I've been stacking books on this same shelf for approximately seven billion years. The Dewey Decimal System is a special kind of torture designed specifically for people with ADHD. Shelving fiction is manageable - alphabetical by author, at least there's a logic to it. But non-fiction? 973.7 next to 973.71 next to 973.713, and they all look identical until you squint at the tiny numbers on the spine, and oh wait, this one's actually 937.13, which is completely different and belongs three aisles over, and -

  "Sam? Everything okay over there?"

  Mom's voice cuts through my internal spiral. She's at the circulation desk, glasses perched on her nose, the very picture of librarian professionalism. To anyone else, she's just checking on a teenage volunteer. Only I can detect the subtle undertone of "are you having a breakdown over books, seriously?"

  "Fine," I call back, just loud enough to be heard but not enough to disturb the Tuesday morning regulars. "Just contemplating how the Dewey Decimal System was definitely created by a normal person."

  Mom suppresses a smile and returns to helping Mrs. Goldstein, who visits every Tuesday to check out exactly three romance novels and one book about gardening, regardless of season. The idea that a person can read that many books that fast seems strange to me.

  I return to the cart of books, rolling my shoulders to ease the persistent ache in my upper back. My ribs are mostly healed, but I've been compensating for the pain by holding myself awkwardly, creating new problems. Plus, doing eight hundred push-ups every night probably isn't helping.

  The tracker around my wrist feels heavier than an iron shackle. It's sleek, looks basically just like a nice bracelet, not too tight, and theoretically unobtrusive. Something about "bio-impedance sensors" that know when it's not in contact with my skin. But I'm constantly aware of it, like a pebble in my shoe I can't shake out. Last night, I caught myself wondering if I could hack it somehow, then immediately felt guilty for even considering breaking that particular promise to my parents.

  "Excuse me, young lady?"

  I turn to find Mr. Smythe, one of our elderly regulars, clutching a book on World War II aircraft. He's at least eighty, with wispy white hair and enormous glasses that magnify his eyes to owlish proportions.

  "Can I help you?" I ask, grateful for the distraction.

  "I was wondering if you could direct me to books about Philadelphia history. I'm researching my neighborhood."

  "Sure," I say, setting down the book I'd been holding. "Which neighborhood?"

  "Tacony," he says, and I can't help the little spark of interest.

  "That's my neighborhood too," I tell him, leading him toward the local history section. "Are you interested in any particular time period?"

  "Oh, the industrial period mainly. My house was built in 1895, and I've always wondered about what it might have witnessed."

  As we walk, I notice the slight irregularity in his gait, the way he favors his left leg. I can't tell how he's feeling without a small cut on his person, but I get the distinct impression something isn't right.

  "Here we go," I say, indicating the Philadelphia history shelves. "The Tacony-specific material is limited, but there are some good general histories that include substantial sections." I pull out a few options. "This one has a chapter on the manufacturing boom. And this one has maps from different eras - you might be able to find your house."

  Mr. Smythe beams at me. "Thank you! You're very knowledgeable."

  "Just doing my job," I say automatically, then realize this isn't actually my job - it's my punishment. But helping him feels good, regardless of how I got here.

  As he examines the books, I notice again the swelling around his ankle. "Mr. Smythe," I say carefully, "forgive me for mentioning this, but have you had your circulation checked recently? I notice you're favoring your left leg."

  His eyebrows rise above his enormous glasses. "Well, aren't you observant? My doctor's been after me to wear compression socks, but they're so uncomfortable."

  "My grandfather has the same issue," I lie smoothly. "He found that the diabetic socks are more comfortable than the medical-grade compression ones, and they still help. Might be worth trying."

  He studies me curiously. "You remind me of someone. Weren't you on the news recently?"

  My heart rate spikes, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. "Me? No, I don't think so."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He chuckles. "Well, regardless, thank you for the book recommendations. And the sock advice."

  As he shuffles away, I exhale slowly. It's weird - part of me is relieved he didn't recognize me as Bloodhound, but another part is almost... disappointed? Which makes no sense. Secret identity protection is like, Superhero 101. But after years of this, after the news footage, after everything... it seems impossible that people don't put it together. Or maybe everyone's just lying to protect my feelings?

  "You're good with the patrons," Mom says, suddenly beside me. I manage not to jump, but it's close.

  "Just doing what you taught me," I reply. "Observation and problem-solving."

  She gives me a look that I can't quite interpret. "I didn't teach you to diagnose circulatory issues in elderly men."

  "That's just... I mean, it was obvious. The swelling, the way he was walking."

  "Mmm," she says, clearly not buying it but not pushing further. "There's a cart of returns by the front desk that need to be processed and reshelved."

  "On it," I say, grateful for the change of subject.

  The next few hours pass in a blur of mindless tasks. Checking in returns. Shelving books. Helping a college student find resources for a paper on civil rights movements. Refilling the printer paper. Taping up a ripped page in a children's book. Small, manageable tasks with clear beginnings and endings - so different from the nebulous, never-ending work of being Bloodhound.

  During my break, I check my phone. Three texts from Tasha with links to news articles about Richardson's legislation and parent coalition activities in neighboring states. One from a classmate whose name I haven't put into my contacts asking about homework for Mr. Perlman's history class. Nothing from Derek, which isn't surprising - he's been off the grid since the Jump distribution incident, but I find myself strangely missing his curmudgeonliness. Nothing from Kate. Kay.

  "Everything okay?" Mom asks as I return to the circulation desk, tucking my phone away.

  "Just checking in with friends," I say, which isn't technically a lie. "School stuff."

  She nods, but I can tell she doesn't entirely believe me. We've been doing this dance for weeks now - me providing half-truths, her pretending to accept them. It's exhausting for both of us, but what's the alternative?

  The afternoon brings a rush of after-school visitors - kids looking for books, teenagers using the computers, parents picking up reserved items. I help a middle schooler find resources for a science project, and end up explaining osmosis in terms of zombie movies because it's the only analogy that seems to click for him.

  "You're pretty cool for a library lady," he tells me, which might be the weirdest compliment I've ever received. Also, I'm 16? Who are you calling lady, shrimp?

  "Thanks, I think," I reply, handing him a book on cell structures.

  As I'm reshelving some reference materials, I overhear Mom on the phone in her office, door slightly ajar. "Yes, we've confirmed twenty-seven parents from the Philadelphia chapter," she's saying. "Transportation is arranged for everyone... The hearing is scheduled for 10 AM... Yes, we've prepared statements... No, I don't think we should discuss that over the phone."

  She catches me listening and gives me a look that clearly says "move along." I pretend to be fascinated by the 428.2 section (English language usage manuals, thrilling stuff).

  Later, as we're preparing to close, a young woman with a toddler approaches the desk. The little girl has a small cut on her finger and is whimpering. Before the mother even explains what happened, I'm already reaching for the first aid kit we keep behind the desk.

  "Paper cut," I say, pulling out an antiseptic wipe and a bandage. "These picture books can be vicious."

  The mother looks surprised. "How did you know?"

  I freeze for a millisecond. I'd automatically used my blood sense, scanning her daughter's vascular system without even thinking about it. "Um, occupational hazard," I improvise. "We see a lot of paper cuts here."

  Mom gives me another one of those looks but smoothly jumps in, "Would your daughter like a sticker too? We have butterflies and dinosaurs."

  As we lock up the library at 7 PM, Mom finally breaks character. "You're getting better at this," she says, gesturing vaguely at the building behind us.

  "At shelving books? Gee, thanks."

  "At helping people," she clarifies. "Without using your fists."

  I shrug, uncomfortable with what feels like praise for being normal. "It's not exactly saving lives."

  "Isn't it?" She raises an eyebrow. "Mr. Smythe might actually wear those socks now. That could prevent a blood clot. The little girl with the paper cut got proper wound care, reducing infection risk. The teenager working on his civil rights paper will be better informed about his own history and rights."

  "That's a stretch," I mutter, but I feel a small glow of satisfaction anyway.

  As we walk to the car, Mom's phone rings. She checks the caller ID and sighs. "I need to take this. It's Senator Williamson's office." She answers, immediately shifting into her coalition leader voice - confident, articulate, passionate.

  I slide into the passenger seat and stare out the window as Mom paces on the sidewalk, gesturing occasionally for emphasis. The sky is turning dusky purple, and streetlights are flickering on. Somewhere out there, the city is continuing its complex dance of crime and protection, power and resistance.

  My fingers twitch with restless energy. In a few hours, after dinner and homework, I'll change into my costume for a brief, parent-approved patrol. Nothing dangerous. Nothing confrontational. Just observation and assistance where needed. The compromise we've reached feels both better than nothing and worse than useless.

  A police car cruises slowly down the street, and I instinctively shrink down in my seat, though there's no rational reason to hide. The constant feeling of being watched, of being one mistake away from exposure, has become background radiation in my life.

  Mom finishes her call and slides into the driver's seat, immediately launching into an update about the coalition's progress with state legislators. I listen and nod in the right places, but part of me is already mapping tonight's patrol route, calculating risks, preparing contingencies.

  This is my life now - shelving books by day, sneaking around in a costume by night, all while the September 8th deadline looms closer. Everyone's just waiting, positioning, preparing. The calm before whatever comes next.

  And despite the monotony of the Dewey Decimal System, despite the paper cuts and the printer jams and the tracking device on my wrist, part of me is almost grateful for the routine. Because deep down, I know this fragile normalcy can't possibly last.