Andrew J. Lederer

Gavin Crain knew he had been exposed to a more-than-reasonable amount of radiation in his youth because of his family's unfortunate taste in collectibles -- radium-filled timepieces and uranium-glazed Fiestaware, which they ate off of every Sunday night because it was special. He often felt sick, which he imagined was related to this exposure and was jealous of comic book characters, whose nuclear experiences turned them into heroes, not somewhat justified hypochondriacs.

"Still," he thought to himself, "getting bitten by a radioactive spider gave Peter Parker spider-like powers. What would my powers be? The ability to tell time? The strength of a Mexican dinner?"

Hmm. The more he thought about it, the more he figured he did have one power -- he was sort of invisible. It wasn't the right kind of invisibility, though. Not the kind that thwarts evil villains.

In truth, Gavin was invisible even to himself. He didn't really notice that he could do things.

Like, you know the stories about adrenaline-fueled mothers who somehow find the strength to lift cars off of their young ones and things like that? Well, Gavin couldn't quite do that but he came close -- he seemed always willing to get one of his students or even a passerby out of a scrape and if it meant climbing something or lifting something that seemed daunting to others, he would do it and think nothing of it.

And he didn't need a personal connection to whoever was in need to drum up the necessary enthusiasm and strength.