My phone buzzes against my thigh, interrupting Pop-pop's story about the time he accidentally used salt instead of sugar in his coffee and drank it anyway. I slip it out beneath the table, expecting Jordan with some update from MIT.

  Instead, it's Derek.

  Need you ASAP. Elias was here.

  Got blood. Sunset 8:20. Tick tock.

  The message hits like a punch to the sternum. Elias? Like, . Uh. Terrorist Elias?

  I look up at my family – Mom and Dad listening attentively to Pop-pop, Grandma Camilla picking at a slice of tiramisu. Mom catches my eye, a question in her expression.

  "Derek," I say, holding up my phone. "Something urgent."

  "Derek?" Dad repeats, frowning slightly. "The one from your support group?"

  "Yeah. His friend Elias showed up at his place. It's, uh... He needs moral support. Ex. Ex something. You know?"

  Grandma Camilla nods knowingly, tinking her fork on her plate. "Oh, believe me, we've all had plenty of bad experiences with ex-somethings."

  "Is it going to become a fight, Sam?" My Mom asks, clearly in a way that is like... Are you going to get into a fight, Sam?

  "No, genuinely just like moral support. Ice cream and stuff. It's in South Philly," I add. "I need to get there fast."

  Dad checks his watch. "It's almost seven. Sunset's at what, eight-twenty?"

  "That's what Derek says."

  Mom and Dad exchange one of those loaded parental glances, having an entire conversation without words. I used to find it infuriating. Now I find it weirdly comforting. "Sunset...?" My Dad starts.

  "Orange hair guy, bad attitude, remember him?" I ask to my two nodding parents. "Uncontrollable werewolf superpowers. That's why he was in support group. Did I tell you this already?"

  "I honestly can't remember," My mom says, while Grandma Camilla mutters something about uncontrollable what? in the background. "Are you sure it's going to be safe, honey? What with all the... you know, the business going around."

  "This isn't related to Richardson," I add quickly. "Seriously. I promise. It's not anything like... no... no large groups. Not a party. Derek is not exactly social," I say, trying to keep the euphemisms understandable. "I can take a taxi. If it's easier."

  Another glance between them.

  "I can drive you," Mom says finally. "But I want regular check-ins, and you're home by ten. No exceptions. You're a very independent girl but I'd prefer not having you sleep over at the house of some free-spirited mid-twenties delinquent, especially not if he turns into a giant wolf."

  "Rachel," my Dad mutters, putting his hand over his face and pulling the skin loose.

  "What!? You've never read-- You know what? Never mind. Just be home by ten, Sam," she says, and whatever conversation they're having is flying totally over my head.

  "Deal," I say, already standing, calculating what I need. What should I stuff into my backpack that isn't already there? My helmet is in pieces, most of my summer costume is already tucked in, I have my laptop... I mean...

  "Is this friend of yours dangerous?" Grandma Camilla asks, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

  "Derek? No, he's—"

  "The other one. Elias."

  I hesitate. "There was some Jump involved. He was dangerous. But Derek thinks he's back to normal now. They had a, uh... Falling out."

  Lielielielielielie ok?

  "And you believe that?" she asks, one perfectly shaped eyebrow arching.

  "I believe Derek needs help," I say, which isn't really an answer.

  She nods slightly, accepting my non-answer. "Be careful, Samantha."

  "Always am," I reply, which makes both my parents snort simultaneously.

  I race upstairs, grab my backpack and sling it over my shoulders. With an extra can in mace, just to be safe. Back downstairs, Mom already has her keys in hand.

  "Call me if you need extraction," Dad says, his face serious. "Anytime, anywhere."

  "I will," I promise, and I mean it. "Don't call it extraction, though?"

  Mom drives faster than usual, taking the expressway toward South Philly. We're mostly quiet, but I can feel her thinking beside me.

  "This really isn't connected to Richardson," I say again. "Different problem entirely."

  "I know," she says. "I'm just... adjusting to our new normal."

  "Where you testify against fascist legislation and I chase werewolves around the city?"

  She laughs, a short, surprised sound. "Something like that."

  "You know, we're not actually that different," I say, watching the city blur past the window. "We both hate bullies."

  Mom smiles, keeps her eyes on the road. "I suppose we do."

  Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

  She drops me two blocks from Derek's address – close enough for convenience, far enough for plausible deniability. As I get out, she rolls down the window.

  "Ten o'clock," she reminds me. "And be careful."

  "I will," I say, meaning it. "Love you."

  "Love you too."

  I watch her drive away, then turn toward Derek's building. It's a typical South Philly row home, cramped and narrow, with peeling paint and bars on the lower windows. The front door has three separate locks and a small, discreet security camera. I don't know if it's Derek's or the landlord's.

  I text him when I reach the stoop, and seconds later hear the locks disengaging one by one. The door swings open to reveal Derek, looking even more haggard than usual. His orange hair has a sort of soggy, depressed wetness to it, without its usual neon saturation, and he's even got stubble for the first time. Dark circles under his eyes, wearing a stained t-shirt and jeans with what looks like motor oil on the knees, yeah, he's in a bad mood.

  "Took you long enough," he grunts, stepping back to let me in.

  "Nice to see you too," I reply, following him up the narrow stairs to his second-floor apartment.

  Inside is a mess – papers scattered across every surface, half-empty protein shake bottles, boxes labeled with dates and locations. A large metal cage dominates one corner of the living room, prepped with soft surfaces and a jumbo jumbo sized dog bed, sturdy enough to hold a bull. Or a werewolf.

  "Elias was here an hour ago," Derek says without preamble, shutting and locking the door behind us. "Said he needed to get some stuff he left here."

  "And you just let him in? After what happened last time?"

  Derek's eyes flash dangerously. "He was my friend before he was a monster. And he seemed... better. Almost normal." He runs a hand through his hair.

  My stomach clenches. "Did he say anything about where he's been? Who he's with?"

  "Wouldn't tell me. Got cagey when I pushed." Derek moves to a small side table and picks up a bloodied rag. "So I pushed harder."

  "You stabbed him?" I can't keep the shock from my voice.

  "Just a little. Pocket knife." He holds up the rag. Bright orange blood, starting to dry and crust yellow at the edges. Fly blood. "Got what we need, though."

  I stare at him, caught between horror and reluctant admiration for his pragmatism. "And what exactly are we doing with his blood?"

  "Tracking him," Derek says like it's obvious. "I can follow his scent, but with an hour to go, that only gives me half an hour of radius at best. More like twenty minutes. And then I wouldn't have time to even do anything about him if I caught up." He glances at the cage. "I need to be locked up and tranq'd by eight. You know, for the neighborhood."

  "Why not just call the cops? Or the DVDs?"

  Derek barks out a harsh laugh. "Why would I do that when point A: I hate cops, point B: fuck cops, point C: the second best tracker in Philadelphia owes me a favor?"

  I blink at him a couple of times. "I owe you a-- hey, what?"

  Derek talks over me. "He was coherent. Talking. Good health, good spirits. Looked recently cleaned up. Probably not homeless, but it was too recent, he smelled like shampoo, disinfectant, a couple of kinds of aftershave. And obviously, he was walking," he says, tossing the rag to me. I grab it gingerly by the corner. "You can track him with this, right? I nicked the back of his calf a little bit and then his upper arm so he'd leave a trail."

  "If he's left a blood trail? Yes. Sort of," I say, bringing it to my face and staring at it like it's going to tell me its secrets. It's still fresh enough to feel fizzy, not flat, like the blood of every Jumphead and Fly junkie in Philly. But not so bright, fluorescent orange. Closer to a margarita orange-red, like the Fly is leeching back out. I wonder if he's only ever injected the once, to get his powers? I can feel Elias's blood trail leading out the window, down the fire escape, into the alley behind Derek's building. "Yeah,"

  "Peaches," Derek says, wiping his knife clean and putting it in his pocket.

  "I can't exactly tell you what... qualitative thing is different between his blood and anyone else's. It's sort of like trying to explain the color blue to a blind person. But he dripped enough to leave a trail," I explain, leading Derek to the back of his apartment complex, around to the alleyway. I point out each yellowing droplet as I do. "Blood stains forever, even if you scrub it off. As long as he's leaking and the street cleaners don't come in and decide to make a pit stops in the alleyway, I've got eyes on him."

  "What are you trying to say, exactly, without the subtext?" Derek asks, glancing nervously at the rapidly oranging sky.

  "Let's head back to your place. Get you ready for bed, and I'll spend some time scouting. Then, when we have more time in the day, we can regroup tomorrow morning and spend the rest of the day hunting areas that I've already marked down. No urgency. No rush," I suggest, trying really hard to think like my mom. This is what Rachel Small would do, right? No urgency, no rush. No ASAP.

  Derek scrunches his face up, though. "Actually, I--"

  He stops suddenly, head tilting like a dog hearing a high-pitched whistle. I'm about to ask what's wrong when my phone vibrates in my pocket. At the same instant, a phone on the alleyway ground – cracked, forgotten, and with probably 1% battery – lights up with an emergency alert.

  I pull out my phone, expecting an Amber Alert or weather warning. Well, it's an Amber Alert, alright. Same symbol and everything.

  Different text, though.

  "CITIZENS OF PHILADELPHIA," it reads. "THIS IS MONKEY BUSINESS. WE GOT IN THE ALERT SYSTEM. LOL"

  Derek and I exchange looks of disbelief as the message continues to crawl across the screen:

  "THE HUNT FOR OUR MAD SCIENTIST ASSISTANT IS OVER. WE'LL BE CONTACTING FINALISTS DIRECTLY. TO CELEBRATE THIS MOMENTOUS OCCASION, WE'VE REDUCED JUMP PRICES BY 50% CITYWIDE. BUT THAT'S NOT ALL! WE'VE HIDDEN FREE SAMPLES IN DUMPSTERS, ABANDONED BUILDINGS, AND PUBLIC PARKS THROUGHOUT PHILADELPHIA. CONSIDER IT A SCAVENGER HUNT FOR THE CHEMICALLY CURIOUS.

  IT WILL LAST UNTIL THE LAST SAMPLE IS TAKEN. GO FIND IT!

  REMEMBER, IT'S YOUR CIVIC DUTY TO ENSURE THE GOVERNMENT CAN'T CONTROL YOU. IF YOU WITNESS POLICE OR ARGUS CORPS HARASSING CITIZENS, IT IS YOUR GOD-GIVEN RIGHT - AND FOR OUR CONTRACTORS, A DIRECT ORDER - TO DE-ARREST THEM BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

  PIGS EAT NOTHING BUT DIRT. MONKEY BUSINESS OUT."

  The message disappears as suddenly as it appeared, leaving my regular phone screen. I stare at Derek, whose face has gone pale beneath his scruff. "Do you think... Elias tried out for their position?" Derek asks me.

  "How would I know?" I ask back, already putting my hair back in a ponytail. "You know him better than I do. Is he a mad scientist?"

  "Medical student, before his illness kicked in and he had to drop the PhD," Derek explains.

  "That explains his first rampage, I guess," I quip.

  Derek glowers at me, but doesn't respond.

  "We need to warn someone," I say, already pulling up Crossroads' number. "The DVDs, at least. The news? What's the most vulnerable areas? Do you think they're focusing on North or--"

  "Sam," Derek says, looking out the window. "Listen."

  I pause, and that's when I hear it – shouting, car alarms, the distant wail of sirens. South Philly is coming alive with activity, people pouring out of homes and apartments, heading in all directions.

  Looking for free superpowers.

  "This is going to be a bloodbath," Derek mutters. "And I'm about twenty minutes from turning."

  I'm about to respond when we hear it – sharp, distinct, unmistakable. Gunshots, can't be more than five or six blocks away. Or maybe fireworks, but, like... come on. It's gunshots.

  "I need to," Derek starts, clearly torn between some kind of heroic impulse that I could've sworn he said up and down he didn't have, and his own safety. "I--"

  I punch him in the shoulder to get his attention. "Dickhead. Go home," I say, tying the rag to the thin little shark tooth necklace that I wear, just to keep it in my mind's eye. "Elias hunt's postponed. People out there need help more than we need to find your ex-boyfriend right now. Get some rest. I'll go do superhero shit in the general direction of his blood trail and just keep track of street names, alright?"

  Derek looks at me like, for the first time maybe in his shriveled little life, he is going to tell another human being thank you or that he loves them or whatever. Instead, his face sours like he just ate a big lemon. "Alright, cunt. Go have fun getting yourself killed. I'm going to do horse tranquilizers now,"

  'Atta boy.