Much to Mama’s great satisfaction, Albert was immediately hooked. Within a matter of months, he knew everything there was to know about the machine—the bits and bytes, the boards and binaries. Soon he had taken his computer apart and rebuilt it to make it not only more efficient, but also incredibly powerful.

Mama couldn’t have been happier. She sat back and marveled at her cunning, wondering if perhaps she should write a book on making young boys into successful men. Unfortunately, Mama’s dream was soon to wither. Despite all her careful planning, she was unprepared for the distraction that would ruin everything. It wasn’t girls—the poor boy was a physical mess who rarely saw the sunshine, let alone a girl’s approving gaze. It wasn’t cars. She had seen dozens of mothers lose their sons to hot rods and motorcycles, and wouldn’t allow auto magazines past the door. No, the thing that brought her house of cards crashing down around her was comic books. At the age of fifteen, a neighbor lent Albert a copy of The Amazing Spider-Man #159. Albert read it cover to cover, then read it again. And again. And again. And again. Mama gave it little attention at first. After all, she had noticed that the issue he was reading contained a character known as Doctor Octopus. He had a PhD. Mrs. Octopus must have been very, very proud.

Unfortunately, Spider-Man was just the beginning of Albert’s obsession. When he returned the well-worn comic to his friend, he was told he would have to buy his own from then on out. He promptly went home and took a hammer to his piggy bank, which was stuffed with money for college, and squandered Mama’s dreams on Batman, the Green Lantern, the Incredible Hulk, the Fantastic Four, the X-Men, the Avengers, and of course, Superman. Albert read everything his local comic shop sold and spent his weekends at garage sales patrolling for back issues of Sgt. Rock and golden age Justice League. And quite soon, Doctor Octopus, as well as Doctor Fate, Doctor Doom, and Doctor Strange, were taking up more space in his imagination than Dr. Nesbitt—future computer scientist.

Mama was horrified. If her son did not grow up to run a multinational software corporation, what would she brag about with Linda Caruso from next door? Linda had been preparing her son for a career as a lawyer, dressing him in pinstriped suits and taking him to wine country on vacations. If Albert didn’t give up his ridiculous love of funny books, Linda would look down her nose at Mama forever! Something drastic had to be done.

So, one day, when Albert was at school, she packed up his comic book collection and put it on the curb. As she watched the garbage men toss the boxes into the back of their truck, she told herself she was doing her son a favor. One day, when he was flying around the world in his private jet, he would thank her.

When Albert got home from school and realized what she had done, he got on his scooter and tore through town until he tracked down the garbage truck that had stolen his treasures.

The next day, after rescuing his collection out of a landfill, he moved all his belongings down into the basement and had a locksmith install tamper-proof deadbolts on the door. Mama’s relationship with him was never the same. They rarely spoke except at mealtimes. More than twenty years later he was still down there. What he was doing, Mama could not say, but she gave up on his career in science when she found his microscopes in the trash can.

Despite his appearance and his rather smelly secret lair, Albert was not lazy. He had put his scientific training to good use. He had conducted hundreds, thousands of experiments with a single aim: to acquire real superpowers. He’d bombarded spiders with radiation in hopes of gaining their abilities, landing in the hospital instead. He had poured toxic waste on himself in hopes of enhancing his senses, and ended up being scrubbed with wire brushes by men in hazmat suits. He’d even tried to build a flying suit out of iron, only to trap himself inside for several days.

Now, as he stood in front of the abandoned garden with its rusting gate and potholed parking lot, he debated with himself. Should he turn away from almost certain ridicule, or should he listen to the rhythmic knocking of destiny? He chose destiny and entered the botanical garden.

It was a jungle inside. With no one to manage them, the trees were taking the grounds back, slowly erasing the park from existence and returning it to forest. They had grown tightly together, their branches intertwining and creating a lush green canopy that blocked out the sun. Many of the buildings had trees growing out through their windows and roofs. Leaves were scattered everywhere.

Suddenly, a rope ladder fell from the trees above, almost knocking Albert in the head. Albert looked up to find out who had nearly killed him and saw the man he had met at the comic shop. He was looking down at him from what appeared to be a huge tree house.

“The boss is waiting,” the goon said.

“The boss is up there?” Albert said, eyeing the rope ladder with doubt.

The goon nodded. “And he doesn’t like to wait.”

Albert frowned but hoisted himself onto the ladder. He climbed the best he could, but it wasn’t easy. He grunted and puffed, occasionally whining, until he got to the top, where the goon helped him stand. What he saw shocked him. Stretching out for acres was a palace formed from the trees’ intertwining limbs. They had created a floor firm enough to stand on, and there was furniture too, made from both plant life and stuff you would find in a store—including a refrigerator, a microwave, and beds. And everywhere Albert looked there were squirrels—dozens of them, leaping from tree to tree as they patched holes in the branches with trash and leaves. They were building a nest—only on a gigantic scale.

“Boss,” the brute called out, ignoring Albert’s bewilderment.

Suddenly, a spotlight appeared, shining on a small figure wearing a skull mask. He was sitting in a high-backed chair, enjoying a bowl full of nuts. He had lifted his mask up just enough so that he could eat, revealing two gigantic front teeth, like posts on a white picket fence. Albert could not take his eyes off of them.

“Albert Nesbitt, it’s good to meet you,” the masked figure said between bites. His voice was young—that of a boy. “I am Simon.”

Albert eyed the figure closely. “You’re just a kid.”

The squirrels seemed to sense his disrespect. They leaped at him and scratched at his face and hands. He fell to the floor, screaming for mercy.

“Minions!” Simon shouted, and the squirrels scurried back to his chair. “Please forgive them. They are very protective of me. After all, you’ve caused me a great number of headaches recently. You’ve been meddling in my affairs, Albert.”

Albert knew at once the boy was talking about the bank robbery. He was preparing to run when the goon clamped a giant hand on Albert’s shoulder. Albert couldn’t move an inch.

The boy smiled. “Welcome to my secret lair. It’s just temporary. As soon as I have the funds I will build something a little more permanent and with a lot fewer termites. For now, it’s the perfect hiding place and it keeps my friends happy.” One of the squirrels hopped on to the boy’s shoulder and twittered something in his ear. The boy laughed as if he had just heard a hilarious joke.

“What do you want with me?”

“Relax, there’s no need for hysterics. If I wanted to harm you, my associate would have already taken care of that,” the boy said. “Look, we’re getting off on the wrong foot, and I’m such a big fan of yours.”

“A fan of mine? Why?”

“Well, maybe the word fan is not appropriate. You are a mess, really, but your brain—that amazing brain of yours. . . It takes someone of great intellect to stop me, and you managed to do it with a computer you built in your mother’s basement.”