Patricia's expression shifts to something harder, more determined. "This changes things," she says. "They're not just concerned about a fugitive. They're concerned about who might come looking for you."

  She turns to my parents. "We need to change our approach. This isn't just about keeping Daisy out of Daedalus anymore. We need to establish that proper supervision in a controlled therapeutic environment is the safest option for everyone involved."

  Dad nods. "What's our next move?"

  "I'm going back out there," Patricia says. "I'm going to propose an immediate emergency hearing with Judge Esposito. We'll argue that Daisy is at risk not only from improper detention but from whoever orchestrated the prison break." She looks at me again. "Daisy, are you willing to provide information about the break-in? Names, descriptions, anything that might help identify who was behind it?"

  I hesitate. Information is leverage. I've learned to hold onto leverage when I can.

  "If it helps me stay uncaptured," I say carefully, "yes."

  Patricia seems to understand my hesitation. "We'll discuss specifics later. For now, stay here with your parents. I'll handle the marshals."

  She leaves, closing the door behind her. There's voices, but they're indistinct.

  Dad sits on one side of me, Mom on the other. I'm starting to feel strange - like gravity is pulling harder on me than it should. The adrenaline that kept me moving for the past two days is beginning to drain away, leaving me hollow.

  "When did you last sleep?" Mom asks, noticing my drooping eyelids.

  I shrug. "Yesterday. Maybe." Time gets fuzzy when you're on the run.

  "And eat?" Dad asks.

  "Sandwiches on the bus," I mumble.

  They exchange worried glances. Mom's hand hovers near my forehead, not quite touching. Her palm feels cool against my skin.

  "You're warm," she says, concern etching deeper lines around her eyes.

  Dad stands. "I'm getting her water." He disappears into what I assume is the bathroom, returning with a glass. I drink without argument, suddenly realizing how thirsty I am.

  The door opens again, and Patricia returns. Her expression is a mixture of triumph and tension.

  "Good news and challenging news," she says. "Judge Esposito has agreed to an emergency hearing - tonight. We have two hours to prepare." She checks her watch. "The challenging part is that the marshals insist on maintaining custody until the hearing."

  "Absolutely not," Mom says, standing up. "They are not taking her."

  Patricia raises a hand. "I negotiated a compromise. They'll escort us to Albany Medical Center where Daisy will undergo an initial evaluation. I'll be present the entire time, as will both of you. From there, we'll proceed directly to the courthouse."

  "Why the hospital?" Dad asks.

  "Two reasons," Patricia says. "First, it establishes a medical record of Daisy's current condition before she enters any form of custody. Second, it gives us leverage for the hearing - a professional assessment of her physical and psychological needs."

  I finish the water, setting the glass on the nightstand. My limbs feel heavy, like they're filled with sand.

  "What's the likelihood we win?" Dad asks quietly.

  Patricia doesn't sugar-coat it. "It's complicated. Normally, in juvenile cases, the presumption favors family custody or the least restrictive appropriate placement. But there are national security exceptions, and Daisy's... history... creates unusual circumstances."

  Yeah, me blowing up a bunch of civvies with Elias's tainted Jump. They should lock me up for that.

  "What are our alternatives?" Mom asks.

  "If the judge rules against us, Daisy could be remanded to federal custody," Patricia says. "But we have a strong argument for placement in a specialized treatment facility rather than Daedalus. The Whitford Institute in Chicago has a juvenile wing specifically designed for powered youth requiring supervision."

  Chicago... That's far away, isn't it? I have the thought the same time my parents verbalize it. Chicago.

  "Can I sleep there?" I ask, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

  They all turn to look at me.

  "Sleep where, honey?" Mom asks.

  "Whitford," I say, struggling to keep my eyes open. "If we lose. Is there a bed?"

  Something passes between the adults - a look I'm too tired to interpret.

  "Yes," Patricia says gently. "There are beds at Whitford."

  I nod, satisfied with this bare minimum. "Okay."

  Dad kneels in front of me, taking my hands. "Daisy, we're going to fight for you to come home with us. But whatever happens tonight, we're not giving up. This is just the beginning."

  I want to believe him. But experience has taught me that beginnings often look suspiciously like endings.

  "We should go," Patricia says. "The marshals are getting impatient, and we want to complete the medical evaluation before the hearing."

  Dad helps me to my feet. I sway slightly, fatigue making the room tilt around me. Mom steadies me, her hand on my elbow.

  "I'll carry your backpack," she offers.

  I shake my head, clutching it tighter. "I keep it."

  She doesn't argue.

  The living room feels crowded with marshals - four of them now, all in dark suits with earpieces and barely concealed weapons. The lead marshal, a gray-haired man with deep lines around his mouth, steps forward.

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  "Ms. Gilly has explained the arrangement," he says to my parents. "We'll escort you to Albany Medical. Any attempt to deviate from the route will result in immediate custody transfer. Is that understood?"

  Dad nods stiffly. Mom says nothing, her arm protectively around my shoulders.

  "My clients understand," Patricia says. "As do I. Let's proceed."

  The next hour passes in a blur of motion and voices. The elevator down to the parking garage. The black SUV with government plates. Mom on one side of me, Patricia on the other. Dad in the front passenger seat, his back rigid with tension. Two marshals in our vehicle, two following in another car.

  Albany Medical Center looms white and sterile against the darkening sky. We're escorted through a side entrance, avoiding the main lobby. More men in suits wait inside. Someone in a white coat approaches - a doctor, I assume. There's a quick, tense conversation between Patricia and the newcomers.

  "This is Dr. Michaels," Patricia finally explains to us. "He's been appointed by the court to conduct Daisy's evaluation."

  The doctor - middle-aged, balding, kind eyes - nods to my parents. "Mr. and Mrs. Zhen. And you must be Daisy."

  I don't respond. I'm too busy cataloging escape routes, security cameras, potential weapons. I could break this old man in two before he blinks. My fingers tense. It's been too long without me hitting something, so it's building up like steam in a kettle.

  We're led to an examination room. The marshals wait outside, but the door remains open. Dr. Michaels turns to Patricia.

  "I'll need to conduct part of this examination privately," he says.

  "Absolutely not," Mom says immediately.

  "Standard protocol for minors," Dr. Michaels explains. "To ensure the patient can speak freely."

  "My client has the right to counsel present at all times," Patricia counters. "Given the circumstances, I must insist on remaining."

  They negotiate a compromise: Patricia stays, my parents wait just outside, door ajar so they can see but not hear.

  The examination is thorough but not invasive. Height, weight, blood pressure, temperature. Basic neurological tests - follow the light, touch your nose, stand on one foot. Questions about medications, allergies, recent injuries. I answer mechanically, too tired to resist.

  "99.3," Dr. Michaels says, reading the thermometer. "Slightly elevated. Any other symptoms? Headache? Chills?"

  I shake my head.

  "When did you last sleep properly?" he asks.

  I shrug. "Daedalus. Before the break. Four days ago?"

  More notes. "I'd like to do a basic psychological assessment as well."

  Patricia straightens. "Dr. Michaels, given my client's exhaustion, perhaps that could wait?"

  "I understand your concern," he says. "But the court specifically requested both physical and psychological evaluation prior to the hearing."

  Patricia looks at me. "Daisy? It's your choice."

  Is it? Has anything ever really been my choice? But I appreciate the pretense.

  "Fine," I say. "Let's get it over with."

  The psychological questions are familiar - I've been through dozens of these evaluations. Rate your feelings on a scale of one to ten. Do you have thoughts of harming yourself or others? How would you describe your mood? Do you experience flashbacks?

  I give the answers I know they want. Not too disturbed to be dangerous, not too well-adjusted to need help. The middle path that leads to medication but not restraints.

  Dr. Michaels is gentler than most evaluators I've had. He doesn't push when I give vague answers. Probably doesn't write "uncooperative" on his pad when I stare silently at particularly probing questions.

  "Just a few more," he says, flipping a page. "Daisy, can you tell me about your experience at Daedalus? What was a typical day like for you there?"

  This catches me off guard. Most doctors stick to standardized questions, not open-ended ones about specific facilities.

  "Wake up," I say after a moment. "Breakfast through the slot. Therapy session remotely. Lunch. Educational materials. Recreation hour in the isolated yard. Dinner. Lights out."

  "Isolated yard?" he asks.

  "I wasn't allowed to mix with other inmates."

  "I see." More notes. "And before Daedalus? Where were you before that?"

  I tense. Patricia notices.

  "Dr. Michaels," she interjects, "I believe we're straying from the court-ordered evaluation parameters."

  He holds up a hand. "Context is relevant to psychological assessment, Ms. Gilly."

  "Before that, I lived in a shitty abandoned house with. My. Family. My other family," I try to explain.

  He notes that down. "Right, the Philadelphia Phreaks," he mutters to himself. I could just smash his nose in and if I did it hard enough it would send shards of bone and cartilage into his brain or deeper into his face, either killing him or giving him an injury that would take a while to fix. "And before that?"

  "The First Place," I say before Patricia can object further.

  "And what was the First Place like?" Dr. Michaels asks.

  "Worse," I say simply.

  Dr. Michaels waits for more, but I've given all I'm willing to give. Finally, he nods and closes his notebook.

  "Thank you, Daisy. I believe I have enough information for my preliminary report."

  Patricia stands. "Will you be testifying at the hearing?"

  "I've been asked to present my findings, yes," he confirms.

  "And what will those findings be?" she presses.

  Dr. Michaels glances at me, then back to Patricia. "That's for the court, Ms. Gilly. But I can say that Daisy appears to be suffering from exhaustion, mild dehydration, and what I suspect is post-traumatic stress. She would benefit from immediate rest, nutrition, and appropriate therapeutic intervention."

  Patricia nods, seemingly satisfied. "Thank you, Doctor."

  My parents are allowed back in. Dr. Michaels summarizes his findings for them, using gentler terms but conveying the same message: I'm tired, stressed, and need help. Duh.

  "The court hearing is scheduled for eight o'clock," Patricia says, checking her watch. "That gives us about forty-five minutes. Daisy should eat something before we go."

  The hospital provides sandwiches and juice. I eat mechanically, not tasting anything. Mom watches every bite like she's memorizing the way my jaw moves. Dad keeps checking his phone, probably messaging whoever else is part of their support network.

  "Patricia," Mom says suddenly. "What if we don't go to the hearing?"

  Everyone stops.

  "What do you mean?" Patricia asks carefully.

  "What if we just... leave? Take Daisy and go somewhere else. Canada, maybe. Or further."

  Dad takes Mom's hand. "Xiuying."

  "They took her once," Mom says, voice rising. "They'll take her again. The system is designed to take children like her."

  "Mrs. Zhen," Patricia says gently. "I understand your fear. But running would make things worse. You'd be fugitives. Daisy would have no legal protections at all."

  "And she has them now?" Mom challenges.

  "Yes," Patricia says firmly. "She does. Imperfect, limited, but real. And we're going to use every one of them tonight."

  Mom deflates slightly. "I just can't lose her again."

  "You won't," Patricia promises. "No matter what happens at the hearing, this is just one step. We have options, contingencies."

  I want to tell Mom it's okay. That I've survived worse than whatever comes next. But the words don't come. I'm too tired to offer comfort, even if I knew how.

  A marshal appears in the doorway. "Time to go."

  The courthouse is a massive stone building in downtown Albany. At night, with only selective lighting illuminating its columns, it looks like something from another time - a temple to some stern god of rules and consequences.

  We're escorted through a side entrance, avoiding the few reporters who've somehow gotten wind of the hearing. The hallways are mostly empty this late, our footsteps echoing on marble floors.

  The courtroom is smaller than I expected, with wooden benches and a raised platform where the judge will sit. Patricia guides us to a table on one side. Across the aisle, a team of government attorneys arranges papers at another table. Men and women in dark suits line the walls - more security than seems necessary for one exhausted teenager. One of them catches my eye. Tan skin, with a braided beard capped with a silver cap. He looks at me past round sunglasses. Who are you? Why do I know you? Why is my heart beating?

  "Are you ready?" Patricia asks me quietly.

  I'm not. I'm barely awake. But I nod anyway.

  A door opens at the front of the courtroom. Everyone rises.

  "All rise for the Honorable Judge Esposito," announces a court officer.

  The judge enters - a small, older woman with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. She takes her seat and surveys the room, her gaze lingering on me for a moment.

  "Be seated," she says. Her voice is surprisingly deep, commanding respect without shouting. "This is an emergency hearing in the matter of Daisy Zhen, a minor. Let the record show that the minor is present with her parents and counsel."

  She shuffles papers, then looks up again.

  "Before we begin, I want to make something very clear. This courtroom is not a battleground for political agendas. It is not a stage for grand declarations about security versus liberty. It is a place where we will determine what is in the best interest of one child - the girl sitting right there."

  She points directly at me, and suddenly every eye in the room is on me. I fight the urge to disappear under the table.

  "Now," Judge Esposito continues, "the government has filed a motion for emergency custody. Ms. Gilly has filed a counter-motion for parental custody with appropriate supports. I see no reason to delay this hearing any longer."