Morning light filters through the hospital blinds, casting stripes across Dad's sleeping form. The painkillers have pulled me under and pushed me back up several times during the night, leaving me groggy but more clear-headed than before. Mom sits in the same chair she's occupied for hours, scrolling through her phone with bloodshot eyes. Pop-pop is snoring softly in the recliner, his glasses askew on his face.

  A nurse - different from last night's shift - enters quietly with a clipboard. "Good morning," she whispers, checking my IV. "How are we feeling?"

  "Like I got in a fight and lost," I mumble.

  She smiles sympathetically. "Doctor will be by in about an hour to evaluate you. If your oxygen levels stay stable, you might be able to go home today."

  "And my dad?"

  "He'll need to stay at least another day or two." She moves to check Dad's vitals, careful not to wake him. "The orthopedic surgeon wants to monitor the wound and start physical therapy consultations before discharge."

  Mom looks up from her phone. "Is there any way to... limit visitors or information? We're concerned about privacy."

  The nurse nods understandingly. "We've already implemented security protocols. Your room is listed under a pseudonym, and we've instructed staff not to confirm or deny your presence to anyone asking." She lowers her voice further. "There are reporters camped outside. Security is keeping them at bay."

  "Thanks," Mom says, rubbing her eyes.

  As the nurse leaves, Mom's phone buzzes. She glances at it and sighs. "Your grandmother. That's the third voicemail since sunrise."

  "Grandma Camilla knows?"

  "Everyone knows," Mom says wearily. "Or at least, everyone knows something happened. Ben's sister called at 4 AM. My boss texted at 5. The neighborhood group chat is going wild with speculation."

  She holds up her phone, playing Grandma Camilla's voicemail on speaker, volume low:

  "Rachel, it's your mother. I saw the news. I don't know exactly what's happening, but I know it involves Sam and Benjamin. Please call me back. I'm worried sick. I can be there in two hours if you need me. Call me, sweetheart. Please."

  Mom puts the phone down with a sigh. "I should call her back."

  "You should get some real sleep," I counter. "You've been up all night."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're not fine. None of us are fine." I shift, wincing as my ribs protest. "The world isn't fine."

  Pop-pop stirs at the sound of our voices, snorting as he wakes. He blinks owlishly, adjusting his glasses. "What'd I miss?"

  "Nothing," Mom assures him. "Just morning check-in."

  He stretches, his joints popping audibly. "What time is it?"

  "Almost seven." Mom stands, rolling her shoulders. "You should head home, Moe. Get some proper rest."

  "I'm not leaving until I know you're all settled," he protests, though I can see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face.

  "We're as settled as we're going to get," Mom says gently. "Ben's stable. Sam might be discharged today. And you're seventy-five years old with a bad back, sleeping in a hospital recliner."

  Pop-pop looks like he wants to argue, but a grimace as he shifts position betrays him. "Maybe you're right," he concedes. "But I'll be back this afternoon."

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  "Of course you will," Mom says with a tired smile.

  Pop-pop heaves himself up from the chair, wincing slightly. He comes to my bedside, leaning down to kiss my forehead. "Heal fast, bubbeleh. And try not to get into any more fights while I'm gone, hmm?"

  "No promises," I reply, earning a chuckle.

  He moves to Dad's bed next, placing a hand on his sleeping son's shoulder. "Stubborn, just like his old man," he murmurs, affection and worry mingling in his voice. He squeezes Dad.

  Mom walks him to the door, where they speak in hushed tones I can't quite catch. I see her pass him a pair of car keys - he must have taken a cab or rideshare in his rush to get here last night. I catch "tow truck" - that's true, what did happen to my Dad's car? I guess it got towed... That sucks. This sucks.

  While they talk, I check my phone. The team group chat has exploded overnight:

  Maggie: Anyone heard from Sam? Those ribs looked BAD

  Tasha: Hospital says she's "not listed as a patient" which is BS but means they're protecting her

  Lily: My parents saw it on the news. Mom's making chicken soup for you guys. Dad says Mr. Small is "real cool"

  Amelia: I'm working on something. Will update when I can.

  Maggie: There's a BloodhoundWatch HIRC channel and it's got like 2000 people in it now.

  Tasha: Forum thread identifying "Gun Dad" already has theories connecting him to Bloodhound. Also for context the HIRC channel had maybe 20 people in it before.

  I type a quick response:

  I'm OK. Might go home today. Dad staying longer. Will update when I can. Don't worry about me.

  Mom returns, tucking her phone into her pocket. "Your grandfather will check in on the house, make sure everything's ready for when we get home."

  "You should go too," I tell her. "Get real sleep. Shower. Food that isn't from a vending machine."

  She shakes her head. "I'm staying with your father."

  "Then I'll stay too."

  "You will not," she says firmly. "If the doctor clears you, you're going home to rest properly. Pop-pop will pick you up."

  "But--"

  "This isn't negotiable, Sam." Her voice softens. "I need you to recover. And I need to know you're safe at home, not here where..." She glances toward the door, beyond which reporters and who knows what else wait.

  I want to argue, but exhaustion and pain win out. "Fine."

  Dad stirs then, eyes fluttering open. "Rachel?" he croaks.

  Mom is at his side instantly. "I'm here."

  "Sam?"

  "Still here too, Dad," I call from my bed.

  He turns his head slightly, blinking at me. "They keeping you?"

  "Probably sending me home today."

  He nods slightly, relief visible even through the haze of pain medication. "Good."

  Mom pours water from a pitcher on the side table, helping Dad take small sips through a straw. "How's the pain?"

  "Manageable," he says, which I translate as "excruciating but I don't want to worry you."

  "The nurse will be back soon with more medication," Mom tells him, stroking his hair back from his forehead.

  Dad catches her hand, holding it against his cheek. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For all of this."

  "Don't," Mom says firmly. "You did what you thought you had to do. We'll deal with the consequences together."

  A soft knock at the door interrupts them. A different nurse enters, carrying a small paper bag. "Morning medication," she announces cheerfully. As she administers Dad's pills and checks his bandages, she adds, "There's a young lady in the waiting area asking about Ms. Small. Says she's a classmate. Hospital policy prevents me from confirming you're here, but I thought you should know."

  Mom and I exchange alarmed glances. "Description?" I ask.

  "Tall, black hair with blue streaks. As...ian?" she sort of half-asks, half-tells.

  I relax slightly. "Lily. She's okay."

  Mom considers for a moment, then nods. "You can tell her Sam will meet her in the cafeteria in thirty minutes. I'll help you get ready," she adds to me.

  After the nurse leaves, Mom helps me sit up properly and change into fresh clothes she apparently had Pop-pop bring from the car last night. The simple act of dressing is an exercise in pain management, but I grit my teeth through it. My entire body feels like it's been wrung out. It's nothing like fighting Patriot. Closer to my scuffle with Mr. T-Rex. He's punched basically every spot it's possible to punch.

  "Be quick," Mom instructs as she helps me into a wheelchair (hospital policy, not negotiable). "Ten minutes max. Don't tell her anything specific about what happened. We don't know who might be listening."

  "I know, Mom."

  She wheels me to the elevator. As we descend, she says quietly, "When you get home, I want you to stay there. No superhero business until those ribs heal. No exceptions."

  "But--"

  "Sam." Her voice is steel. "Your father was shot protecting you. The least you can do is lay low while he recovers."

  I can't argue with that. "Okay."

  "Promise me."

  "I promise."

  The elevator doors open to the ground floor. Mom wheels me toward the cafeteria, navigating through the busy morning hospital traffic. Just before we reach the entrance, she stops and comes around to face me.

  "I love you," she says, cupping my face gently. "And I'm proud of you, even when you terrify me. But right now, I need you to be Sam Small, not Bloodhound. Can you do that? Just for a little while?"

  Looking up at her exhausted face, the worry lines etched deeper than I've ever seen them, I realize how selfish it would be to do anything else.

  "Yeah," I say, squeezing her hand. "I can do that."

  For now, anyway.