite it; she gave characters voices, changed the pace at which she talked, raised and lowered her voice for emphasis - even cupped her arms and walked like a monkey when doing George. True, she'd never win a role in even a high school play but the children loved it. Just like her mother had done for her, she smiled.

"All right, now, it's time for bed," the nurse said. "Let's get everyone tucked in and take their medicine."

"Bye bye, Kelly," Americana said softly, rubbing his cheek. "Thank you for inviting me."

"Bb..." he said as he faded off to sleep.

"Americana," Kelly's father said. "Thank you so much for coming. It means so much to him."

"You're welcome. I... wish I could do more."

"Believe me," he said quietly. "You've done a lot - you made him happy."

And considering all he's... going through..."

He looked at his fitfully-sleeping son. "It's good for him to know wishes can come true."