I'm frozen in the doorway, staring at my parents. Dad's mouth is open, eyes wide like he's seeing a ghost. Mom has her hand pressed against her lips, tears already streaming down her face.

  "Daisy?" Dad whispers again, like he can't believe it's me.

  I try to smile, but my messed-up teeth make me self-conscious. "Hi," is all I can manage.

  Mom moves first, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around me. She's smaller than I remember, or maybe I've grown. She smells like jasmine and something else - cooking spices, maybe. Familiar but different. She's sobbing against my hair, holding me so tight it almost hurts.

  "My baby," she keeps saying in Cantonese. "My baby, my baby."

  Dad joins the embrace, his arms encircling both of us. He's shaking. I can feel it against my back. I stand stiffly for a moment, then slowly raise my arms to return the hug.

  "How?" Dad asks, his voice cracking. "How did you get here?"

  I open my mouth to explain, but Mom cuts me off. "It doesn't matter," she says fiercely. "She's home. That's all that matters."

  Dad pulls back slightly, studying my face. His eyes are red-rimmed, but something changes in his expression - a shift from shock to something more focused, more urgent.

  "Wei," Mom says, noticing the change too.

  Dad nods, decision made. He steps back and pulls his phone from his pocket. "I need to make a call," he says, already dialing. "Right now."

  Mom guides me further into the apartment, one arm still wrapped tightly around my shoulders like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. The living room is small but neat - a gray couch, coffee table, TV mounted on the wall. Family photos everywhere. Including me. Younger me, from before.

  "Are you hurt?" Mom asks, hands fluttering over me, checking for injuries. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

  "I'm okay," I say, still taking in the apartment. It feels surreal to be standing in a normal living room, with a normal TV and normal furniture. No white walls. No observation window. Just... home.

  Dad paces near the window, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidly in a low voice. "She's here. Yes, at the apartment. No, she just arrived." He glances at his watch. "How fast can you get here?"

  Mom leads me to the couch, still not letting go of my hand. "Sit, sit. I'll get you water. Food. What do you want?"

  What I want is to understand what's happening. Dad's reaction isn't normal. He should be hugging me, crying, asking questions. Instead, he's making calls and checking the window like he's expecting someone. Like he's afraid.

  "Who is Dad calling?" I ask.

  Mom's expression tightens. "Our lawyer," she says simply.

  Lawyer? They have a lawyer ready? Why would they need a lawyer?

  Mom's face crumples for a second before she forces it back into a smile. "Don't worry about it, though. You're home. You're safe." She squeezes my hand. "We've been getting ready. Just in case."

  Dad finishes his call and immediately starts another one. "Emergency protocol," he says into the phone. "Yes, that's right. She is here." He glances at me. "No, unexpected arrival."

  "How long have you been planning this?" I ask Mom.

  "Since we found you," she says. "Almost three months now. We knew... we knew the system wouldn't just let you go." She touches my face gently. "We've been working with people who can help. Parents like us. People who understand."

  Dad finishes his second call and returns to us, his expression grim. "Patricia is on her way. Fifteen minutes. Maybe less." He kneels in front of me, taking my hands. "Daisy, listen carefully. Very soon, people are going to come looking for you. Federal agents. They're monitoring us."

  "Wei," Mom says sharply. "She just got home."

  "She needs to know," Dad insists. "Daisy, our lawyer is coming. Her name is Patricia Gilly. She's going to help us keep you here, but it's going to be complicated."

  I nod. I understand complicated. "What do you need me to do?"

  Dad looks surprised by my calm. "Just stay inside. Don't answer the door. Don't go near the windows. If anyone comes before Patricia arrives, don't say anything to them. Not a word."

  "I know how to handle interrogation," I say.

  Mom makes a small, wounded sound. Dad's jaw tightens.

  "You shouldn't have to know that," he says quietly.

  He stands and moves to the kitchen, opening a drawer and pulling out what looks like a small digital recorder. He sets it on the coffee table, then checks his phone again.

  "Five minutes until Patricia arrives," he says. "I should check if--"

  He's interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. Three fast, authoritative raps.

  All of us freeze.

  "Federal marshals," a male voice calls through the door. "Open up."

  Dad looks at his watch, then at Mom. They're early. Way too early. No. They're just on time - obviously they'd have people in place around my parents' apartment, if my parents were actively collaborating with the government for my visits. Again, that just makes sense.

  "Get her into the bedroom," Dad whispers to Mom. "Now."

  Mom pulls me up from the couch, guiding me toward a hallway, but I resist. "I'm not hiding," I say.

  Another knock, harder this time. "Mr. and Mrs. Zhen, we know Daisy is in there. Open the door immediately. It's a matter of national security."

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  Dad hesitates, looking torn between rushing me to safety and answering the door before they break it down. I make the decision for him.

  "Fine, Christ," I grunt, stepping toward the bedroom.

  Mom nods, eyes shining with tears. She leads me to a bedroom - their bedroom, I realize, seeing the queen-sized bed with two pillows. She closes the door behind us but leaves it cracked open so we can hear.

  I hear Dad activate the recorder and slide the chain lock into place before opening the door a few inches.

  "Can I help you?" His voice is calm, controlled.

  "Federal marshals, sir. We have orders to take Daisy Zhen into custody. We know she's here."

  "My daughter is a minor," Dad replies. "She has rights. Our attorney is en route and will be here within minutes. We're invoking Daisy's right to counsel."

  "This is a matter of national security, Mr. Zhen. Your daughter is a fugitive from a federal facility. Open the door now."

  "We are not resisting," Dad says, his voice steady. "We are asserting our daughter's legal rights. Our attorney will be here in less than ten minutes. No one is going anywhere until then."

  Mom sits on the edge of the bed, pulling me down beside her. Her arm wraps around my shoulders again, protective. It's not comfortable. People should not be allowed to touch me for this long.

  "It's going to be okay," she whispers.

  Through the cracked door, I hear more voices in the hallway outside our apartment. More marshals? Maybe. The tone is getting more insistent. Dad isn't backing down.

  "--warrant signed by a judge," Dad is saying. "Otherwise, we wait for our attorney."

  My head feels light, almost disconnected from my body. This doesn't feel real. Forty hours ago I was in the flooded tunnels beneath Daedalus. Eighty hours ago I was in Daedalus. 7 years ago I was in California. Now I'm sitting on my parents' bed in Albany while my father argues with federal agents at their door.

  Mom strokes my hair, humming a lullaby under her breath. The argument goes on. I'm impressed at my dad's ability to not crumple. Maybe this is what being a good parent is?

  A new voice in the living room makes my eyes snap open. Female, authoritative, speaking rapidly in legal terminology I don't fully understand. Words like "jurisdiction" and "judicial review" and "temporary injunction."

  "That's Patricia," Mom whispers. "She's very good."

  I hear the chain being removed from the door, then multiple sets of footsteps entering the apartment. Mom tenses beside me.

  "Where is she?" the new voice - Patricia - asks.

  "Bedroom," Dad replies.

  Footsteps approach. Mom stands, positioning herself slightly in front of me. The door pushes open, revealing a tall white woman in a charcoal suit, carrying a leather briefcase. Bright orange hair. Behind her, Dad hovers anxiously. I can see two men in dark suits standing near our front door, watching with stern expressions.

  The woman - Patricia - takes in the scene, her eyes settling on me. Her expression softens slightly.

  "Daisy," she says. "I'm Patricia Gilly. I'm your family's attorney." She steps into the room, closing the door partially behind her. "We don't have much time, so I need you to listen carefully. Federal marshals are here to take you into custody. They claim you're a fugitive from Daedalus Correctional Facility."

  I nod. "I--"

  "No," she interrupts before I can say something that I assume is not correct. "You're a minor who was improperly detained without due process." She glances at the door, then lowers her voice. "The marshals want to take you back immediately. I'm going to prevent that, but I need your cooperation."

  "What do you need me to do?" I ask again. This feels familiar - receiving instructions for a mission.

  "Don't answer any questions without me present. Don't volunteer information. If anyone tries to separate us, repeat the phrase 'I assert my right to counsel' and nothing else. Can you do that?"

  "Yes."

  Patricia nods, satisfied. "Good. Now, we need to establish some facts quickly. Were you mistreated at Daedalus? Physical abuse, denied medical care, anything like that?"

  I think about the isolation cell. The tests. The sedatives when I got "agitated." The fear of the guards. But I don't know what counts as "mistreatment" in legal terms. And the guards were too afraid of me to hit me.

  "I don't know what's normal," I admit. "I don't think so. It was better than the last place."

  Patricia cracks a really weird looking smile. She turns to Mom. "Xiuying, stay with Daisy. I need to speak with the marshals."

  Mom nods, sitting back down beside me. Patricia straightens her jacket and opens the door, striding back into the living room with confident steps.

  "Gentlemen," I hear her say, "let me be absolutely clear. Daisy Zhen is a fourteen-year-old American citizen who has been denied due process. She was placed in an adult supermax facility without proper judicial review. She has visible signs of institutional neglect. My clients are invoking their rights under the Federal Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention Act, which prohibits the detention of minors in adult facilities except under very specific circumstances that have not been legally established in this case."

  I can't see the marshals' reactions, but I hear the shift in tone - less commanding, more defensive.

  "Ma'am, we have orders--"

  "Your orders do not supersede federal law or constitutional protections," Patricia interrupts. "I've already filed an emergency motion with the juvenile court. Judge Esposito is waiting for our call. Either we can resolve this reasonably, or we can escalate it through proper channels. Your choice."

  Mom squeezes my hand. "She's good, isn't she?" she whispers.

  I nod, but I'm not convinced it will matter. People with power usually get what they want, no matter what the law says.

  The argument continues in the living room - Patricia's precise legal arguments against the marshals' increasingly frustrated responses. I hear phrases like "national security exception" and "imminent public danger," which must mean me. I mean, fair. I am a murderous "misanthrope" with "impulse control issues" and "trauma-induced sadomasochistic tendencies". Which, I mean, true. I hate everyone, I follow my id, and I love receiving and inflicting pain. That's all true even if I'm chill right this second. Why am I thinking about this?

  Dad appears in the doorway, beckoning to Mom. She hesitates, not wanting to leave me.

  "It's okay," I tell her. "I'll be right here."

  She kisses my forehead before joining Dad. They speak in hushed voices just outside the bedroom. I strain to hear but catch only fragments - "medical evaluation" and "emergency hearing" and "alternative placement."

  I sit alone on the bed, looking around the room for the first time. It's simple - bed, dresser, nightstand, small closet. A photo of my parents on the nightstand. Another photo next to it, of me. I stare at it.

  The voices in the living room rise again - another marshal has arrived, someone with more authority judging by the way everyone suddenly goes quiet when he speaks. I tense, ready for whatever comes next.

  Mom and Dad return, their expressions a mixture of concern and determination.

  "Daisy," Dad says, sitting beside me. "Things are happening very quickly. Patricia is negotiating with the marshals right now. They're insisting you need to be taken into custody, but Patricia is fighting for alternatives."

  "What alternatives?" I ask.

  "A psychiatric evaluation," Mom says. "At a hospital, not a prison. Patricia thinks if we can get you there first, before they can take you back to Daedalus, we might have a chance to prove you need treatment, not imprisonment."

  Treatment. Like I'm sick instead of dangerous. Is that better or worse?

  "Would you be there?" I ask. "At this hospital?"

  "We would have visitation rights," Dad says. "It wouldn't be like... before. You wouldn't be alone, or in isolation."

  I consider this. A hospital sounds better than the first place. Before I can respond, Patricia appears in the doorway. Her expression is tense but composed.

  "We have a problem," she says. "The lead marshal just received new orders. They're insisting on immediate custody transfer." She looks directly at me. "Daisy, I need to ask you something important. Did you escape Daedalus alone, or did others help you?"

  I think about Switchback and Cold-Cut. About the tunnels and the other inmates. About the team that broke into my cell in the first place.

  "I didn't escape alone," I say carefully. "There was a prison break. Other people got out too."

  Patricia's eyes widen slightly. "A mass escape? From Daedalus?"

  I nod. "A lot. Maybe thirty people. Is this not news yet?"

  Patricia and my parents exchange alarmed glances.

  "Was this reported?" Dad asks Patricia.

  "Not publicly," she says. "Just the seven." She turns back to me. "Daisy, did you see who initiated the break? Was it... was it someone trying to help you specifically?"

  I think about the people in tactical gear. The tall one with the rock powers. The pain specialist. The telekinetic.

  "They came for me," I say. "But I got away from them too."