The curtain flies back, revealing Pop-pop Moe in all his disheveled glory - wrinkled button-down shirt half-untucked, silver hair sticking up at odd angles, reading glasses perched precariously on his nose. Behind him, a flustered-looking nurse tries to intervene.

  "Sir, please--"

  "It's alright," Mom says to the nurse. "He's family."

  Pop-pop's eyes move from Dad on the bed to me with my battered face and wrist brace, then to Mom standing straight-backed and composed despite the strain visible around her eyes.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he mutters, a phrase I've never understood coming from a Jewish man. "What kind of meshuggeneh nonsense have you all gotten yourselves into now?"

  He crosses the small space in three quick steps, somehow managing to hug Mom and reach for my hand simultaneously. "Bubbeleh," he says, squeezing my fingers with surprising strength. "You look like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson."

  "Only nine," I respond automatically. "I tapped out before the tenth."

  A ghost of a smile crosses his face before his eyes dart back to Dad. "How is he?"

  "Out of surgery. Stable," Mom answers. "Bullet went through the thigh. Missed major arteries, but damaged muscle tissue."

  Pop-pop nods, absorbing this information with a furrowed brow. "And you?" he asks me, his eyes cataloging every visible injury. "Don't sugarcoat it."

  "Three cracked ribs. Sprained wrist. Lots of bruises." I shrug, then wince. "Nothing that won't heal."

  He makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a sigh. "I came as fast as I could. Got stopped for speeding."

  "Did you talk your way out of it?" Mom asks, a hint of amusement in her exhausted voice.

  "Please." He waves a dismissive hand. "I told the officer my son had been shot and my granddaughter was in the hospital. He gave me an escort."

  Mom raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

  "Well, he also made me promise to drive the speed limit after that, but..." Pop-pop shrugs. "Promises made under duress don't count."

  Two hours later, we've been moved to a private room. Dad's still unconscious but stable, his color slowly returning. The hospital staff wanted to admit me for observation due to the rib fractures, so now I'm in a bed next to Dad's, still in the Franklin Institute t-shirt and sweatpants, with an IV dripping fluids into my arm. And a little bit of ketamine. I don't mind that.

  Mom and Pop-pop sit in the uncomfortable visitor chairs between our beds. Mom keeps checking her phone, her face tightening each time she scrolls. Pop-pop alternates between pacing to the window and sitting with his hand resting lightly on Dad's arm.

  "This is ridiculous," I say for what feels like the hundredth time. "I don't need to be here. I've had worse injuries at home."

  "Doctor's orders," Mom replies without looking up from her phone. "Your oxygen levels were borderline with those ribs. And I'm not taking you home just to rush back here if you have trouble breathing in the middle of the night."

  Pop-pop glances between us, then focuses on me. "So, tell me what happened. Not the TV version - the real story."

  I hesitate, looking at Mom. She nods slightly, her attention still on her phone. So I tell him - about Rogue Wave's emergency alert, tracking Elias with Derek, Rush Order's ambush, the fight, Dad showing up with the gun.

  Pop-pop listens without interrupting, but his face is a rollercoaster of emotions - worry when I describe Rush Order's attack, pride when I mention landing hits with my fists, shock when I get to Dad's arrival, and something like grim satisfaction when I tell him Dad shot Rush Order.

  "So that's the story," I finish. "And now we're here."

  "Not the whole story," Mom interjects, finally looking up from her phone. "The whole city's talking about it. They're calling him Gun... D...? Dad I'd..."

  Her face scrunches up.

  "What?" I push myself up on my elbows, wincing at the pressure on my ribs.

  Mom turns her phone screen toward me. It's open to a forum thread with hundreds of comments, all discussing video clips of tonight's fight. Most focus on Dad confronting Rush Order. Someone's edited together different drone angles of the moment he pulled the gun, set to dramatic music.

  "They're calling him 'Gun DILF,'" Mom says with a mixture of horror and disbelief. "Most outlets are blurring his face, but..."

  "But it won't take long for someone to recognize him," Pop-pop finishes grimly.

  My phone buzzes on the side table. It's a text from Tasha:

  CNN just played the footage. They're calling your dad "unidentified civilian hero." Fox is running with "2nd Amendment saves superhero." You OK?

  Before I can respond, another text comes in, this one from Jordan:

  HOLY SHIT SAM did your DAD just SHOOT RUSH ORDER??? Are you guys OK??? I'm watching this from Boston and it's EVERYWHERE. Call me!!!

  I drop the phone like it's burning my hand. "This is bad."

  "It's complicated," Mom corrects, still scrolling. "Public opinion seems split. Some people are calling your father reckless for escalating with a gun. Others are praising him for standing up to a 'caped menace.'"

  "And you, bubbeleh," Pop-pop says, nodding toward me, "they're calling you everything from 'brave superhero' to 'reckless vigilante.' The usual superhero discourse."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  "Have they connected us?" I ask, dreading the answer.

  "Not yet," Mom says. "But it's only a matter of time. Especially with..." She gestures vaguely at Dad's unconscious form.

  Pop-pop's face clouds. "Ben did what any father would do," he says firmly. "He protected his child."

  "By shooting someone," Mom points out, but there's no real heat behind it.

  "A supervillain who was beating Sam to a pulp in public," Pop-pop retorts. "What was he supposed to do, ask nicely?"

  "I'm not saying he was wrong," Mom sighs, rubbing her temples. "I'm saying there are consequences. There are always consequences."

  By midnight, the nurse has been in three times to check my vitals and Dad's. He still hasn't woken up, but the doctor assures us it's normal - the anesthesia combined with the trauma and blood loss means he'll likely sleep through the night.

  Mom has moved her chair closer to Dad's bed, her hand resting on his. She's been on the phone intermittently - with her boss at the library explaining her absence, with our insurance company, with a lawyer friend asking for advice. Her voice never rises above a whisper, but I can hear the steel in it.

  Pop-pop has claimed the nicer chair in the corner, but he's not sleeping. Instead, he's been flipping through channels on the muted TV, stopping whenever footage of the fight appears - which is often. His expression shifts between concern and a strange, almost wistful look that I can't quite place.

  "You should try to sleep, Sam," Mom says, noticing my eyes are still open. "Your body needs rest to heal."

  "Can't," I reply. "Too much happening."

  Pop-pop gets up from the recliner and comes to sit on the edge of my bed. "Want to hear a story?" he asks, his voice low and gentle. "I used to tell your father stories when he couldn't sleep."

  "I'm not five, Pop-pop."

  "Humor an old man." He adjusts his glasses. "Did I ever tell you about the time I met Arthur C. Clarke?"

  Despite everything, I find myself smiling. "Only about a dozen times."

  "Well, then you know it's a good story." He pats my hand. "But maybe not tonight. Tonight, I want to tell you something else."

  He glances toward Dad, then back to me. "Your father... he's always been cautious. Even as a boy. He analyzed everything, planned everything. It drove your grandmother crazy." A soft smile plays across his lips. "But every so often, something would push him past that careful threshold, and he'd act on pure instinct. Usually to protect someone else."

  I look at Dad, trying to imagine it.

  "When he was eleven," Pop-pop continues, "a bigger boy was bullying your Uncle Shelly on the playground. Shelly was always smaller, you know, and this kid had him pinned against the fence. Your father - who'd never been in a fight in his life - picked up a baseball bat and marched over. Didn't swing it, just held it and said, 'Let him go.' And the bully did."

  "Dad did that?"

  Pop-pop nods. "The school called me, all concerned about Ben bringing a weapon to a confrontation. I asked them if anyone got hurt. They said no. I told them my son did exactly what he should have done - used the minimum force necessary to protect someone who couldn't protect themselves."

  He leans closer, his voice dropping even lower. "What I'm saying is, what your father did tonight? That's what he is. I believe it."

  "Pop-pop," Mom warns from Dad's bedside, clearly listening despite pretending to be focused on her phone.

  "I'm not saying I approve of vigilante justice," he says, raising his hands defensively. "Just that I understand why he did it." He turns back to me. "And why you do what you do, too."

  "Morris," Mom says, more firmly this time. "Sam needs rest, not encouragement."

  Pop-pop winks at me, then stands. "Your mother's right. Get some sleep, bubbeleh. Things will look different in the morning."

  As he returns to his recliner, my phone buzzes again. A text from Maggie this time:

  Holy shit, your dad is a LEGEND. Are you okay? How bad are you hurt?

  I start to type a response but stop when I hear a soft groan from Dad's bed. His eyelids flutter, then open slowly, disoriented.

  "Ben?" Mom is on her feet immediately, leaning over him. "Ben, can you hear me?"

  "Rachel?" His voice is raspy, barely audible. "What...where..."

  "You're in the hospital," she says, stroking his hair. "You were shot, but you're going to be okay."

  His eyes widen slightly as memory returns. "Sam," he croaks, trying to sit up. "Where's Sam?"

  "I'm right here, Dad," I call from my bed. "I'm okay."

  He turns his head with effort, blinking to focus without his glasses. "Sam? You're in a hospital bed?"

  "Just for observation," I assure him. "Few cracked ribs. No big deal."

  "Red guy?"

  "No news. Presumably running," Mom assures him.

  Dad processes this information slowly, his drug-hazed brain catching up. "Good," he finally says.

  Pop-pop appears at the foot of Dad's bed, grinning. "Ben, you old gunslinger. How're you feeling?"

  "Like I've been shot," Dad replies dryly. Then, with more concern: "The gun..."

  "Is with the police," Mom says. "They took your statement while you were in surgery. Said they'd need to follow up, but given the circumstances..."

  Dad nods, then winces. "How bad is it? The fallout?"

  Mom and Pop-pop exchange glances. "Well," Pop-pop says, "you're something of an internet sensation."

  "What?"

  "Gun Dad," I explain. "That's what they're calling you. The whole thing was caught on video."

  Dad closes his eyes, groaning. "Perfect."

  "It's not all bad," Pop-pop offers. "Lots of people think you're a hero."

  "And the rest?" Dad asks.

  "Think you're a dangerous vigilante," Mom answers honestly. "But honestly, most people seem to be on your side. I think... there's something about a civilian standing up to a supervillain. That's resonating with people."

  Dad's eyes fly open. "They know Sam is..." He glances at me, leaving his sentence unfinished.

  "Not yet," Mom assures him. "But it's a matter of time. Especially with both of you admitted to the same hospital on the same night."

  Dad sinks back into his pillow, the brief surge of adrenaline fading. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't think about the consequences. I just saw him hurting Sam and..." He trails off, his eyelids growing heavy again.

  "We'll figure it out," Mom promises, squeezing his hand. "Rest now."

  As Dad drifts back to sleep, my phone buzzes one more time. It's Tasha again:

  News update: Eyewitnesses say Rush Order spotted at underground clinic in Camden. Witnesses say left shoulder "mangled." Also, Argus Corps finally made statement - Patriot says they're "investigating incident" and asks public to "remain calm." Too late for that!

  I look up from the phone to find Mom watching me, her expression unreadable.

  "They found Rush Order," I tell her. "He's hurt bad."

  She nods, unsurprised. "Good. Maybe that will keep him away for a while."

  She doesn't seem particularly broken up about it.

  Pop-pop, who's been channel-surfing again, suddenly stops. He turns up the volume slightly.

  "--confirmation that the superhero involved was Bloodhound, a local vigilante known for her apprehension of the terrorist known as Deathgirl," the news anchor is saying. "Sources at Jefferson Hospital report that both Bloodhound and the unidentified civilian who intervened are currently receiving treatment for their injuries. We're going live now to Gina Torres outside Jefferson Hospital. Gina?"

  The screen cuts to a reporter standing outside the emergency entrance, where a small crowd has gathered despite the late hour. "Tom, I'm here outside Jefferson Hospital where witnesses say both Bloodhound and the man dubbed by local forums as 'Gun Dad' were admitted earlier tonight. Hospital officials have declined to comment, citing patient privacy, but our sources confirm--"

  Mom snatches the remote from Pop-pop's hand and turns off the TV. "That's enough of that."

  We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation settling over us like a heavy blanket. Finally, Pop-pop speaks.

  "Well," he says with forced cheerfulness, "this is certainly not how I imagined my Thursday night going."

  Mom looks between us, then shakes her head with a mix of exasperation and fondness. "You two," she sighs. "Sometimes I think you enjoy the chaos."

  I close my eyes, exhaustion and bruising mashing, sloshing around like banana bread batter in my brain. The medication they gave me for pain is finally kicking in, making my thoughts fuzzy around the edges. As I drift toward sleep, I hear Pop-pop say softly to Mom:

  "You know, Rachel, I think maybe Benjamin and Samantha are more alike than either of them realizes."

  "G-d help us all," Mom replies, but there's a warmth in her voice that wasn't there before.