Reed's last two years in Gary's house were both the most difficult and the most formative of his childhood. Gary, knowing that Reed would eventually leave for college, alternated between increased hostility and complete indifference. Some days Reed was worked like a servant, fixing everything from the water heater to neighbors' cars. Other days Gary pretended Reed didn't exist.
But Reed had changed. The frightened, lonely boy who had arrived at Gary's house had grown into a young man with confidence in his abilities and a clear sense of his own worth. Herbie had been instrumental in this transformation, providing the unconditional love and acceptance that allowed Reed to believe in himself.
The mechanical skills Reed developed during these years became a source of genuine pride rather than resentment. He could diagnose engine problems by sound, rewire a house safely, and build complex contraptions from spare parts. When Enid's science fair project needed a working volcano, Reed created an elaborate chemical reaction system that won first place. When Danny's bike broke again, Reed didn't just fix it—he completely redesigned the gear system to make it more efficient and durable.
"You're like a real-life MacGyver," Hope told him admiringly as he repaired her music box using materials from Gary's garage. These moments with his cousins sustained Reed through Gary's worst behavior and reminded him that his abilities were valuable, even if Gary couldn't see it.
Reed's academic reputation continued to grow as teachers recognized his exceptional abilities. He was allowed to take advanced classes at the local community college and began corresponding with professors about scientific concepts that fascinated him. But now, instead of feeling isolated by his intelligence, Reed was learning to see it as a tool for connecting with like-minded people.
Ben Grimm, now a star athlete being recruited by colleges, would occasionally stop to talk when he encountered Reed walking with Herbie around the neighborhood. Their conversations had evolved from simple pleasantries to genuine exchanges about their different but equally challenging paths through high school.
"How's the science going?" Ben would ask, and Reed would share some current project or discovery. Ben didn't always understand the technical details, but he listened with genuine interest and asked thoughtful questions.
"You're gonna do something important someday," Ben told Reed one afternoon as they walked past the site where a new building was being constructed. "I can tell. You see things differently than other people."
Reed felt a warm glow of recognition at Ben's words. For the first time in years, someone outside his immediate family had seen his potential rather than just his strangeness.
"Thanks, Ben," Reed replied simply. "That means a lot."
Herbie wagged his tail as if he approved of Ben's assessment, and Reed couldn't help but smile.
Reed's salvation finally came when his high school guidance counselor, Mrs. Jones, noticed his exceptional test scores and suggested he apply for early college admission programs. Reed mentioned this possibility to Aunt Mary during one of their quiet conversations, and she secretly helped him research scholarship opportunities.
When Mrs. Jones called the house to discuss Reed's potential for early graduation and full college scholarships, Gary's reaction was characteristically complex. On one hand, he saw it as validation that Reed was "too good" for the family. On the other hand, the prospect of Reed leaving the house at sixteen appealed to his desire to be rid of his troublesome nephew.
"Let me get this straight," Gary said during the awkward phone conversation. "Some fancy college wants to pay for this kid's education AND take him off my hands two years early?" When Mrs. Chen confirmed this, Gary's tone shifted from hostile to calculating. "What's the catch?"
There was no catch, but Gary spent weeks convinced there must be one. Meanwhile, Reed threw himself into preparing for early admission exams, studying in the basement until all hours while his cousins slept upstairs and Herbie kept him company.
Reed graduated high school at sixteen in 1989, earning a full scholarship to MIT that covered tuition, room, board, and expenses. The trust fund administrators were impressed with Reed's academic achievements and approved additional support for his college preparation.
Gary's reaction to Reed's success was characteristically mixed. "MIT, huh?" he said while reading the acceptance letter. "Fancy place for fancy people. Just remember where you came from, boy. All that book learning won't help you when real life hits."
But privately, Gary was relieved. Reed would be gone, the house would be quieter, and Gary wouldn't have to deal with constant reminders of his brother's intellectual superiority.
Aunt Mary cried when Reed packed his few belongings. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered while Gary was at work. "Your parents would be too. Promise me you'll write?"
Enid, now fifteen and showing her own academic brilliance, hugged Reed tightly. "When I'm old enough for college, will you help me get into a good school too?"
"Of course," Reed promised, realizing this might be the last time he saw his cousins for years. "And remember what I taught you about scientific methodology. Keep asking questions, keep experimenting, keep learning."
Danny, now athletic like his father but lacking Gary's mean streak, shook Reed's hand with surprising formality. "Thanks for fixing my bike all those times," he said. "And for showing me how engines work. Maybe I'll be a mechanic someday."
Hope, now fourteen and still full of wonder, simply hugged Reed tightly. "You really are magic," she whispered. "Don't let anyone tell you different."
The hardest goodbye was with Herbie. Reed knelt down beside his best friend, scratching behind the dog's ears one last time. "I have to go now, boy," Reed said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "But I'll never forget you. You saved me, you know that? You showed me how to love and be loved without being afraid."
Herbie seemed to understand that this was goodbye. He nuzzled Reed's face gently, then sat back and watched with intelligent eyes as Reed gathered his belongings.
As Reed boarded the bus to Boston, carrying a single suitcase and a box of scientific books, he felt simultaneously heartbroken and exhilarated. For the first time since his parents' deaths, he was heading toward a future where his intelligence might be an asset rather than a liability.
Gary didn't even come to the bus station. But Aunt Mary and the kids were there, waving goodbye to the brilliant, damaged young man who had learned to fix machines because someone had convinced him that was all he was good for. Reed didn't know it yet, but those practical skills—learned through pain and humiliation—would someday help him save the world.
As the bus pulled away from Springfield, Reed looked back at the only family he had left and felt a complex mixture of gratitude and resentment. Gary had been cruel and dismissive, but he had also taught Reed resilience and practical skills that would prove invaluable. Mary and his cousins had provided love and acceptance that helped Reed survive his darkest years. And Herbie had given him the gift of unconditional love that allowed him to believe in himself again.
Now he was free to pursue his true calling, to honor his parents' memory by pushing the boundaries of human knowledge. The universe still had more secrets to reveal, and Reed Richards was finally ready to start revealing them.
The boy who had watched his father disappear into a temporal vortex was now ready to become the man who would reshape the world through science and determination. Reed Richards was finally coming home to the place where his brilliance would be celebrated rather than suppressed, where questions were encouraged rather than punished, where the impossible was just another problem waiting to be solved.
But he would never forget the lessons learned in Gary's garage, the humiliation of forced athletics, or the love of cousins who saw magic in his scientific abilities. Most importantly, he would never forget a golden retriever named Herbie who had taught him that love didn't have to be earned through achievement—sometimes it was simply given, freely and without condition, to anyone willing to receive it.
These experiences had shaped him in ways both painful and profound, creating a man who could work with his hands as skillfully as he could work with his mind, who understood both the cruelty and kindness that people were capable of, and who knew that true family was something you chose rather than something you were born into.