"SAMANTHA!"

  My mother's voice cuts through the lobby noise like a whip crack. I freeze mid-step, my body responding to that tone before my brain can even process it. It's the voice she used when I was eight and almost ran into traffic, when I was twelve and almost set the kitchen on fire trying to make latkes. The voice that means stop-right-now-or-else.

  I turn back to face her, already preparing my argument. "Mom, I can help. I can literally sense who's bleeding and how badly. I can--"

  "You will not move another inch without me," she says, closing the distance between us in four quick strides. Her face is a battlefield of emotions - fear, anger, determination, and something else I have trouble figuring out. "If you want to help, you do it in my line of sight. Understood?"

  I blink, surprised. I'd expected a flat refusal.

  "I... yes," I manage.

  Mom nods curtly. "Stay within my sight at all times. No heroics. Be discreet. The second I call you back, you come. Immediately."

  "Yes, ma'am," I reply, not even a hint of sarcasm in my voice. I'm not about to push my luck.

  Mom turns to Denise, who is staring at the two of us owlishly, like she just saw something she shouldn't have. "I need you to coordinate with the hotel staff. Set up a first aid station in that conference room." She points to a room off the lobby. "Anyone with medical training that isn't a paramedic should report there. Sam and I will help identify those who need assistance."

  Denise nods and hurries off. Mom looks back at me, her expression softening slightly. "Let's go."

  Damn? Where has this Rachel been for the past sixteen years?

  We move through the lobby together, Mom's hand firmly on my shoulder. The blood scent is stronger now that I'm actively focusing on it, distinct signatures pulling at my attention from different directions.

  "There's someone behind that column," I murmur to Mom, nodding toward the far side of the lobby. "Bleeding from the leg, I think. And an older woman by the elevators with a head wound."

  Mom processes this, then guides us toward the column first. A teenage boy sits hunched there, clutching his knee. When we get closer, I can see a nasty gash through his torn jeans, blood seeping between his fingers.

  "Hi there," Mom says, crouching down beside him. "My name's Rachel. This is my daughter Sam. We're getting a first aid station set up. Can we help you over there?"

  The boy looks up, face pale. "I just slipped when everyone started running. Stupid."

  "Not stupid at all," Mom says firmly. "People panic. It happens. Can you walk with some help?"

  He nods, and I move to his other side as Mom helps him up. Together, we support him as he limps toward the conference room where Denise has already commandeered a table and is laying out what looks like a hotel first aid kit.

  I'm amazed that you can just do this. If you look like you know what you're doing, and are forceful enough, people will just whip themselves into shape for you? Or... no, this isn't a surprise. People have deputized me before. And I've deputized other people. Is this not just sort of what the Auditors do?

  But still. Rachel?

  "Got another one for you," Mom says, helping the boy to a chair. A woman in a coalition t-shirt who apparently has some medical training immediately moves to check his knee.

  As we step back, I scan the lobby again. "Two more by the front desk," I tell Mom quietly. "And someone in the bathroom is pretty badly hurt. I can sense blood pooling."

  Mom's eyes widen slightly. I've never been this specific about my blood sense before. "The bathroom?"

  I nod. "Women's, I think. Northeast corner."

  Mom heads that way immediately, me right behind her. Outside the bathroom door, she hesitates. "How bad?"

  "Bad enough that they're not coming out for help," I say grimly.

  Mom pushes the door open. Inside, a woman in her sixties sits on the floor of the handicap stall, breathing heavily. Blood has soaked through her pants at the hip, and there's a cut on her forehead that's dripping into her eyes.

  "Oh my god," Mom says, immediately dropping to her knees beside the woman. "What happened?"

  "Pushed against a barrier," the woman says, voice tight with pain. "Then fell when everyone started running. I think my hip might be broken. I just needed... to catch my breath."

  Mom looks at me. "Go get one of the medical people. Now."

  I sprint back to the conference room, grab the woman who was helping the boy with the knee wound, and practically drag her back to the bathroom. All the while, my phone is buzzing incessantly in my pocket, but I ignore it.

  The next hour passes in a blur of activity. Mom and I work as a team, moving through the lobby, the mezzanine, even checking outside where people are still arriving from the capitol. I point out the injured, and Mom helps get them to the makeshift first aid station. For the more serious cases, actual paramedics arrive, alerted by hotel security.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Through it all, Mom keeps me close, her eyes finding mine every few minutes as if to reassure herself that I'm still there, still safe. I catch her checking her phone compulsively between helping people, trying again and again to reach Aunt Rebecca and Uncle Aaron.

  After helping an older man with a sprained wrist to the first aid station, I finally check my own phone. Multiple new messages in the HIRC chat:

  Jordan: More confirmation of Activation. EMTs reporting "unusual injuries" consistent with concussive force but no shrapnel.

  Jordan: Police scanners saying three definite new Activations at hospitals. Possibly more.

  Jordan: Still no casualty list. Hospitals overwhelmed. No bomb fragments, no residue, no nothing.

  I feel Mom looking over my shoulder and turn to show her the messages. Her face tightens.

  "Three Activations," she murmurs. "From one incident."

  "Is that unusual?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

  "Sort of," she says. "But not unprecedented in mass casualty events. Remember the Tesla Plant incident? Two simultaneous Activations there. I think if you run the numbers in your head, for a mass casualty event, this is... not abnormal."

  I see something in her eyes that I think is supposed to read like what sort of world do I live in that I have to have these sorts of conversations? but I don't say anything. The Tesla Plant was a genuine accident - equipment failure that created a life-threatening situation. I can't say why, but this feels... different?

  Before I get the opportunity to say anything, Denise rushes over, her phone in hand. "Rachel, Senator Wexler has called an emergency meeting of chapter leaders. Fifth floor conference room in ten minutes."

  Mom nods, but her eyes don't leave my face. "I need to go to this meeting," she says, clearly torn. "But I don't want you out of my sight."

  "I'll come with you," I offer. "I can keep monitoring HIRC during the meeting. Maybe Jordan will have more updates."

  Mom considers this, then nods. "Fine. But you stay in the room with me. No wandering off."

  As we head toward the elevators, my phone buzzes again. But it's not Jordan this time. It's Tasha in our team chat:

  Tasha: Mainstream news now reporting "multiple Activations" in Boston. Confirmation it was metahuman incident, not conventional explosive.

  Tasha: Also, your dad says he contacted your grandma Camilla. She's with him now.

  In the elevator, Mom finally gets a text through to Uncle Aaron. Her entire body sags with relief as she reads it.

  "Abigail's okay," she says, voice thick. "She was at the protest but on the periphery. She's back at her dorm now. Service is spotty but she's checking in when she can."

  "Thank G-d," I murmur, feeling a knot in my chest loosen.

  The elevator opens onto the fifth floor, where coalition leaders are already gathering. Mom's hand finds my shoulder again, guiding me into the conference room. I take a seat in the corner while she joins the others at the table.

  Senator Wexler calls the meeting to order. "First, I want to thank everyone for maintaining calm during this crisis. Our primary concern remains the safety of our members and supporters across all demonstration sites."

  She continues with updates from other cities - protests are being shut down nationwide, though there are no reports of similar incidents elsewhere. Boston remains the only explosion site.

  "Preliminary reports suggest this was an Activation event, not a terrorist attack," she says gravely. "While this is still being confirmed, we need to prepare our response."

  A man I don't recognize speaks up. "If this was an Activation, we need to emphasize that this proves our point. Suppression and force against powered individuals creates exactly the kind of dangerous situations this legislation claims to prevent."

  Murmurs of agreement around the table. Mom raises her hand.

  "We need to be careful about politicizing this too quickly," she says. "People are injured. Possibly dead. Their families deserve respect before we make this about policy."

  "Rachel, I understand your concern," Senator Wexler says. "But Richardson and her allies won't hesitate to use this against us. We need to control the narrative."

  My phone buzzes again. Another message from Jordan:

  Jordan: New official report: Four confirmed Activations so far. One at scene (initial explosion), three among the injured.

  Jordan: Total casualty count: 87 injured, 12 critical, still no confirmed fatalities.

  The meeting continues around me, voices rising and falling as different strategies are debated. I tune out, focusing instead on the information coming through my phone.

  Tasha has sent a news clip showing the aftermath in Boston - emergency vehicles, smoke still rising, people being treated on the grass of the Commons. The caption reads: "AUTHORITIES CONFIRM METAHUMAN INCIDENT, NOT TERRORIST ATTACK."

  Something about the phrasing bothers me. As if a metahuman incident couldn't also be terrorism. I switch back to Jordan's chat:

  Sam: Any info on the person who Activated? Age? Description?

  Jordan: Nothing specific. It was a big crowd. Nobody is able to pinpoint the specific person that went off.

  Jordan: One thing consistent - group was being pushed or crushed by crowd control barriers when it happened. Kettled.

  I relay this information to Mom during a break in the discussion. She nods grimly.

  "Excessive force leading to Activation," she murmurs. "Exactly what we've been warning about."

  The meeting wraps up after about an hour. The coalition has decided on a unified message: expressions of support for the injured, calls for calm and against backlash, and a request for fair investigation before drawing conclusions.

  As we file out of the conference room, Mom checks her phone again. "Aaron says Abigail is safe in her dorm building. All Emerson students are on lockdown."

  "Has she said anything about what she saw?" I ask.

  Mom shakes her head. "Just that she said she was there and got out when the panic started. I'm sure she'll have more to say when things calm down."

  We return to the lobby, which has transformed again. The first aid station is still operational, but many of the injured have been transported to local hospitals. Hotel staff are cleaning up, setting furniture back in its proper place. On the TVs, news coverage of Boston continues, but the initial shock has given way to more structured reporting.

  Mom finds Senator Wexler again. "What about tomorrow's hearing? Is it still happening?"

  "Still scheduled, as of now," Wexler replies. "But that could change. We'll know more in the morning."

  Mom nods, then turns to me. "I think we need to get some rest. It's been a long day."

  I want to protest - how can we rest when everything is still happening? - but I'm suddenly aware of how exhausted I am. The adrenaline crash hits all at once, making my legs feel wobbly.

  "Yeah," I agree. "Rest."

  In the elevator up to our room, Mom finally lets go of my shoulder. She looks as tired as I feel, the lines around her eyes deeper than usual.

  "You did good today," she says quietly. "Helping those people."

  "You too," I reply. "I've never seen you like that before. In crisis mode."

  She gives me a wan smile. "There are many sides to your mother you haven't seen, Samantha."

  In our room, Mom immediately kicks off her shoes and collapses onto her bed. I check my phone one last time:

  Jordan: MIT still on lockdown. Weird sense of calm after chaos.

  Jordan: Still monitoring. Will update if anything important.

  But how do you sleep after something like this?