“What happened, Clark?” she ventured. “Where did you get the kryptonite?”

He frowned. “Those nice art thieves sent it to me in the mail.” He dug into his pocket again. “See?”

He thrust a crumpled piece of paper at her. Gingerly, she took it from him and studied it.

‘Dear Superman,

Thank you for the painting. Here’s a small token of our appreciation. Enjoy.

Love,
An Art Lover.

PS – There’s more where this came from.’

“Okay, so let’s set you up so that you are in control,” said George. “How do you think we can do that?”

“Well, he’s coming over for dinner next Wednesday,” she said. “I guess that puts me in better control. I can decide what to say to him before he even arrives.”

“Exactly. You can even figure out how you’re going to broach the subject,” George said, who then went on to help her plan the entire evening, from the moment Clark arrived to the end of dinner.

“And once you’ve done all that, you can go on to ask him what you asked me last week,” George finished up. “It should flow nicely on from the other stuff.”

He chuckled. “No such thing. Just various shades of abnormality - I can do you an hour-long lecture on the subject if you’re interested. Two hours if you ask nicely.”

She shook her head. “No thanks, George.”

“No? I’ve got slides...visual aids...? No? Okay, tell me some more things that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t gone to the Congo, then.”

Clark had given her a chirpy welcome and promptly floated up to the ceiling.

George had eyed his patient balefully for a moment before muttering, “He gives a whole new meaning to the word ‘high’, doesn’t he?”

She trudged up the echoing, institutional-grey staircase and turned into another corridor which was an exact replica of the one she’d just left. The nurses station was at the end, just as on her floor, but as she passed a darkened dispensary on her way to the station, a small movement caught her eye.

Someone was in there.