I've been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes now, my eyes unfocused while my brain tries to process what I'm seeing. Like when you say a word too many times and it stops sounding like a word? That's what's happening with the name "Espinosa," except it's not that the name is losing meaning - it's that it's gaining meaning, and I don't like what I'm learning.

  "Chezki Espinosa, Mossad. Participated in joint training exercise between Israel and South African defense forces, 2006."

  There's a grainy photo of a man in khaki tactical pants and a dark t-shirt, sunglasses hiding his eyes, speaking to a group of soldiers. His face is turned just enough away from the camera that you can't see his full features, but there's something about the way he's standing - like he knows exactly how much space he takes up, like the air around him belongs to him too.

  I tap my pencil against my notebook, adding another dot to the constellation of taps I've made next to "Espinosa = Porcelain?" I've written this equation six times now, like I'm trying to solve for x and keep getting different answers. Pop-pop said they might be the same person, and Belle's notebooks suggest they're the same person, but there's almost nothing connecting them except Pop-pop's memory.

  Director Hayes walks past, glancing approvingly at the growing stack of scanned Morrison Collection documents. I've been at this for almost nine hours today. Somewhere around hour five, I realized I had about ten, fifteen seconds each scan to duck my eyes away and read whatever else was interesting to me. More if the page called for it. I can multitask! Excellent power boost, Sam.

  "How's it going, Sam?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. Library voice. I've gotten pretty good at it myself.

  "Just finished box twenty-three," I tell her, keeping my notebook slightly tilted away. "Found some interesting stuff about early superhero operations in West Africa."

  She nods, clearly pleased. "That's wonderful progress. We're so grateful for your help. If you need to stretch your legs, feel free. The coffee cart outside just opened."

  The second she's gone, I flip back to the article about Red Calf that I'd tucked inside my notebook. Not from the Morrison Collection - that was mostly focused on Philadelphia heroes and villains - but from an international affairs journal I'd swiped from one of the library shelves during a bathroom break. I'll return it, Mom! Published in 2018, it contained exactly one paragraph about Red Calf:

  "Among the private military contractors operating in conflict zones, Switzerland-based Red Calf Security Solutions maintains a reputation for effectiveness and discretion. Founded in 2015, the company specializes in 'high-risk environment consulting' and employs an estimated 300-500 personnel, including an unknown number of powered individuals. CEO Alexander Staedler declined to comment for this article."

  That's it. That's all I could find from legitimate sources. The rest comes from forums, conspiracy theory websites, and the dark corners of the internet where people argue about who really controls the world's governments. Not exactly reliable. But when you overlay all these unreliable sources, patterns start to emerge. Like how Red Calf operatives have been allegedly spotted in at least twelve countries immediately before some political upheaval. Or how they're supposedly the only PMC that actively recruits powered people, offering sums that make government salaries look like allowance money.

  Porcelain is mentioned exactly twice in all the material I've found. Once in a forum post where someone claimed he "turned a warlord's bodyguards into actual porcelain statues," which sounds like obvious bullshit. And once in an archived news report about a failed coup in some country I've never heard of, where a witness described a man with "armor like porcelain" who walked through gunfire unharmed. A single blurry photo of a figure in all white, surrounded by indistinct red smears.

  I stretch my arms over my head, feeling my spine pop in three places. My ribs are still tender from the Rush Order fight, but they're definitely better than they were. I should do some careful stretches tonight. Maybe Nurse Sylvia was right about that recovery yoga.

  I close the notebook and slide it into my backpack, then grab another box from the Morrison Collection. This one's labeled "Post-9/11 Superhero Response." Hopefully something here connects to either Porcelain or Red Calf. Belle must have had a reason to be looking into them.

  As I start leafing through newspaper clippings, a small cardboard sleeve slips out. Inside is a DVD labeled "The Saviors - CNN Special Report (2002)." I set it aside - we have an old DVD player at home, assuming Dad hasn't cannibalized it for parts for one of his weird projects.

  The rest of the box is mostly newspaper clippings about heroes who helped with rescue efforts after the attacks. There's Momentum, who used her acceleration powers to move rubble. Tempest, who created localized rainstorms to put out fires. Specter, who phased through debris looking for survivors. They called themselves The Saviors, apparently, and for a while they were the most famous superhero team in America.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  But here's the weird thing - by 2004, they'd disappeared. No more newspaper mentions. No announcements of retirement. They just... stopped showing up in the news. I make a note to check the DVD later. Maybe it explains what happened to them.

  I'm halfway through scanning a thick folder of Time magazine articles when my phone buzzes. Mom's texted me: Dinner in 30. Dad made kugel. Don't be late.

  Dad's kugel means it's a special occasion. He only makes it for birthdays and holidays, but it's not anyone's birthday and Rosh Hashanah isn't for weeks. I start packing up, scanning one last article before shutting down the equipment.

  Nothing interesting. Just stuff about the federal response to the rising tide of costumed criminals. The breaking ground on a specialized containment facility for dangerous superhumans, somewhere in upstate New York. Haha. Okay.

  The bus ride home is uneventful. I've been taking the same route for weeks now, and the driver - a guy named Marco with a persistent cough and what sounds like early-stage congestive heart failure based on his wheezing - just nods when I get on. The old lady who always sits in the front row with her oxygen tank is there too. The two teenagers who work at the Pizza Palace are in the back, still wearing their greasy uniforms. Sunday evening routine.

  I try to organize what I know about Red Calf as the bus rumbles along. Founded 2013, at least officially. Operates globally. Recruits powered people. Has connections to multiple governments but loyalty to none. Led by a Swiss former banking executive named Alexander Staedler. And may or may not include a man named Chezki Espinosa who may or may not also be someone called Porcelain, who may or may not be invulnerable to bullets.

  That's a lot of "may or may not"s for something Belle thought was important enough to investigate right before she died.

  When I walk in the front door, the smell of kugel hits me immediately - that perfect combination of egg noodles, cottage cheese, cinnamon, and sugar. Better than Pop-Pop's, but I'd never say that out loud. Dad's in the kitchen wearing Mom's apron over his Ramones t-shirt, leaning on his cane with one hand while stirring something with the other.

  "Hey, kiddo," he says without turning around. "Wash up. Five minutes to dinner."

  I duck into the bathroom, scrubbing library dust off my hands. My reflection looks tired - dark circles under my eyes from staying up late reading Belle's notebooks. My hair's getting too long again, falling into my eyes. I should ask Mom to trim it, but part of me likes how it sometimes covers my face. Makes it harder for people to recognize me from the Bloodhound videos online.

  When I come out, Mom's setting the table. Three plates, plus - weirdly, a bottle of wine. Did somebody die, or something? Who's getting married? What's going on?

  "Good day at the library?" Mom asks, arranging forks with surgical precision.

  "Yeah. Got through a lot of boxes. Director Hayes seemed happy."

  "That's good. We appreciate your help with this project, Sam. It's important work."

  There's something in her voice - that careful tone she uses when she's leading up to something. I've heard it enough times to recognize it immediately.

  Dad brings the kugel to the table, settling into his chair with a slight grimace. His leg's still bothering him from the gunshot, though he pretends it isn't.

  "So," Mom says, pouring herself a glass of wine. "I need to talk to you about something."

  Here it comes.

  "The state senate hearings are scheduled for Monday and Tuesday in Harrisburg. I'll be testifying on Tuesday morning."

  I nod. This isn't news. She's been preparing her testimony for weeks.

  "I've decided you're coming with me."

  I blink. "What? But I have school."

  "I've already spoken with your teachers. You'll have assignments to complete while we're there." She takes a sip of wine. "We'll leave early Monday morning and come back Tuesday evening."

  "But what about the library work? And my... other commitments?" By which I mean Bloodhound patrol that I do every so often to make it seem like I haven't vanished, helping old ladies and patching up boo-boos - but we still maintain the thin fiction sometimes.

  "Director Hayes understands you'll be out for two days. As for your other activities, they'll have to wait."

  I look at Dad, hoping for backup, but he's nodding along with Mom.

  "It's not negotiable, Sam," he says, serving kugel onto my plate. "Your mother shouldn't be alone for this, and I'm not exactly in traveling shape." He taps his cane against the floor for emphasis.

  "But I've been making progress on something important," I protest. "Belle's notebooks mentioned someone called Porcelain who might be connected to Daedalus, and I think I might be close to--"

  "Sam," Mom interrupts, her voice gentle but firm. "I understand you want to continue your investigation. But I need you with me in Harrisburg. This legislation affects you directly. You should be there to see the process, even if you can't testify yourself."

  I want to argue more, but the look on her face stops me. She's nervous about this testimony - I can see it in the tight way she's holding her wineglass, in the slight furrow between her eyebrows.

  I definitely want to keep fighting about it, don't get me wrong. But... I don't know. I've been cramming my brain full of schoolwork, and workwork, and even sidework. And working out before bed, and working the streets, you know, keeping up with the news, making sure people are staying safe... and... man, I'm just tired. Fine. Impromptu vacation. Whatever!

  "Fine," I sigh. "I'll go. But can I at least bring some of the materials to review while we're there?"

  "Of course," she says, relief evident in her voice. "Just nothing that can't be replaced if lost."

  I nod, already mentally cataloging which notebooks and articles I'll bring. Two days away from Philadelphia. Two days away from my team, from patrol, from the library archives.

  Two days in Harrisburg while the state decides whether kids like me should be allowed to use our powers or not.

  "You really are Moe's grandkid, you know?" Dad says, with a mouth full of egg noodles. I'm not exactly sure what he means by that.