The next day passes in a blur of classes. Physics with Mr. Santiago actually manages to hold my attention with a lecture about how magnetic fields interact with conductive materials. And a demonstration that caused everyone in the class to get electrocuted. But the rest? Pure, unadulterated teenage purgatory.

  I spend lunch trying to explain to Melissa why I can't hang out after school ("Library volunteering," I say, which she interprets as community service for some unspecified crime, given my seemingly inexplicable reputation as a Bully Hunter Who Gets Into Fi-- Actually, no, that's totally earned), and English class avoiding eye contact with Mr. Jeffries when he asks for volunteers to read aloud from "The Great Gatsby." The clock seems to move in slow motion until the final bell, when I bolt from my desk like I've been spring-loaded.

  The library is busier after school than during the day - mostly younger kids with parents, teenagers using the computers, and the occasional adult browsing the fiction shelves. I slip past the circulation desk with a wave to Mom, who's helping a woman with three rambunctious children find picture books about dinosaurs.

  "I'll be down in a minute," she calls after me. "Get set up with the materials on the table."

  The archive room is exactly as we left it yesterday, cool and quiet and smelling of old paper. On the table is a stack of printed pages that weren't there before, held together with a binder clip. A yellow sticky note on top reads "Sam - step by step instructions. Follow EXACTLY. - Mom"

  I flip through the pages, impressed despite myself. Mom must have stayed up late typing all this out. Each page contains detailed instructions with screenshots of the scanning software, file naming conventions, and metadata entry forms. There are even troubleshooting tips for common issues like paper jams and file corruption. The woman is nothing if not thorough. When did she even find the time to do all this?

  Beside the instructions sits the box we were examining yesterday - "Early Vigilantes and Heroes (1995-2000)." I'm reaching for it when I hear the door open behind me.

  "I see you found the instructions," Mom says, looking tired but satisfied. "I couldn't sleep last night, so I figured I might as well make myself useful."

  "This is... really detailed," I say, holding up the packet. "Thanks."

  She seems surprised by my gratitude, which makes me feel a little guilty. Have I been that much of a brat lately? Or have I just been like this my entire life and this is the only time I've noticed? Or am I just going through puberty. When did I get taller than my Mom?

  "I know you don't love following instructions," she snips back, clearly not intending to actually bite, "but these materials are irreplaceable. We can't risk damaging them."

  "I get it," I assure her. "I'll be careful."

  She smiles, and I feel better.

  For the next forty-five minutes, Mom walks me through the process again, making me practice on less valuable materials until she's satisfied I won't destroy historical artifacts worth more than our house. The scanner is a hefty professional model, not the all-in-one printer/scanner/coffee maker variety we have at home. It has settings for different types of materials - photographs, newsprint, glossy magazine pages - and creates high-resolution images that capture every detail, including the texture of the paper.

  "The file naming system is crucial," Mom explains for approximately the seventeen thousandth time. "MC for Morrison Collection, then the box number, then the folder number, then the item number, followed by the date of the original material in YYYYMMDD format."

  "So this would be..." I gesture to the magazine clipping about The Saviors.

  "MC-24-03-017-19950612," Mom confirms. "And don't forget the metadata tags - subject, location, individuals identified, and content summary."

  My eyes are starting to glaze over, but I nod anyway. It's still better than shelving books upstairs.

  "I have to get back to the main desk," Mom says, checking her watch. "Mrs. Patel is taking her break, and we're short-staffed today. Follow the instructions, and come find me if you have any questions."

  After she leaves, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Finally. Alone with historical superhero artifacts and no one watching over my shoulder. I crack my knuckles and get to work.

  The first few items are straightforward - newspaper clippings about teenaged vigilantes stopping petty crimes in Center City, blurry photographs of costumed figures on rooftops, an editorial debating whether powered individuals should be required to register with local authorities. I carefully scan each one, following Mom's instructions to the letter. The work is tedious but oddly satisfying, like I'm preserving something important. Well, it's not really "like" I'm doing that, Sam. There's not a metaphor, that's just straightforwardly what I do.

  About an hour in, I find a magazine article that makes me pause. "The Psychology of Masks: Why Powered Youths Hide Their Identities" from a 1998 issue of Psychology Today. The piece interviews several unnamed teenaged vigilantes about their decision to adopt secret identities.

  "It's not just about protecting myself," one is quoted as saying. "It's about protecting everyone around me. My family, my friends - they didn't sign up for this."

  I think about my own mask, the way it changes how I move, how I speak, how I think. How being Bloodhound feels simultaneously more and less like the real me than being Sam Small.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  The next item is a faded flyer for a support group called "Parents of Powered Teens." The meeting location is listed as a church in South Philly, with a date in June 1999. "Discuss challenges, share resources, build community," the flyer promises. "All discussions confidential."

  Sounds familiar.

  I scan the flyer, carefully entering the metadata as instructed, then move on to the next item - a series of letters to the editor responding to a proposed curfew for individuals under 18 with "visible or known powers." The arguments on both sides feel eerily familiar. "Public safety." "Discrimination." "Protection." "Rights." Like we've been having the same conversation for a quarter-century without resolving anything.

  The next folder contains materials about early hero teams, including more about The Saviors. There's a newspaper interview with someone calling themselves "Momentum," described as the group's unofficial leader. The photo shows a lanky teenager in a tracksuit with electrical tape forming a lightning bolt across the chest.

  "We're not looking for trouble," Momentum insists in the interview. "We're just trying to make our neighborhood safer. The police can't be everywhere."

  Further down, the reporter asks about their lack of official training or oversight. Momentum's response makes me snort: "Who's qualified to train us? This is all new territory. We're figuring it out as we go."

  Figuring it out as we go. Yeah, that sounds about right.

  I carefully scan the article, then check the time. I've been at this for almost two hours, and my back is starting to ache from leaning over the scanner. But there's something compelling about these materials, these glimpses into the lives of powered teens who came before me. They were just as confused, just as determined, just as improvised as we are now.

  The next folder is labeled "Early Government Response (1997-2000)" and contains documents about the first attempts to regulate powered individuals. I pull out a policy brief titled "The Pivot Protocols: A Framework for Identifying, Containing, and Responding to Powered Incidents."

  As I scan the document, certain phrases jump out at me: "potential threat," "containment measures," "response hierarchy," "registration requirements." The clinical language attempts to make it all sound reasonable, scientific, necessary - but the underlying message is clear: powers are dangerous, and those who have them need to be controlled.

  One section discusses the establishment of specialized detention facilities for powered individuals who "pose a threat to public safety." There's a reference to early design consultations with engineering firms experienced in "high-security containment architecture."

  I wonder if Pop-pop Moe's company was involved in these early facilities, before Daedalus was built. It would make sense - they specialize in weatherproofing and disaster-resistant structures. The kind of expertise you'd want if you were building a prison for people who could control the elements or had super-strength. I have a fifteen-panel flashback to Rosh Hashanah dinner. It's miserable. I push it back down.

  I carefully scan the policy brief, making sure to capture every page at the correct resolution. As I work, I can't help wondering how Liberty Belle felt about all this. Was she active this early? No... that was... what, when was the first date in her notebooks when I skimmed them. 2013? 2014? I take a couple of seconds to skim through the other boxes, mostly to satisfy my curiosity. See, now I just kind of... need to know. Like an itch. Liberty Belle, Liberty Belle... No, no, not here...

  Let me think. I don't know what date she started, but I know that she was newsworthy. So if I jump to a random point, and I can find her, then I go back a little bit. And if I can't, then I go to the next year. Or maybe even just jump further? That's probably faster than just going from "earliest" to "latest", right? I feel my brain crunching and sputtering in my head. I peek into another box.

  2015? That's... later than I thought. Liberty Belle, formerly known as Breakout... okay, so I'm up the wrong tree. B for Breakout. My fingers keep gently poking through folder tops, glove touch feather light... Breakout, Breakout...

  I find a file labeled "Breakout (2014)" and pull it out carefully. It's a newspaper profile from the Inquirer with the headline "Philadelphia's Most Meticulous Vigilante?" The article describes how "the hero known as Breakout maintains extensive records," something something, "degree in criminal science," something something "rehabilitation outcomes," and "recidivism" and there's a picture... is that Belle? Her face is totally covered up. But it must be, right?

  There's a quote from Breakout herself: "Most heroes consider the job done once the handcuffs go on. I track what happens next. Without proper documentation, we can't know if the system is working or failing."

  Wait. Hold on. Train of thought interrupted. Rewind a second, Sam.

  The notebooks.

  ...

  What if I added them to the Morrison Collection?

  The thought hits me like a jolt of electricity. What if they could be preserved, digitized, made available to researchers? All of her investigative notes for everyone to use - and a little snub to the nose to the NSRA, too, don't think I'm not still mad at that whole kerfuffle. But more than that; what if Belle's insights could help shape how future generations understand powers and those who have them?

  But would Mom allow it? The notebooks weren't technically part of Morrison's original donation. They're my personal property, left to me in Belle's will. And they contain sensitive information - identities, locations, details about ongoing criminal operations. Or ongoing criminal operations...? At this point it's been almost two years... I wonder. It's been so long any of the non-Illya information has blurred into a loose smear. Only Illya, and that word on the last page of the last notebook - Porcelain? - just because it stuck out so much. Am I allowed to... preserve that? Like, is that a matter of national security or not?

  Still, the idea won't leave me alone. Belle was meticulous, thorough, dedicated to documenting everything she encountered. Her observations about the system - its successes and failures - are exactly the kind of firsthand account that should be preserved.

  I could propose scanning selected notebooks, redacting sensitive information. Focus on the historical cases, the ones where the statute of limitations has passed or where the individuals involved are already known to authorities. Start with her earliest work, when she was establishing herself as a hero in Philadelphia...

  I realize I've been staring at the scanner for several minutes without moving. Shaking myself back to the present, I carefully finish processing the Pivot Protocols document, entering all the required metadata with painstaking attention to detail. But my thoughts keep circling back to Belle's notebooks and what they might contain.

  As I close the folder and begin putting away the materials, I make a decision. Tomorrow, I'll bring the first of Belle's notebooks - the earliest ones - and propose adding them to the digitization project. The worst Mom can say is no, right? And if so I'll just... put them back in my backpack and save them for another rainy day.

  I pack up the scanning equipment according to the instructions and head back upstairs, my mind buzzing with possibilities. Belle's records could provide a missing piece in this historical puzzle - a firsthand account from someone who wasn't just studying powered individuals but was one herself, who saw the system from the inside. And wouldn't it be cool if I could get something actionable, too?