Mom insists on leaving at 7 AM, which is basically the middle of the night as far as I'm concerned. I barely manage to grab my toothbrush and a handful of Belle's notebooks before she's honking from the driveway.

  "Text me when you get there," Dad says, leaning on his cane in the doorway. He's wearing a bathrobe over pajama pants, his hair sticking up in three different directions. Apparently Grandma Camilla is going to be over later to help take care of him, which strikes me as funny. Maybe they'll get along without the constant simmering tension of the great war between Grandma and Mom.

  "We're not going to Mars," I tell him, hugging him quickly. "It's just Harrisburg."

  "Same difference. Political wasteland. Be careful."

  I roll my eyes, but hug him anyway. He smells like toothpaste and coffee.

  Mom honks again. I swear she's more impatient than I am sometimes.

  The drive to Harrisburg is supposed to take about two hours, but Mom seems determined to stretch it into eternity by driving exactly at the speed limit. Even the old people are passing us. My legs are cramping from being tucked under the dashboard - the passenger seat in Mom's car is permanently pushed forward because she never remembers to adjust it after Dad drives. Even adjusting it myself feels like it doesn't help, somehow.

  "Do you want to go over my testimony notes?" Mom asks after about twenty minutes of NPR at a volume so low I can barely make out whether they're talking about interest rates or international treaties.

  "Sure," I say, even though I don't particularly want to. But she's been rehearsing this testimony for weeks, and I know how important it is to her.

  She gestures to her tote bag in the backseat. "There's a folder with the green tabs. And could you pass me that water bottle?"

  I twist around, grabbing both items. The folder is thick with neatly typed pages, color-coded and annotated in Mom's precise handwriting. As I flip through, I'm surprised by how technical it is - statistics about powered youth employment, historical precedents for civil rights legislation, even psychological studies about the impact of power suppression on teenage development.

  "This is... really thorough," I say, genuinely impressed.

  Mom takes a sip of water, eyes on the road. "Thank you. It needs to be. We're not just facing Richardson's legislation - we're up against decades of fear and misinformation about powered individuals."

  I read a highlighted paragraph about increased depression rates among teens forced to suppress their abilities.

  "So what am I supposed to do while you're doing all this?" I ask, tucking the folder back into her bag.

  "Observe. Learn. Understand how government actually works." She glances at me. "And stay within sight. I'm serious, Sam."

  "I know, I know." I lean my head against the window. "No venturing into the dark underbelly of Harrisburg's criminal empire."

  Mom doesn't laugh. "This isn't a joke. There will be counter-protesters. People who believe Richardson's rhetoric about powered youth being dangerous."

  "So I'll blend in. Become one with the beige walls of bureaucracy."

  "Sam."

  "Sorry." I straighten up. "I'll be good. Promise."

  She nods, seemingly satisfied, and turns up the NPR slightly. I've got about ninety minutes of this ahead of me. Perfect time to check in with everyone.

  I pull out my phone and start with the group chat:

  Me: Heading to Harrisburg with Mom. Back Tuesday night. Don't burn down the Music Hall while I'm gone.

  Tasha responds almost immediately: We've scheduled the arson for Wednesday. Have fun at Politics Camp.

  Maggie: Tell your mom we're rooting for her! Also we're patrolling with Bubble and Moonshot tonight. Just neighborhood stuff.

  Lily: Lucy says hi. We're coordinating zones so don't worry.

  At least they've got things covered. I switch to my contacts and tap Devonte's name. He's probably the most likely to actually tell me something useful about the Hypeman stuff.

  Me: Hey, any updates on that package I dropped off?

  Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Classic Devonte overthinking.

  Devonte: Nothing concrete. Brought in a specialist but it's slow going. Very technical and doesn't help but coats want to know what the fuck is in Hypeman.

  I frown. That's frustratingly vague. I try a different angle.

  Me: Specialist = ???

  Devonte: Dr. M from Penn. She's good. Very discreet. Akilah trusts her.

  Devonte: No progress on S. B. though. No direct connections. All frustratingly siloed.

  That's something at least. Akilah doesn't trust easily.

  I decide to try Councilman Davis next, though I'm not expecting much. He's usually careful about what he puts in writing.

  Me: Any progress on S.B.? In Harrisburg with Mom till Tuesday.

  The reply takes almost ten minutes.

  Davis: Wheels turning. Slowly. Bureaucracy. Tell your mother good luck. We need it.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Great. I get the distinct impression that's all I am going to get out of him.

  I stare out the window at the passing landscape. Pennsylvania in September is all green turning golden at the edges, fields stretching out beside the highway. My fingers twitch, and I suddenly crave a cigarette with an intensity that surprises me. I haven't had one in almost a week.

  I glance at Mom, who's focused on the road, then open a text to Jordan. At least this one won't be about Kingdom stuff.

  Me: Kidnapped by parental unit. Being taken to Harrisburg against my will. How's nerd school?

  Jordan's reply is almost immediate, which means they're probably procrastinating on something important.

  Jordan: Tragic. Pray for your safe return. MIT is wild. People here talk about computational approaches to N-dimensional spacetime like it's the weather.

  Me: So... home?

  Jordan: Basically. Just with more anxiety and caffeine. How's everyone?

  Me: Surviving. Got Maggie working with the Titans while I'm away. Devonte's being weird about the Stheno stuff.

  Jordan: Weird how?

  Me: Vague. Says they brought in some specialist from Penn.

  Jordan: Smart. They need someone who understands pharmacology. That stuff was way above our pay grade.

  Me: Yeah but I hate not knowing what's happening.

  Jordan: Welcome to my world. Prof. Simmons has me running simulations on AOM decay patterns. We might be actually doing something interesting. But there's classified stuff I don't get to know about. LE SIGH

  Me: That sounds suspiciously relevant to our interests.

  Jordan: Right? I think DAAS is looking into Rogue Wave's Jump/Fly. But everyone's being super secretive.

  Jordan: Anyway I should go. Lab meeting in 10. Try not to die of boredom in Harrisburg.

  Me: No promises.

  I put my phone down, realizing Mom's saying something to me.

  "...passing more of them now. See?"

  I look up and notice what she's pointing at - cars with bumper stickers reading "POWERS ≠ WEAPONS" and "PROTECT POWERED YOUTH" and "MY KID IS NOT A THREAT." As we get closer to Harrisburg, there are more and more of them.

  "Those are all coalition people?" I ask, surprised by the number.

  Mom nods, a small smile on her face. "Some of them. We've grown significantly in the last few weeks. Especially after the town hall."

  "How significantly?"

  "We had about sixty families when we started. As of yesterday, the mailing list has over two thousand subscribers across Pennsylvania. And we're not the only state with a coalition forming."

  I blink, taking that in. "Two thousand? But at the town hall there were only, what, fifty people who stood up?"

  "Those were just the Philadelphia chapter members who could attend that specific event." Mom changes lanes to pass a minivan with "PROUD PARENT OF POWERED TEEN" written on the back window. "What happened at the town hall - that was just the beginning, Sam."

  How much of her time has she been putting into this while I've been focused on my own investigation?

  "Are all these people going to the hearings?" I ask.

  "Not all. The hearing room only seats about a hundred. But there will be supporters outside. A show of solidarity." She hesitates, then adds, "And similar demonstrations in other major cities across the Northeast."

  "Wait, seriously? Even in states that don't have hearings scheduled?"

  "Especially in those states. To show their legislators what's coming if they try to follow Richardson's lead. Or I guess most people are assuming it's Martin's lead. But you and I get to know. Like a cool little secret!"

  I sink back into my seat, chewing on this, massaging my temples.

  We start seeing more signs as we approach the outskirts of Harrisburg. "EXIT HERE FOR STATE CAPITOL" and then, handmade ones staked into the ground: "PARENTS AGAINST BILL SB-147" and "FAMILIES FOR POWERED RIGHTS."

  The downtown area is busier than I expected for a Monday morning. People with coalition t-shirts are walking toward the capitol building, some carrying signs, others pushing strollers or holding children's hands.

  "Wow," I mutter as we pull into the hotel parking lot. "You really did organize an army."

  Mom turns off the engine and gives me a level look. "Not an army, Sam. A community. There's a difference."

  She reaches for her tote bag, but I catch her wrist gently.

  "Mom? I'm proud of you."

  Something flashes across her face - surprise, then a flicker of emotion I can't quite name. She squeezes my hand briefly before letting go.

  "Come on," she says, her voice a little tighter than usual. "Let's check in. I have a meeting with the Maryland chapter representatives in thirty minutes."

  As we grab our bags from the trunk, I notice more coalition members arriving at the hotel. A teenage boy with scales along his jawline helps his father unload their car. A woman with a "POWERED MOM" t-shirt shepherds twin girls who appear completely normal until one of them floats a few inches off the ground to reach something in the backseat.

  Inside, the hotel lobby is packed. The harried receptionist is checking in three families at once, while a man in a suit who I'm guessing is the manager tries to direct traffic. The energy reminds me of a school field trip - excited chatter, kids running around, parents trying to maintain order.

  "Rachel!" A woman with curly gray hair waves from across the lobby. "Over here!"

  Mom waves back. "That's Denise from the Pittsburgh chapter," she tells me. "Go get our room keys. I'll be right back."

  Before I can protest, she's disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to join the check-in line. Great.

  I shuffle forward with the line, trying not to make eye contact with anyone. But it doesn't work.

  "Hey," says a voice beside me. "Aren't you that girl from, uh... That Patriot beat up? Prom girl?"

  I turn to see a kid about my age, maybe a year younger, with dark hair and glasses. He's wearing a coalition t-shirt and looking at me with something uncomfortably close to admiration.

  "Uh, yeah. That was me," I admit, because denying it would be pointless. That video had like a million views.

  "That was badass," he says, grinning. "I'm Alex." He holds up his palm and a tiny flame appears, bright blue like a propane torch, dancing briefly before he closes his fist and extinguishes it. I try not to wince at the thought of another pyrokinetic.

  "Sam," I reply, not mentioning my powers. "You from Philly too?"

  "Nah, Allentown. But everybody saw that video." He lowers his voice. "Did he really almost kill you? Is that how you got your powers?"

  I sort of crunch my lips together to imitate a conspiratorial smile. "I'm just here to help my mom out," I say, doing like fifteen layers of deception at once.

  The line moves forward, and I'm saved from further conversation by reaching the reception desk. The receptionist looks like she hasn't slept in days.

  "Name?" she asks, not looking up from her computer.

  "Small. Rachel and Samantha."

  She types rapidly, then slides two key cards across the counter. "Room 412, fourth floor. Elevator's to the right. Breakfast is 6 to 10, but good luck finding a table."

  I take the keys and retreat to a relatively quiet corner of the lobby to wait for Mom. The place is getting more crowded by the minute. Families, teenagers, groups of adults in discussion. Many of them with visible powers - a woman with glowing fingertips, a man whose shadow doesn't match his movements, a girl about ten years old whose hair seems to be made of living vines.

  Mom finds me after about fifteen minutes, now surrounded by three other women who all seem to be talking at once.

  "Sam, these are the chapter leaders from Baltimore, Pittsburgh, and Albany," Mom says, gesturing to each woman in turn. "Ladies, my daughter Samantha."

  They all give me variations of "nice to meet you" and immediately return to their conversation about press credentials and speaking order. Mom catches my eye and mouths "sorry" before turning back to them.

  I hold up the room keys. "I'm going to go drop our bags off, okay?"

  She nods, clearly relieved. "I'll be up in an hour or so. Don't leave the hotel."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," I mutter, hefting both our bags and heading for the elevator.

  Room 412 is exactly what I expected - generic hotel decor, two queen beds, a bathroom that's slightly too small, and a view of the parking lot. I dump our bags on the respective beds and flop down on mine, staring at the ceiling.

  Two days in Harrisburg. While the Kingdom and Rogue Wave and whatever else is happening continues without me in Philadelphia.

  I pull out Belle's notebook and open to the page I'd marked, reading her neat handwriting again: "Espinosa =/= Porcelain? Abner says no. But vested interests?"

  The fuck does that mean? I don't dwell on it for too long, but mostly because my Mom shows up.