"These ideas don't emerge from nowhere," Dr. Kaplan says after a moment of silence. "The way we respond to perceived threats often reflects what we've learned from our families and communities."

  Dad looks at me, his expression softening. "I never wanted to pass on fear, Sam. Just... preparedness."

  "I don't think it's fear," I say slowly. "It's more like... awareness? That sometimes the world doesn't work the way it should."

  "And how does that awareness make you feel?" Dr. Kaplan asks.

  "Responsible," I answer without hesitation. "Like if I see something wrong and I have the ability to fix it, then I should."

  Mom leans back against the couch cushions. "But that's the thing, Sam. Not everything that's wrong is yours to fix."

  "We talked about this in our previous session," Dr. Kaplan reminds us, flipping back a page in her notebook. "About establishing boundaries between what's your responsibility and what isn't. Rachel and Ben, you mentioned that one of your concerns was that Sam takes on too much, often at her own expense."

  Dad nods. "It's not just the physical danger. It's the weight of it all. A sixteen-year-old shouldn't feel responsible for an entire city's safety."

  "I don't," I protest, though my voice lacks conviction. "I just... help where I can."

  Dr. Kaplan gives me a gentle but skeptical look. "Sam, one of your homework assignments was to keep a log of moments when you felt the urge to intervene in situations and to note which ones were truly emergencies versus ones where other resources might have been available. Were you able to do that?"

  I reach into my backpack and pull out a small notebook. "Yeah, but it feels kind of pointless since I haven't been out as... you know."

  "That's actually perfect," Dr. Kaplan says. "It gives us a baseline of your instincts without the immediate ability to act on them. What did you notice?"

  I open the notebook, flipping past scribbled EMT notes to the list I'd reluctantly maintained for the past week. "Well, there was a shoplifting thing at the corner store near school. Guy looked desperate, not dangerous. I probably would've just followed him and tried to talk to him. I know that people who are shoplifting aren't, like. You know. Hardened gangsters. I'm not stupid."

  I feel like I've been saying "I'm not stupid" a lot.

  "And what alternative resources might have been available?" Dr. Kaplan prompts.

  "The store has a social worker they can call instead of police for non-violent stuff," I admit. "I looked it up after."

  "Good. What else?"

  I flip the page. "Couple having a loud argument on the subway. I would've maybe stood closer, made sure it didn't escalate."

  "And alternatives?"

  "Transit police, I guess. Or just other passengers. There were plenty of people around."

  We go through several more examples - a kid being bullied at school (teachers and counselors available), an elderly woman struggling with groceries (I helped her as regular Sam, no costume needed), a suspicious car circling the block (called it in to the non-emergency line).

  "What patterns do you notice?" Dr. Kaplan asks when we finish the list.

  I close the notebook, thinking. "Most of these things... I didn't actually need powers or a costume to help with."

  "And the emergencies?" she continues.

  "There was only one real emergency - a car accident I saw during my EMT shift. And professional responders were already there." I twist the notebook in my hands. "So what are you saying? That Bloodhound was unnecessary?"

  "Not at all," Dr. Kaplan says. "I'm saying that perhaps there's a spectrum of intervention. Not every problem requires the same level of response."

  Mom reaches over and puts her hand on mine. "It's about finding balance, Sam. Being Bloodhound was one way to help, but it's not the only way."

  "That goes for you both as well," Dr. Kaplan adds, looking at my parents. "Rachel, you've mentioned tracking Sam's location multiple times a day. And Ben, you've installed additional security measures at home in the past month."

  Mom looks down at her hands. "It's hard to find the right balance between concern and control."

  "And it's complicated by the fact that our concerns aren't unfounded," Dad adds. "We've seen the consequences firsthand."

  "The challenge for all of you," Dr. Kaplan observes, "is determining when protection becomes overprotection, when preparedness becomes paranoia. Sam isn't the only one establishing new boundaries. Which brings us to Ben's homework assignment," Dr. Kaplan says, turning to Dad. "You were going to reflect on how your approach to protection has evolved over time."

  Dad shifts, looking slightly uncomfortable as he always does when attention turns directly to him. "Well, when I was younger, protection meant being ready to defend myself or my family from immediate physical threats. The gun was a part of that. But as I've gotten older, I've realized that's just one small aspect."

  "How so?" Dr. Kaplan encourages.

  "My work as a city planner is actually about protection too, just on a different scale. Designing neighborhoods with good visibility and community spaces reduces crime more effectively than any weapon. Creating safe bike lanes prevents accidents. Planning for flood management protects homes." He glances at me. "It's less dramatic than confronting a villain, but it helps more people in the long run."

  "Although," Dr. Kaplan observes, looking at both my parents, "there's a certain irony here. Ben, you've found systemic solutions professionally, yet you kept the gun at home - a reactive solution. And Rachel, you've organized a coalition to address systemic issues for powered youth broadly, while struggling with Sam's individual choices."

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Mom shifts uncomfortably. "That's... fair. It's easier to advocate for other people's children than to know what's right for your own."

  "Which is not to say there's never a place for reaction," Dad adds quickly, looking at me. "Sometimes immediate intervention is necessary. I just... I worry that you've been putting yourself on the front lines so often that you don't see other ways to help."

  I want to argue, to defend my choices, but something stops me. Maybe it's the earnestness in Dad's eyes, or the way Mom's hand tightens slightly on mine, or just the fact that I'm still healing from wounds that nearly killed me. Whatever it is, I find myself considering his words more carefully than I might have a month ago.

  "I think," I say slowly, "that I've been so focused on stopping bad things from happening that I haven't thought much about preventing them in the first place."

  Dr. Kaplan smiles slightly. "That sounds like progress to me."

  Dr. Kaplan spends the next twenty minutes working us through a whole menu of non-violent ways I can "channel my energies." Some sound like things guidance counselors put on college application checklists, but a few actually make sense.

  I pay more attention when she circles back to the EMT internship, which feels tangible. Real. And mentoring Zara and Liam - that could actually make a difference for them. The environmental club she suggests might not stop muggings, but I guess clean parks are something concrete too.

  "I think what we're discovering here," Dr. Kaplan says, glancing at her watch, "is that the protective instinct itself isn't the problem. It's finding appropriate outlets."

  "Outlets that won't get me stabbed," I mutter.

  "Precisely," she says without missing a beat.

  We wrap up with new homework assignments. Mine is to identify one systemic issue I care about and research ways to address it beyond direct intervention. It sounds academic, but I can see what she's trying to do - get me thinking about the bigger picture instead of just the immediate threats.

  Mom gets the task of finding balance between ensuring my safety and not checking the tracker app twenty times a day. Dad's supposed to examine his relationship with his gun more critically - now that I know it exists, I guess I should learn about gun safety beyond the basics? I hear something about a shooting range but I'm too embarrassed to ask Dr. Kaplan to repeat herself. It just kind of went in one ear and then got scrambled on the way.

  "Same time next week?" Dr. Kaplan asks as we gather our things.

  "Unless someone decides to drop a building on me before then," I say.

  "Sam," Mom warns, but there's less edge to it than there would have been a month ago. Progress, I guess.

  I can't help but feel like my bored optimism is misplaced somehow. What's going to get in my way this time?

  Franklin Park on a Saturday morning in mid-November is brisk but beautiful. The trees have shed most of their leaves, creating crunchy carpets of red and gold beneath our feet. Maggie and I arrive early to scout a secluded area away from the main playgrounds and picnic areas.

  "How about over there?" She points to a small clearing partially screened by a stand of pine trees. "Far enough from the paths that no one will notice some weird flashes of glass or the occasional puff of smoke."

  "Perfect," I agree. "You set up the cones. I'll text them our location."

  While Maggie arranges the orange traffic cones we brought in a rough circle, I send Zara and Liam our coordinates. We decided on the park instead of the library for today's session. You can't exactly practice power control between the stacks of reference books.

  They arrive within fifteen minutes - Zara dropped off by her father in a sensible Volvo, Liam pedaling up on a bike that looks too small for his growing frame. Both are bundled in jackets against the November chill.

  "Sorry I'm late," Liam says, slightly out of breath as he chains his bike to a nearby rack. "Had to help my mom with groceries first."

  "You're right on time," I assure him. "We just got set up."

  Zara approaches more cautiously, eyeing the traffic cones. "What are those for?"

  "Boundaries," Maggie explains. "For the exercises."

  "Exercises?" Liam perks up. "Like, actual power training?"

  I nod. "That's the plan. If you're comfortable with it."

  They exchange a glance, a mixture of excitement and nervousness passing between them.

  "Is this... allowed?" Zara asks, pushing her glasses up her nose. "My dad thinks we're just having a regular mentoring session."

  "It is a regular mentoring session," I say. "Just with a practical component. Look, who else is going to teach you how to use your powers safely? Your school? The NSRA?"

  "The DVD's Young Defenders program got shut down," Maggie adds. "So there's literally no official training available for powered teens anymore."

  Liam grins. "So we're getting underground superhero training? Cool."

  "Not superhero training," I correct firmly. "This isn't about fighting or costumes or any of that. This is about understanding your abilities so they don't control you."

  "Like how to not set off smoke detectors during math tests?" Liam asks.

  "Exactly," I say. "Powers are like any other skill - they need practice to develop control. And practice is safer with guidance. Tell your parents if you want, I don't give a shit. They'll probably feel relieved that you aren't blowing up the garage."

  "What are we starting with?" Zara asks, her initial hesitation giving way to curiosity.

  I gesture for them to sit on the fallen logs we've arranged in the center of the cone circle. "First, I want to understand exactly how your powers work. Not just what they do, but how they feel, how you access them, what limitations you've noticed."

  "I'll go first," Liam volunteers. "So, I can basically turn parts of myself dragon-like. Scales, claws, sometimes smoke when I get worked up."

  "Can you demonstrate?" Maggie asks.

  Liam nods, extending his right arm. With a look of concentration, his skin begins to shift - taking on a pitch-black, scaly texture that creeps from his fingers up to his elbow. Small, horn-like protrusions form along his forearm, and his fingernails extend into curved claws.

  "Impressive control," I note. "How does it feel when you do that?"

  "Warm. Kind of... pressure-y? Like there's something under my skin pushing out." He flexes his transformed arm. "I can hold this pretty easily. It's when I try to change more of me that it gets harder to control."

  "And the smoke?" Maggie prompts.

  Liam looks embarrassed. "That happens when I get stressed or angry. Sometimes when I'm really focused too, like during tests. It just builds up in my chest and then..." He exhales, and sure enough, a small wisp of grayish smoke escapes his mouth.

  "Interesting." I turn to Zara. "What about you? Glass sensing and control, right?"

  She nods, suddenly shy. "I can sense any glass within about thirty feet. Like, I know exactly where it is, how thick it is, what shape. And if I concentrate..." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small marble, setting it on her palm. With a furrowed brow, she stares at it. The marble slowly rises about six inches above her hand, then begins to rotate.

  "Can you do more than one at a time?" Maggie asks.

  In answer, Zara pulls out three more marbles. Soon all four are floating in a small constellation above her palm, orbiting each other in a complex pattern.

  "That's incredible control," I say admiringly.

  "Small things are easy," Zara explains. "It's the bigger pieces that sometimes... explode."

  "Explode?" Maggie echoes.

  "Not like a bomb," Zara clarifies quickly. "More like... shatter. I try to move a window or a mirror, and it just breaks apart. That's what happened at school last month. I was looking through the classroom window at something outside, and I accidentally reached out with my power. Next thing I knew, glass everywhere."

  I nod understandingly. "That's exactly why we're here. To help you develop finer control."

  For the next hour, we work through basic exercises. "The key," I tell them as Zara carefully lifts a glass jar, "is understanding that powers aren't separate from you. They're an extension of who you are. We don't get to pick what we get, and I don't know if I believe in fate or anything like that, but I do think we get it for a reason."

  "I mean, I think it's probably God or maybe Jesus," Maggie adds quietly.

  "How many fucking Catholics am I secretly friends with?" I mutter, just loud enough to prompt a snicker from Zara, which is maybe the first time I've heard her laugh, ever.