The blue dot moves.

  I stare at my phone screen like if I look hard enough I can make it stop. Make it go back to being stationary and safe and something I can deal with tomorrow when I'm not exhausted and injured and supposed to be resting.

  It doesn't stop. It keeps moving. South, slowly, like he's driving through neighborhood streets instead of taking the highway.

  My first instinct is to go. Right now. Out the window, down the drainpipe (there isn't a drainpipe but I'd figure something out), track him before he gets too far. I'm already halfway to sitting up before my ribs remind me that's a terrible idea.

  Also there's the window alarm. The little magnetic sensor my parents installed. That damn unbreakable alert. I either go out the front and get questioned, or go out the back and ping their phone and give them a heart attack.

  And the monitor bracelet.

  Very reassuring for them, very aggravating for me.

  And, you know. The fact that I can barely walk, my ribs are screaming, I have a concussion, and I'm pretty sure if I tried to fight anyone right now I'd just fall over.

  So. Not going anywhere.

  But the dot's still moving.

  I pull up the group chat, thumbs flying over the keyboard.

  Sam: Dots moving

  Sam: RIGHT NOW

  Sam: Everyone get online

  The responses come back almost immediately. It's 9 PM on a Saturday, they're probably all staring at their phones anyway.

  Maggie: WHAT

  Lily: where is it going???

  Amelia: Sending video call link

  My phone buzzes with the video call notification. I answer, propping it back up on my desk. Maggie's face appears first, already talking.

  "Where's he going where's he going where's he--"

  "I don't know yet, he just started moving." I screen-share the tracker app. The blue dot crawling south from the East Falls apartment complex. "He's been stationary for sixteen hours and now suddenly he's on the move."

  Lily joins next, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone screen. She's in her room, the Golden Panda decorations visible behind her. "How fast is he going?"

  "Let me check." I zoom in, watch the dot's progress. "Maybe... twenty miles an hour? Thirty? He's driving, not walking. Taking side streets though, not the highway."

  "Smart," Amelia says, joining the call. She's got a notebook already open, pen in hand. "Harder to track on side streets, fewer cameras, more options to change direction."

  Tasha's window pops up last. She's definitely still on painkillers - her eyes are a little unfocused and she's furrowing her brow like she's trying extremely hard to remain serious. "He's on the move. He's got places to be."

  "Tasha, how you doing buddy?" Lily asks.

  "I'm great. I am a big fan of pharmacological science," She says, trying to sound sarcastic through a haze of morphine. "Big fan of... medicines. And... painkillers."

  "Okay, you're on observation duty only," Amelia says. "No analysis from the vicodin corner."

  "Roger dodger." Tasha salutes with her good arm.

  I track the dot's progress, trying to map it in my head. "He's heading west now. Toward... Ridge Avenue, maybe? If he stays on this route he's going toward Roxborough."

  "Why Roxborough?" Maggie asks. "What's in Roxborough?"

  "Houses. People. The hospital." I pull up a map on my laptop, overlay it with the tracker path. "If he keeps going this way... yeah, he's either heading toward Roxborough Memorial or he's going further west toward Manayunk."

  "Maybe he's going home," Lily suggests. "Like, his actual home, not the safehouse."

  "Maybe." I watch the dot turn south onto Ridge. "But if he found the tracker - and he probably did, it's been sixteen hours - why would he bring it to his actual home?"

  "To get his stuff before leaving town?" Maggie offers. "Like, 'oh shit they're tracking me, grab my passport and go'?"

  "Or he's dumping it," Amelia says quietly. "He found it hours ago, reported to Kingdom, they told him where to dispose of it. Now he's following instructions."

  That makes more sense. Professionals don't panic. They follow protocols.

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

  "So if he's dumping it..." Lily's thinking out loud. "Why would you dump a tracker in a hospital? Do you think he actually needs hospital attention?"

  "If he needed it, he would've gotten it a while ago. Letting a bite like that sit for a day is not recommended medical advice," I point out.

  "Right," Lily agrees.

  "No, he's going somewhere that makes us think you're doing something you're not," I say. The dot's still moving, steady pace, deliberate route. "Like... if he dumps it at the hospital, we think he's getting medical treatment. We waste time checking ER records, asking around, looking for someone with shoulder injuries."

  "Hospital would make sense," Amelia agrees, making notes. "Medical waste disposal, lots of traffic, easy to blend in. And it's close enough to the safehouse that it's not suspicious for him to go there."

  "He's turning," I say, watching the path shift. "West on... I think that's Leverington? Yeah, he's definitely heading toward the hospital."

  We watch in silence for a minute. The dot moving through neighborhood streets, taking turns that suggest someone who knows where they're going. Not panicked, not rushing. Just... driving to do a job.

  My hands are shaking. I notice it when I try to zoom in and the screen jiggles. Not from injury, not from exhaustion. From frustration. From the fact that I'm sitting here watching a blue dot on a screen instead of doing something.

  "Sam." Amelia's voice is gentle but firm. "Don't even think about it."

  "I'm not."

  "You're thinking about it. I can see you thinking about it."

  "I'm not going anywhere." I hold up my arm, show them the tracking bracelet. "See? Parents would know immediately. Plus the window alarm. Plus I can barely walk. Plus--"

  "Plus Davis literally just told you to be smart," Amelia finishes. "This is us being smart. Remote observation, no direct confrontation, gathering intelligence."

  "I know." I do know. But knowing doesn't make it easier.

  "Hey," Lily says. "At least we know the tracker actually worked. Like, for sixteen hours we've had eyes on a Kingdom safehouse. That's not nothing."

  "And the fact that it's moving now means he's taking it seriously," Maggie adds. "Like, if it was just some random apartment he was squatting in, he'd just leave it there. But he's actively disposing of it. That means the location mattered."

  That's true. That's actually useful deduction.

  "So what do we know?" I ask, trying to organize my thoughts. "What can we figure out from this?"

  "He found the tracker," Amelia says, ticking off points. "Probably within the first few hours of getting to the safehouse. He reported it to Kingdom. They gave him instructions - wait, dispose of it properly, don't just dump it randomly. Now he's following those instructions. I think those are all things we can reasonably guess."

  "Which means Kingdom has protocols," Lily continues. "Like, they're organized enough to have standard procedures for 'what to do if you get tagged.' They're not just winging it."

  "And it took them sixteen hours to decide what to do," I add. "So either they were debating options, or there's an approval process, or they just told him to lay low for a day before moving."

  "Or all three," Amelia says. "They have to take a bunch of kids seriously. That must be galling."

  "I'll take my small victories," I point out.

  The dot slows down, turns into what looks like a parking lot. I zoom in as far as the map will let me. "Roxborough Memorial Hospital. He's there."

  "Is he stopping?" Maggie asks.

  We watch. The dot's moving very slowly now, crawling through what must be the parking lot. Then it stops.

  For about thirty seconds, we all just stare at the screen.

  Then it moves again. Just a little. Like someone walking, not driving.

  "He's on foot," I say. "He parked and got out."

  "Medical waste dumpsters are usually around back," Amelia says. "Loading dock area, away from main entrance. If he's dumping evidence, that's where he'd go."

  "Should we call the DVDs?" Lily asks. "Like, right now, while he's there?"

  I check the time on the tracker. "By the time they mobilize and get there, he'll be gone. It's already been two minutes."

  "But maybe they can get security footage," Maggie says. "See what he looks like, what car he's driving."

  "That requires a warrant," Amelia points out. "Which requires probable cause. Which requires--"

  "Which takes time," I finish. "Yeah."

  The dot stops moving. Completely stationary now, in what must be the back area of the hospital parking lot.

  "He's dumping it," Tasha says. Her voice is clearer now, like saying something obvious cut through the painkiller fog. "He's leaving it there and going home."

  We watch for another minute. The dot doesn't move.

  "Maybe he's being careful," Lily suggests. "Making sure nobody sees him."

  "Or he's destroying it first," Amelia says. "Burning the vest, getting rid of DNA evidence, then dumping what's left."

  "Wouldn't he already have done that?" Maggie asks.

  "Maybe. Fires behind a hospital would draw attention," Amelia replies.

  Another minute passes. Still nothing.

  "I think he's done," I say quietly. "I think that's it."

  As if to confirm, the screen updates with a notification: Signal weak. Last known location: Roxborough Memorial Hospital.

  Then: Signal lost.

  We stare at the screen where the blue dot used to be.

  "Well," Maggie says finally. "Fuck."

  "At least we got something," Lily offers. "We know where he went, when he went there, how long it took. That's data."

  "Data that tells us he's a professional who knows how to dispose of evidence," I mutter.

  "Sam." Amelia's voice has that patient tone she uses when she's about to say something I'm not going to like. "This is actually a win. We tagged him mid-fight, tracked him for sixteen hours, and now we know Kingdom has operational procedures for evidence disposal. That's all useful intelligence."

  "It doesn't feel like a win."

  "That's because we're used to winning by kicking doors down," Amelia says. "This is what actual investigative work looks like. Slow. Methodical. Lots of dead ends and marginal gains. That's what Belle taught us."

  "Plus," Lily adds, "The Kingdom now knows we have tracking tech. They have to assume every fight with us could result in a tag. They have to check themselves after every encounter. That's friction. That costs them time and energy."

  "And they have to burn the safehouse," Amelia adds. "Like, even if he disposed of the tracker, they have to assume the location's compromised. That's a real resource loss."

  "How much did that thing cost?" Tasha asks, trying very hard to stare at me through her camera.

  "I don't know, knowing Jordan they probably stole it, built it, or some combination of the two," I answer.

  "A BugTag DIY kit retails for $40 at RadioShack. Some assembly required, of course," Amelia reads off her screen.

  "So we spent $40 and however much my hospital bills cost and we burnt tens of thousands of dollars of criminal money. Peace of mind. You know," Tasha stifles herself mid-sentence with a yawn. "That adds up. Think about how much time we've burnt thinking that that one guy from the Kingdom could be scrying on us?"

  I scratch my head, thinking. "True..."

  "Plus, we have an address. And even if Sundial isn't available to do psychometry, I bet the DVDs have access to some federal scryers or whatever. We just need to find a way to launder the evidence into something actionable," Tasha tacks on. It's weird to me, the way she says 'or whatever'. Not a very Tasha-like tone. "There's no such thing as a perfect... uh... It's a... Jordan talked about it once or twice. Information theory? Everything you do it, like, leaves marks. They can't clean the safehouse perfectly."

  "Right," I affirm for her. She smiles, looking pleased at herself. "So, when are we going?"