The trees blur together as we walk. Cold-Cut sets a punishing pace, but I keep up. I'm smaller, but I've been trained to endure. To push past pain, fatigue, hunger. Useful skills for a weapon.

  "How far to Albany?" I ask during one of our brief rest breaks.

  Cold-Cut checks the sun's position. "About forty hours walking. Less if we catch a ride."

  "Catch a ride?"

  She gives me a look. "Hitchhike. But we need to get some distance first. And different clothes."

  I look down at my Daedalus uniform - white, institutional, obvious. She's right. We need to blend in.

  We move through the woods all day, staying clear of roads and trails. Cold-Cut seems to know where she's going, navigating by the sun and the occasional check of moss on trees. I follow, keeping my own mental map, noting landmarks. Always know where you are. Always know how to get back. Or forward. Depending on the mission.

  He touched Mr. Waddles. He was in my room.

  The mantra doesn't work anymore. The anger's too distant. I can still feel Mudslide's power like an echo, but it's fading. Doesn't matter now. Mud and loose dirt don't liquefy well anyway. I need to chase something more useful. I run through all the people who've pissed me off in my life - it's a long list. I start thinking, and I start making myself mad.

  It's cold, and I'm wet, and as much as I don't want to get caught, I'm not getting anywhere if the two of us get pneumonia. Survival trumps recapture. Aaron is sufficiently idiotic, so I chase him for a little bit, cracking one eye open to let a dull, foul-smelling yellow flame smolder in the grass, leaving a patch of ash. Then, I start chasing the kidnappers again, trying to sift through them in my memory, one by one, tasting their powers in my fingers.

  There. The one with telekinesis. That's more useful than Aaron's shithead power. With a loud grunt of exertion, my biometric bracers rip off of me, leaving tiny little holes where the blood monitors were plugged into my wrists. Now we're good.

  "Useful, but don't keep it too long. They'll be looking for smoke trails," Cold-Cut warns, as if I'm a stupid idiot baby. Yeah, no shit. But I'm soaked, and so are you, lady. So we stand around the pyrogenic flame, at least until we're warm enough and dry enough to keep going.

  And then we do.

  By nightfall, we've covered serious ground. Cold-Cut finds a sheltered spot between two fallen trees, and we make camp.

  "Get some sleep," she says. "I'll take first watch."

  I don't argue. I'm tired, and I don't trust her enough to sleep if she's sleeping too. I curl up with my backpack as a pillow, Mr. Waddles safely inside. When I wake, it's still dark. Cold-Cut sits against a tree, alert.

  "Your turn," she says. "Wake me at first light."

  I nod and take her position. The forest is alive with sounds - rustling leaves, distant animal calls, the occasional snap of a branch. I'm hyper-aware, cataloging each noise, assessing threats. None materialize.

  Dawn breaks slowly, gray light filtering through the trees. I wake Cold-Cut as instructed.

  "We need supplies," she says after stretching. "There's a small town about two hours north. We can get what we need there."

  "Won't they be looking for us?"

  "Sure, but there's only so many of them, looking for dozens of other inmates. We can just steal what we need and be on our way before anyone thinks better of it,"

  She's right again. It's annoying

  We reach the town by mid-morning. It's tiny - just a main street with a few shops, a gas station, a diner. Cold-Cut studies it from the cover of trees.

  "Wait here," she says. "I'll be back in twenty minutes."

  "What if you don't come back?" I ask.

  She almost smiles. "Then you're on your own, kid."

  She heads into town while I watch from the treeline. Nineteen minutes later, she returns carrying a plastic bag.

  "Here," she says, tossing me the bag. Inside are clothes - jeans, a t-shirt, a hoodie, socks, sneakers. All my size. A small bundle of concealer - useful, because I'm not an idiot and I understand that I look like a corpse with bad teeth. There's also a baseball cap. Sure. Ok.

  "Bathroom's that way," she points to a small public restroom at the edge of a park. "Change quickly."

  I do as instructed. The clothes feel strange after the uniform - stiffer, heavier. But they're normal. Civilian. The cap hides my face when I pull it low.

  When I return, Cold-Cut has changed too - jeans, flannel shirt, denim jacket. Her frost-white buzz cut is now covered by a knit beanie.

  "Better," she says, looking me over. "Now for food."

  She leads me to the diner, instructing me to keep my head down and speak as little as possible. We sit in a booth far from the windows. Cold-Cut orders for both of us - pancakes, eggs, bacon. When the food arrives, I eat mechanically at first, then with increasing hunger. I can't remember the last time I had food this good.

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  "Plan's changed," Cold-Cut says while I eat. "There's a bus heading south this afternoon. Goes through Albany. We'll take it."

  "You got money for tickets?"

  She taps her pocket. "Switchback wasn't the only one with cash stashed away."

  After breakfast, we wait in the woods near the bus stop. Cold-Cut briefs me like a mission commander.

  "Listen carefully. We're aunt and niece. I'm taking you to meet your parents in Albany after your summer camp. If anyone asks, your name is Sarah. Got it?"

  "Sarah," I repeat. "Summer camp."

  "And remember, I'm doing you a favor. Once we reach Albany, we're done. I've got business in Saratoga."

  "Your unfinished business," I say.

  Her expression hardens. "None of yours."

  The bus arrives on schedule - a greyhound-looking thing with grimy windows and faded paint. Cold-Cut buys tickets with cash. The driver barely looks at us. There are only a few other passengers - an elderly couple, a man in a business suit, a woman with a sleeping baby. We take seats near the back.

  The bus lurches forward, and we're on our way. The forest gives way to fields, then small towns, then suburbs. I watch it all through the window, memorizing the route, noting potential escape paths out of habit.

  Cold-Cut dozes beside me, but I stay alert. I need to be ready for anything - pursuit, discovery, betrayal. The training never stops, even when the mission changes.

  Hours pass. The bus stops occasionally to let people on or off. No one pays us any attention. By late afternoon, a sign appears: "Albany 15 miles."

  Cold-Cut stirs. "Almost there," she says, checking her watch. "Start thinking about your next move, kid."

  "I know my next move," I say. "Find my parents."

  "In a city of a hundred thousand people? Good luck."

  "I have their names. I know they moved from California. I'll find them."

  She studies me. "You're pretty confident for someone who's been locked up half her life."

  I don't respond. I don't need to explain myself to her. And I'm not curious enough to know how she knows that.

  The bus enters Albany as dusk falls. Tall buildings rise against the darkening sky, streets fill with cars and people heading home. It's overwhelming after the isolation of Daedalus, the quiet of the forest. Too many inputs, too many potential threats.

  The bus station is crowded, noisy. Cold-Cut leads me to a quiet corner.

  "This is where we part ways," she says. "Saratoga's north. You stay here."

  I nod. I expected this. And then, she's walking away, disappearing into the crowd without looking back. I'm alone in a city I've never seen, with only a backpack, some cash, and a mission.

  Find Mom and Dad.

  I study my surroundings, assessing options. The bus station has a directory, payphones, vending machines. Outside are streets, buildings, people. I need information, and I need it without drawing attention.

  My first stop is a payphone. I dial information, ask for Wei and Xiuying Zhen. No listing. I try variations of the spelling. Nothing. I expected this - they wouldn't make it easy to find them after what happened to me.

  I buy a city map from a convenience store, study it carefully. Albany is bigger than I expected, divided into neighborhoods with names I don't recognize. Where would they be? They said they wanted a two-bedroom place. Not downtown, probably. Somewhere residential but not too far from everything.

  Night falls completely. I need shelter, a base of operations. I find a youth hostel that doesn't look too closely at the cash I offer for a bed. I tell them I'm waiting for my parents to pick me up tomorrow. They believe me, or at least don't care enough to question it.

  In my bunk, surrounded by sleeping strangers, I plan my next move. Libraries have information. Directories, newspapers, computers. I'll start there tomorrow. This place is crawling with cops - word on the street is that a bunch of prisoners have escaped Daedalus.

  Imagine that.

  Morning comes too slowly. I'm at the Central Library when it opens, backpack clutched tight, cap pulled low. The librarian at the desk looks up as I approach - middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a skeptical expression.

  "Can I help you?" she asks, clearly wondering why I'm not in school.

  I've prepared for this. "I'm looking for my parents," I say. "They moved here recently from California, but I lost their new address. I'm supposed to meet them today."

  Her expression softens slightly. "What are their names, honey?"

  "Wei and Xiuying Zhen," I say. "Z-H-E-N."

  She types on her computer. Frowns. "No listing in our directory. Are you sure they're in Albany?"

  "Yes. My dad works remotely. They moved here a few months ago."

  She considers this. "Let me check a few other databases."

  For the next hour, she helps me search - property records, business listings, community directories. Nothing concrete, but she finds a mention of a Wei Zhen in a newsletter for the Albany Chinese-American Cultural Association.

  "It's a start," she says, printing the page for me. "They meet at the community center on Lark Street. Someone there might know your parents."

  I thank her and head to the address. The community center is a converted brownstone with a small sign in English and Chinese. Inside, an elderly Chinese man sits at a desk, reading a newspaper.

  He looks up when I enter. "Can I help you?"

  I switch to Cantonese, hoping to establish connection. "I'm looking for my parents, Wei and Xiuying Zhen. I heard they might come here. I lost the piece of paper with their address on it."

  It's extremely rusty. Hopefully that helps sell the illusion.

  His eyes widen slightly. "Zhen? Yes, I think I know them. New family from California, right?"

  My heart rate increases. "Yes, that's them."

  He shuffles through some papers. "They came to our potluck last week. The wife, Xiuying, she brought dumplings." He finds what he's looking for. "Here. They signed up for our newsletter. There's an address."

  He writes it down for me. An apartment complex on Western Avenue. My hands shake slightly as I take the paper.

  "Are you okay?" he asks. "Should I call them for you?"

  "No," I say quickly. "I want to surprise them."

  He seems uncertain but nods. "Be careful. Dangerous out there these days."

  ...Or it went something like that, filtered through my incomplete knowledge of Cantonese.

  I catch a bus to Western Avenue, checking the map constantly to make sure I'm heading the right way. The apartment complex is modern, six stories, with a security desk in the lobby. Another obstacle.

  I watch from across the street, studying the patterns. Residents come and go, using key cards to enter. Some delivery people are buzzed in. The security guard sometimes steps away from the desk.

  I wait for my moment. It comes when a young couple exits, holding the door open as they juggle groceries. I slip in behind them, head down, moving purposefully as if I belong.

  The directory in the lobby confirms it - Zhen, Apartment 412. Fourth floor.

  I take the stairs instead of the elevator, less chance of being noticed. The hallway on the fourth floor is quiet, carpeted. Apartment 412 is near the end. I stand outside the door, suddenly frozen.

  I knock.

  Footsteps approach from inside. A lock turns. The door opens.

  Dad stands there, looking older than I remember, more gray in his hair. His eyes widen, his mouth opens in shock.

  Behind him, Mom appears in the hallway. She sees me and freezes, one hand flying to her mouth.

  "Daisy?" Dad whispers, like he's seeing a ghost. I try to smile, but my teeth are still all fucked up.