I take a deep breath, ignoring the complaint from my ribs, and open the front door. The house smells like fresh baked challah and something simmering on the stove - Grandma Camilla's stress cooking in full effect.

  The sound of the door immediately brings a halt to whatever conversation was happening in the living room. I step inside, closing the door behind me and dropping Lily's backpack gently by the entryway.

  "I'm home," I announce unnecessarily to the silence.

  Mom appears in the doorway between the entryway and living room, her arms crossed over her chest. Her curly hair is even wilder than usual, like she's been running her hands through it repeatedly. Her eyes scan me from head to toe, cataloging injuries and borrowed clothes with clinical precision.

  "Are you hurt?" she asks, her voice unnervingly calm.

  "Just the ribs," I admit. "Again. Nothing new."

  She nods once, then steps aside, gesturing toward the living room. "Your father's been worried."

  The lack of immediate lecture is somehow worse than if she'd started yelling. This measured calm suggests a level of anger I rarely see from her.

  Dad is positioned near the window in his wheelchair, a blanket across his lap despite the warm evening. He looks tired, the strain of worry evident in the lines around his eyes, but his expression brightens slightly when he sees me.

  "There she is," he says, attempting lightness. "Our famous rabble-rouser."

  "Ben," Mom warns quietly.

  "What? It's all over the news. Might as well acknowledge it." He wheels himself closer, examining me with the same parental x-ray vision Mom just used. "You okay, kiddo? Really okay?"

  "I'm fine," I insist, though the persistent ache in my side suggests otherwise. "How are you? Did the, um, commotion affect your leg at all?"

  "I'm not the one who jumped out of a second-story window," he points out dryly.

  So they know about that part too. Great.

  From the kitchen, I hear the oven door close, followed by Grandma Camilla's appearance with a plate of something that smells delicious. "Sit," she commands, placing the plate on the coffee table. "Eat. Then face the music."

  I obey, sinking onto the couch with relief. The plate contains some kind of hand pie filled with what smells like spiced meat and vegetables. I take a bite, realizing suddenly how hungry I am after the night's exertions.

  "Thanks, Grandma," I mumble through a mouthful.

  She pats my shoulder with surprising gentleness, then retreats to the kitchen again, leaving me alone with my parents. Mom remains standing, while Dad positions his wheelchair across from me. The three of us form a triangle of tension, with the coffee table as neutral territory between us.

  "So," I begin, swallowing another bite of hand pie, "I guess we should talk about what happened."

  "Yes," Mom says, still in that eerily controlled voice. "Let's talk about how you deliberately broke your promise, triggered the motion sensors I specifically installed, and put yourself in danger despite your injuries."

  I wince. "When you put it that way..."

  "Is there another way to put it?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.

  I consider my next words carefully. The easy path would be to apologize, express remorse, promise never to do it again - the standard teenage contrition script. But we're beyond that now, and I suspect Mom knows it too. "An apology is a promise to not do it again," I repeat, from somewhere deep in my childhood memory.

  "Uh huh," Mom says, waiting for me to keep going. I think about my next words carefully.

  "I did what I thought was necessary," I say instead. "Richardson needed to be confronted publicly. People needed to see that there was opposition to her legislation."

  "And you decided this was your responsibility specifically?"

  "Someone had to do it."

  "And that someone had to be you? Despite your promise to stay home? Despite your still-healing injuries?"

  I meet her gaze directly. "Yes."

  Mom sighs, finally sitting down in the armchair adjacent to the couch. "Sam, do you have any idea what it was like to get that alert on my phone? To know you were deliberately putting yourself in harm's way again?"

  Guilt twists in my stomach. "I'm sorry for worrying you. I'm not sorry for what I did."

  "I know," she says. "I never expected you to keep that promise, Sam. Not really."

  I blink at her, confused. "Then why make me promise at all?"

  "Because I needed to know when you left," she explains. "I needed to be ready."

  The realization I had at the Music Hall solidifies. "You knew I was going to crash the town hall. You were waiting for it."

  "I know my daughter," Mom says simply. "The moment Richardson announced that town hall, I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. So I prepared accordingly."

  Dad chuckles softly, earning a sharp look from Mom. "Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "But you have to admit, Rachel, it's a little funny. You both outmaneuvered each other."

  "I'm not seeing the humor in our daughter putting herself in danger," Mom replies flatly.

  "That's because you're too busy being proud of her," Dad counters.

  Mom's expression cracks slightly, her composure slipping to reveal something more complex beneath. "That's not the point, Ben. I'm not proud of her. I'm infuriated. I'm just also capable of doing multiple things at once. Some people can walk and chew bubblegum."

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  "I can't walk at all," He jokes, looking at me. "Your mother's been organizing that parent coalition for a while, Sam. I just pointed out that there was no shot that you weren't going to show up. You couldn't even stop yourself from mouthing off to her out of costume."

  "We don't..." Mom starts, trying to grab for words.

  Dad takes over. "We don't want to encourage you to consider being a superhero your responsibility, regardless of what my father tells you or what other people say you have to do. Richardson is right - you could become a paramedic. Frankly, you're smart enough to just be a regular doctor--"

  "No I'm not--"

  "Don't interrupt me," Dad cuts back in, slamming his hand on the table, making me jump.. "Every time you go out and we don't see you later helping someone pick up dog poop we're worried you're getting into a fight with hardened criminals. You're barely sixteen. You need to cut it out. If we could chain you to the wall and make sure you only went to school and came home, we would."

  "Benjamin!" Mom protests, while Grandma Camilla nods her painful, miserable approval. Yeouch.

  "...but we can't. Rachel's long since accepted that. I'm still... figuring that out. The most we can do is try to encourage you to do it safely. We'd be having the same conversation if you were going out and drinking with party animal types. Your friends would just come over and smuggle you alcohol, and if we tried to restrict you, you'd just be deprived of the opportunity to experience the world and grow up through making mistakes. You'd lose opportunities for socialization. You'd just do it anyway under our noses. Do you see the impossible bind we're in here?"

  I don't really have a good response, so I just stare at the floor. "I guess," I mumble.

  "Look at me when you answer," Dad almost barks, and I feel a sort of life-threatening fear overtake me as he squeezes a napkin between his fingers.

  "I guess, sorry," I say, snapping to attention. He closes his eyes and takes a breath.

  "This is just who you are. If you want us to think you've changed, you'll have to show it. If you don't, just keep... being you, and we'll assume every time you leave the house that you're putting yourself in life-threatening danger. I'm not trying to guilt trip you. That's just... an accurate assessment of what you do," my Dad says, making me feel even worse. "You go out there and do good things. Get dangerous drugs off the street. Save people's lives. But you really, really, really should not have to."

  I'm not sure how to respond to this mixture of criticism and praise. "So... am I in trouble or not?"

  Mom's expression hardens again. "Absolutely. You broke a direct promise. You left without permission. You put yourself in physical danger. You put yourself in legal danger. You put us in legal danger. There are consequences for those actions."

  Dad shifts in his wheelchair, his expression softening slightly. "But we also recognize that you acted out of conviction, not rebellion. That matters."

  "Which is why your punishment is specific," Mom continues. "Starting tomorrow, you'll be volunteering at the library five days a week, four hours per shift. This continues through the school year."

  I blink, processing this. "The library? That's my punishment?"

  "My library," Mom emphasizes. "Under my supervision. Where I can keep an eye on you while you learn that there are ways to help people and fight injustice without punching anyone or getting shot at."

  "And," Dad adds, "you'll be helping me with physical therapy twice a week. Consider it part of your own rehabilitation."

  I nod, relieved that the consequences are manageable but also aware that there's purpose behind them. My mom continues. "I'm not going to be able to stop you from being Bloodhound all the time. I'm not an idiot. But maybe if you see how the other side lives for a while you'll... Reconsider."

  I scrunch my face up at her. She scrunches her face up right back.

  "Don't make that face at me," she almost snarls. She catches herself, brushing hair out of her face. "Sorry. It's been a long night. I'm not done yet, though. You're also going to be keeping a tracker on you at all times. I've been in contact with someone who works at a support device agency and he's been willing to give me one. I don't expect it will dissuade you, but if you're going to go out and do this... stuff, you're going to do it while Ben and I know exactly where you are every second of every day."

  She stops, takes a breath, and continues. "And if you sneak out without telling us, we will be imposing further consequences. I would rather you tell me 'I am going to an abandoned house in the waterfront to beat up a drug dealer' than you just vanish in the middle of the night."

  "Your mother and I make good enough money. We are solidly at the upper echelons of middle class. But in a very real sense we simply cannot afford getting this household dragged into a legal battle with the police, or if you accidentally Good Samaritan someone into an injury and get sued for negligence. It's not just you we're concerned about," Dad points out, I guess to try and get me to broaden my view.

  Then, he starts getting louder. Slowly at first. "That would eat into your college fund, into our mortgage, our insurance rates... It doesn't mean anything to you, but it makes a significant difference in our quality of life. And our stress, that we have to be considering this every day, while you go around acting cavalier about your lifestyle!"

  I shrink away, feeling sufficiently cowed. He squeezes his face with his hands, rubbing his eyelids with his thumb and his middle finger. Mom's nostrils flare and she presses her fingers against her temples, moving them in small circles like she's trying to do something telekinetic. The tomato color starts to leech back out of the both of them.

  "There's one more thing," Mom says, her expression softening slightly. She takes a deep breath, like she's preparing herself for something. "I'm proud of you, Sam. Not for breaking your promise or putting yourself in danger. But for standing up for what you believe in, even when it's difficult. Even when it's frightening."

  The unexpected praise catches me off guard. "Uh," I say, trying to catch my breath. I don't like how some people can rapidly switch between yelling and not yelling. It's weird to me.

  Dad laughs softly, gently swiping at his face to try and squish the blood flow back down into his neck. "I think. What your mother is trying to say is that while we worry about your methods, we believe in your cause. And we're in this fight with you now."

  "The coalition is gaining momentum," Mom adds. "We've already had inquiries from parent groups in New York, Baltimore, Chicago, and DC. People are organizing, preparing to testify at the state hearings in September."

  "It's spreading," I say, thinking of the map Tasha showed me, trying to think about literally anything other than how close I got to bursting into tears just now.

  "Faster than we anticipated," Mom confirms. "Richardson miscalculated. She thought powered teens were an easy target because they're vulnerable and their parents would be too frightened to speak out. She didn't count on those parents organizing."

  "Or on Bloodhound creating the perfect media moment," Dad adds with a hint of pride.

  I take another bite of Grandma Camilla's hand pie, letting this information settle and trying to calm myself back down.

  "So what happens now?" I ask, face feeling red and raw.

  "Now," Mom says, finally letting exhaustion show in the slump of her shoulders, "we get some rest. Tomorrow, I have calls with coalition leaders in six states. You have a shift at the library to begin. And your father has physical therapy."

  "The work continues," Dad adds. "On multiple fronts."

  From the kitchen, Grandma Camilla calls out, "And you all need to eat more! You're too skinny from all this revolution business!"

  "She's skinny from puberty, Mom!" Mom yells backwards.

  "One last question," I say, looking at Mom. "Did you plan for me to get chased through City Hall by Captain Devil? Because that part wasn't fun."

  "No," she admits. "I just expected the security guys to surround you and handcuff you and then I'd go to the station and pretend to chastise you about it. God, I need to talk to a lawyer."

  "Good to know for next time," I say without thinking.

  Mom's eyebrow raises. "Next time?"

  "Figure of speech," I backpedal quickly.

  Dad coughs to hide a laugh, earning another sharp look from Mom.

  "Go get cleaned up," Mom says, rising from her chair. "It's late, and you have responsibilities starting tomorrow."

  I nod, finishing the last bite of hand pie before standing carefully. My ribs protest, but I hide the wince as best I can. As I pass Mom on my way to the stairs, she catches my arm gently.

  "Sam," she says quietly, just for me. "Next time you decide to do something monumentally reckless... talk to me first. We might be able to coordinate our recklessness."

  I look at her in the eye. Maybe we're more alike than I've been willing to admit.

  "I will," I answer.

  As I climb the stairs to my room, I hear the TV come on downstairs. The news anchor's voice floats up: "Demonstrations are being organized in major cities across the Northeast following tonight's confrontation at Philadelphia City Hall..."