I'm staring at Mom's phone, at the headline screaming across the screen in bold red letters. The words don't make sense at first, like they're in a foreign language my brain refuses to translate.

  BREAKING: SUSPECTED TERRORIST ATTACK AS BOSTON PROTESTS GO VIOLENT, MULTIPLE EXPLOSIONS REPORTED

  My own phone is going crazy in my pocket, vibrating non-stop. When I pull it out, the screen is flooded with notifications - texts from Dad, Tasha, Lily, even Kate, who barely ever texts me anymore.

  Mom's fingers dig into my wrist as she yanks me back toward her, away from the growing noise outside. "We need to get inside," she says, her voice steady but tight.

  The crowd around us shifts from organized protest to confused panic. People check phones, gasp, cluster together in frightened groups. A man shoves past us, nearly knocking me over. Mom's grip tightens.

  "What's happening?" I ask, even though I can see the answer scrolling across every screen around us. "What exactly happened in Boston?"

  "I don't know yet," Mom says, pulling me through the crowd toward the capitol building's entrance. "But we need to get somewhere safe until we do."

  Security guards are suddenly everywhere, directing people, speaking into radios. One of them recognizes Mom from her testimony and waves us through a side entrance. I feel immediately bad - why am I getting the special treatment? We're both hale and healthy. Help everyone else! But I don't say it. Inside, the marble halls echo with urgent voices and hurried footsteps.

  "Rachel!" It's Denise from Pittsburgh, her face pale. "They're saying it was right at the Commons. Multiple injuries. They're evacuating government buildings in every major city."

  Mom nods, somehow still keeping her composure. "What about our people? Anyone heard from the Boston chapter?"

  "Lines are jammed. Nobody can get through." Denise is scrolling through her phone frantically. "Internet is blowing up but it's all confusion."

  My phone buzzes again, but this time it's not a text. It's a HIRC notification from Jordan. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone trying to open it.

  Jordan: Sam are you seeing this? Explosion at Boston Commons during protest. Not far from campus.

  I quickly type back: Are you okay? What's happening? All we're getting is headlines.

  Mom is deep in conversation with several coalition leaders now, her hand still locked around my wrist like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. I can hear fragments of what they're saying - "coordinated response," "statement of non-violence," "press conference."

  My phone buzzes again.

  Jordan: I'm fine. In lockdown at lab. Could see smoke from window. Campus security everywhere.

  Jordan: Nobody knows what happened yet. Rumors spreading. No confirmed bomb.

  Jordan: Signal on regular networks terrible. Use HIRC to stay in touch.

  Something cold settles in my stomach. No confirmed bomb. What does that mean? If there wasn't a bomb, then what caused the explosion?

  Around us, the calm evacuation is turning into something more frantic. A security officer appears, gesturing urgently to the senators and staff nearby. "We need to move everyone to secure locations immediately," he announces. "This is not a drill."

  Senator Wexler approaches Mom, her face grim. "Rachel, they're clearing the building. We need to regroup at the hotel. Can you get word to our people outside?"

  Mom nods, finally releasing my wrist to dig out her phone. "I'll try, but networks are overloaded." She punches at the screen several times, frowning. "Nothing's going through."

  "Mom," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Jordan says they're at MIT and can see the smoke from campus. They said there's no confirmed bomb."

  She looks at me sharply. "How are you in contact with Jordan?"

  "HIRC," I explain. "It's running on data, not cell networks."

  A flash of understanding crosses her face. "Ask them what they can see. Any details at all."

  I type quickly: Can you see anything else? Mom wants details. We're being evacuated.

  While I wait for a response, Mom is already adapting to this new information pipeline. "Sam has contact with someone at MIT through a data-based messaging app," she tells Senator Wexler. "We might be able to get more direct information that way."

  I catch snippets of another conversation nearby - "targeted attack," "anti-powered groups," "false flag operation." Everyone has a theory, but no one has facts.

  My phone buzzes.

  Jordan: Campus police scanner saying "explosion" at Commons. Multiple injuries.

  Jordan: Nobody's saying "bomb" specifically on official channels.

  Jordan: I'm monitoring emergency frequencies scanners. Will update.

  Mom peeks over my shoulders, her face wrinkling up like she's smelling a bad fish. "What else could it be?" She asks nobody in particular, exasperated.

  She doesn't finish the thought because someone else calls her name, and she's pulled into another urgent conversation. I stand there, feeling increasingly useless as chaos swirls around me.

  My phone keeps buzzing with texts I can't answer because the networks are too congested, but HIRC is still working. I check our team chat.

  Tasha: Sam are you guys okay? What's happening?

  Maggie: Harrisburg safe? Tacony all clear but weird vibes. Everyone on edge.

  Amelia: Nobody claiming responsibility yet. Checking usual channels.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I quickly update them: We're okay. Being evacuated from capitol. Mom in crisis mode. Jordan says MIT campus can see smoke. Nobody is saying the word "bomb".

  Tasha: Superpowers? Or are we just trying to find patterns.

  Lily: Huh?

  Tasha: Lots of reasons to not say bomb even if it's a bomb. We could just all be paranoid and frazzled.

  Tasha: Not to downplay anything.

  Sam: Thanks, Tash.

  Tasha: Sorry.

  The thought had crossed my mind too. Someone with powers losing control? Or deliberately causing destruction? But why at a protest supporting powered people?

  Before I can respond, Mom grabs my arm again. "We need to keep moving," she says. "They're clearing the building."

  Outside, the scene has transformed. Police barriers are going up. Officers in tactical gear stand at intervals around the perimeter. Protesters are being directed away from government buildings, many of them looking confused and frightened rather than angry.

  "Rachel!" A man in a coalition t-shirt runs up to us. "They're saying we need to disperse. Some of our people are getting nervous with all the police."

  Mom nods. "Tell everyone to comply with directions. The last thing we need is escalation. We'll regroup at the hotel." She turns to me. "Keep that channel open with Jordan. We need information."

  My phone buzzes again.

  Jordan: Local stations reporting "no bomb fragments found." Multiple witnesses describe "bright flash" then "pressure wave". Fireball but nobody, uh.

  Jordan: Dozens injured, at least five serious, no confirmed fatalities yet. Center of Boston Commons in the densest part of the crowd. No, uh.

  Jordan: No incineration reported?

  Jordan: You get me?

  Sam: Yes I get it.

  I relay this to Mom, whose face grows even more tense. "Boston Commons," she mutters, then suddenly freezes. "Oh G-d, Abigail."

  "What about Abigail?" I ask, confused for a moment before it clicks. What does - OH FUCK. All the blood drains from Mom's face about the same time it starts draining from mine.

  "Your cousin - she's at Emerson. Right there. Right by the Commons." Mom's voice cracks for the first time as she fumbles with her phone. "I need to call Aaron and Rebecca."

  She tries the call three times, each attempt failing to connect. "Motherfucker!" she hisses, making me jump. "Networks are completely jammed."

  I open HIRC again: Jordan, Emerson College is near the Commons, right? My cousin Abigail goes there. Journalism student, probably would have been at the protest.

  The response takes longer this time, agonizing seconds stretching into minutes while Mom keeps trying to reach my aunt and uncle.

  Jordan: Yes, Emerson is right there. Very close to blast zone. Many Emerson students were at protest according to scanner.

  Jordan: Hospitals reporting multiple admissions. No names released.

  Jordan: I'm so sorry, Sam. I'll try to find out more.

  I look up to find Mom watching me, her face a mask of controlled fear. "Jordan confirms Emerson is very close," I tell her quietly. "Hospitals are getting multiple admissions but no names released yet."

  Mom takes a deep breath, squaring her shoulders visibly. "I don't need Jordan to tell me that, Samantha," she hisses, trying to keep her composure and barely succeeding. "I know the layout of Boston," she says through clenched teeth. She sucks in a big lungful of air, and squares her body up. It's like watching armor slide into place. "Okay," she says, her voice steadier than it has any right to be. "We need to get to the hotel. I can try calling from there, and we need to establish a command center for our people."

  Command center. It strikes me how quickly Mom has shifted into crisis management mode. The part of my brain that has severe post-traumatic stress disorder thinks man, she'd be a great dispatcher for the DVD.

  We make our way through the dispersing crowd, Mom stopping every few feet to speak with coalition members, giving clear instructions, reassuring frightened parents. All while I know she's terrified about Abigail.

  I check HIRC again.

  Tasha: Kingdom activity still suspiciously quiet. Like they knew to lie low.

  Maggie: Rogue Wave just put out statement. Denying responsibility. Calling it "false flag to demonize powered community."

  That's interesting. Rogue Wave usually loves taking credit for chaos. Why distance themselves from this?

  A notification from the group chat with Jordan.

  Jordan: MIT emergency alert saying "shelter in place." Cambridge cops everywhere.

  Jordan: More details coming in. Witnesses saying nobody saw any suspicious packages or people. Nobody with any big bags. If it's an explosive it was very small.

  Jordan: Some witnesses describing really tense confrontation beforehand. Protesters getting kettled.

  Jordan: Oh god. Okay. Hold on.

  I stare at my phone like it's going to give me more answers faster the better I mean mug it.

  Jordan responds a couple of seconds later: People were getting crushed by the cops. Either the terrorist has a great sense of timing or someone just had the worst day of their life.

  Activation. I think the word almost simultaneously with Mom saying it, reading over my shoulder. "Oh G-d," she says, trying to keep herself steady. "This is a nightmare," she mumbles.

  As we approach the hotel, the scene is chaotic. Coalition members crowd the lobby, everyone talking at once. Staff look overwhelmed. News plays on every screen, showing aerial footage of Boston Commons, smoke rising, emergency vehicles with lights flashing.

  Mom is immediately surrounded by chapter leaders, all talking over each other, demanding answers she doesn't have. I stand beside her, still compulsively checking my phone.

  Dad has texted fifteen times. None coming through properly, just pieces, so I tell Tasha to tell him I'm fine. Tasha keeps updating the team chat with snippets from news sources. Jordan is monitoring MIT emergency channels. And somewhere in Boston, my cousin might be injured or worse.

  "Sam," Mom says suddenly, turning to me. "I need you to be my communications hub. Your HIRC connection is working when nothing else is. Can you set up in that corner and monitor information flows? Any updates from Jordan, any news from our team in Philadelphia, anything about Boston - I need to know immediately."

  I nod, somewhat relieved to have a specific task. As I start to move toward the indicated corner, Mom grabs my hand once more.

  "And Sam? Try to reach your father. Tell him we're safe."

  I throw her finger guns, but it feels extremely inappropriate given the moment, so I immediately shove my hands back into my pockets. "Already done, ma'am," I say, trying to sound cool. It does not work, mostly because my voice cracks. I (try to) settle into an armchair in the corner of the lobby, my phone clutched in both hands. The hotel Wi-Fi is strained but still functioning. I open multiple chat windows, trying to create order from chaos.

  The news ticker on the lobby TV catches my eye: "BREAKING: DOZENS INJURED IN BOSTON COMMONS EXPLOSION. AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING POSSIBLE METAHUMAN INVOLVEMENT."

  My stomach drops. If this was an Activation gone wrong, the backlash against powered people could be immediate and severe. Richardson would use it to push her legislation forward. Others might follow suit. The coalition's momentum could evaporate overnight.

  And all I can do is sit here, hundreds of miles away, watching it unfold on screens while my mother tries to hold together a movement that might be fracturing before our eyes.

  A half-formed thought flickers at the edge of my consciousness. Something about the timing. Something about everything happening at once - the hearings, the coordinated protests, the explosion. Like puzzle pieces that almost fit together, but I'm missing the crucial center piece.

  Around me, the hotel lobby has become a hive of frantic activity. Coalition members hug each other, some crying, others angrily demanding answers. Security personnel station themselves at entrances. Outside, I can see police cars with lights flashing.

  Mom stands in the center of it all, somehow maintaining control, giving directions, organizing response teams. She catches my eye across the room and mouths "Anything?"

  I shake my head slightly, then notice something on the TV. The caption reads: "EYEWITNESS REPORTS OF INJURIES OUTSIDE HARRISBURG CAPITOL AS CROWDS ATTEMPT TO DISPERSE."

  I look toward the hotel entrance and for the first time notice people being helped inside, some limping, others with minor cuts and bruises. Not from violence, but from panic - trampled in the rush to leave, pushed against barriers, fallen on stairs. I've been trying to tune it out - but I can't pretend I haven't noticed it pooling in the corners of my perception.

  Blood. I can sense it now that I'm paying attention. Multiple people bleeding from minor injuries. An older man with a cut on his forehead. A woman with a badly scraped knee. A teenager with what might be a sprained ankle.

  Mom follows my gaze and sees what I'm seeing. For a split second, our eyes meet across the crowded lobby, and I know we're thinking the same thing.

  There are injured people right here who need help, and I can find them.

  "No," she says. "Sam," she warns, while I'm already getting up.