Mom gestures to the couch. "Please, sit. Let me tell you about what we're putting together."

  Nina perches on the edge of the cushion, hands folded in her lap in a way that makes her look younger than twenty-four. The tea set sits between us on the coffee table, steam curling up from the pot. Dad's visible through the kitchen doorway, doing something with the coffee maker that definitely doesn't require that much attention.

  "So," Mom begins, pouring tea with practiced ease, "Dr. Jensen mentioned you were in the trauma support group with Sam a couple years ago?"

  "Yeah." Nina accepts a cup, wraps both hands around it. "That was... helpful. For a while."

  "I'm glad to hear it." Mom settles into her chair, crossing her legs. "What we're organizing now is similar but more focused on practical support. A mentorship program for powered young adults. Skills training, college prep, job placement assistance. Creating community for people who might feel isolated."

  Nina's listening, genuinely interested.

  "We had our first real session this week," I add. "Four kids, ages fifteen to eighteen. Just getting to know each other, talking about powers and school and life. Nothing formal or clinical. More like..." I search for the right word. "Hanging out with people who get it."

  "That sounds nice," Nina says quietly. The lights flicker. Just briefly. Okay. I'm listening.

  Mom continues smoothly, not acknowledging it. "We're hoping to expand to include young adults in their twenties. People who might be navigating work, independence, figuring out how to exist in the world with powers that most people don't understand."

  "Are there a lot of people doing that?" Nina asks. "The program, I mean."

  "Building," Mom says. "We're still building it. But yes, there's interest. Parents reaching out, young people asking for support. Turns out there's a need that wasn't being met."

  Nina nods slowly. She takes a sip of tea, and I watch her hands. They're not quite steady. "What kind of support?"

  "Whatever people need," Mom says. "For some it's just community. For others it's resources - legal advice, job connections, help navigating the LUMA process. Sometimes it's just having someone to call when things get hard."

  The overhead light dims for a second. Nina notices, glances up apologetically. "Sorry. I'm working on control but when I'm nervous..."

  "No judgment here," Mom says warmly. "We've all got things we're working on. Sam's still recovering from her latest work incident, I'm recovering from realizing my daughter nearly died again, and Ben's recovering from being shot. It's a whole thing."

  That gets a small, genuine smile from Nina. "I saw the videos. Your husband shooting that guy. That was..." She trails off, searching for words. "Brave. Or crazy. Maybe both."

  "Definitely both," Dad calls from the kitchen. "My therapist has opinions. And my physical therapist. And my boss."

  Nina laughs, and the tension breaks slightly.

  "So," Mom continues, "would you be interested in joining the program? No pressure. We're just reaching out to people Sam knew from the group, seeing if anyone wants to be involved."

  Nina sets her teacup down carefully. "Can I ask - why me? I mean, Sam and I were never that close. We barely talked in group."

  I lean forward slightly. "Because you're powered, you've dealt with trauma, and you were one of the few people in that group who seemed like you had your shit together. Dr. Jensen talked about you like you'd really worked through stuff." That's not exactly true but it sounds plausible. "And honestly? We need people in their twenties involved. Can't just be teenagers. None of us have had a job."

  Nina laughs at that, too. Yes! Getting a good grade in social interaction.

  "Plus," Mom adds, "you're local. Still in the city. A lot of people from that group moved away or..." She makes a vague gesture. "Life happened. You're still here, still managing. That's worth something."

  Nina's quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is softer. "I don't know if I'm managing as well as it looks."

  The lights flicker. Longer this time. The lamp dims, the overhead stutters, and even the kitchen light wavers before everything stabilizes.

  "Sorry," Nina says again, but there's something resigned in her tone. Like she's apologizing for more than just the power surge.

  "Are you okay?" I ask, and I mean it genuinely. Not detective work. Just concern.

  "I'm..." Nina starts, then stops. "It's been a hard couple months. Work stuff. Life stuff. I don't want to dump on you all."

  Mom's expression shifts into something softer, more personal. "Nina, honey, you're not dumping. If something's going on, we want to help. That's what this program is supposed to be about."

  Nina looks between us - me, Mom, even glancing toward Dad in the kitchen. She's weighing something. Trust against risk. Hope against fear.

  "My work situation isn't great," she says finally. "I'm a bartender. It's good money but..." Another flicker. "I don't love it. The environment. Some of the people. But I can't exactly quit without having something else lined up, and I've got my sister to think about."

  "You're supporting your sister?" Mom asks gently.

  "Yeah. She's nineteen, in community college. We don't have parents in the picture so it's just us." Nina's hands tighten around her teacup. "The money is too good to walk away from. But I wish I could."

  My heart's beating faster. She works at Crescent. She doesn't love it. She wants out. This is exactly what we needed to know, but I can't push. I absolutely cannot push right now.

  "That's hard," Mom says. "Being responsible for someone else while trying to take care of yourself. I can't imagine doing that at twenty-four."

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

  "Twenty-four's old enough," Nina says quietly. "I've been doing it for a while."

  I glance at Mom, then make a decision. "You know what? This feels like more of a you and my mom thing. Adult life stuff, work stress, all that. I should probably let you two talk." I stand up, trying to look casual. "Don't want to cramp your style. I've got homework anyway."

  Nina gives me a polite little laugh. I see vividly in my mind's eye - one of Jordan's anime characters with a big, oversized sweat drop on her forehead. "Don't worry about it."

  "Mom, you good? Can handle a superhero without me?" I ask. The lights immediately stutter a little bit. Okay, huh?

  Mom doesn't miss a beat. "Yes, honey. Thank you. We'll be fine."

  Nina looks relieved, actually. Like my leaving removes some invisible pressure. "Thanks, Sam. It was good seeing you."

  "Yeah, you too. Welcome to the program." I head upstairs, and I don't look back.

  My room is exactly as I left it - laptop closed on my desk, bed messy, and my phone sitting on my pillow, screen lit with an active call. Rachel Small's contact name glowing at the top. I pick it up carefully, volume down low, and press it to my ear.

  Mom's voice comes through clearly on speaker. "So, just us now. How are you really doing?"

  There's a long pause. Then Nina's voice, quieter and more vulnerable than downstairs. "Honestly? Not great."

  "Tell me about it. I mean, you don't have to," she adds. "Don't let me pressure you. But I've been raising a superpowered kid for a couple years now. So whatever you have going on is probably in my wheelhouse."

  "I don't know where to start. Work is..." Nina trails off. I hear her set something down - the teacup, probably. "Have you ever felt trapped? Like you know you're in a bad situation but you can't figure out how to leave without making everything worse?"

  "I have," Mom says, and I can hear the weight in her voice. "More than once."

  "Crescent pays me twenty-eight dollars an hour plus tips. That's almost sixty thousand a year if I work full time, which I do. My sister's tuition is fifteen thousand. Rent is eighteen hundred a month. Utilities, food, her textbooks, her laptop when it broke..." Nina's voice gets tighter. "I can't leave. Even if I wanted to. Even if I should."

  The lights in my room flicker. Just slightly. All the way up here. The audio stutters, too.

  "What makes you think you should leave?" Mom asks carefully.

  Another long pause. I hold my breath.

  "The people who come in," Nina says finally. "Not the regular clubgoers. The other ones. The ones who go upstairs with, uh, Richardson and Silverstein and those guys, and don't come back down for hours. The ones who my manager tells me to comp drinks for. The ones who..." She stops. "I'm not stupid. I know Crescent isn't just a nightclub. Regular barflies don't randomly bring politicians upstairs. I keep thinking I should say something, like warn them or something, but what would I even say? Stop coming to the most popular nightclub in the city?"

  !

  I can feel my ears perking up like a cat.

  "What do you think it is?" My mom asks.

  "I don't know. I don't want to know." Nina's voice is strained. "That's the thing. I keep my head down, I pour drinks, I smile at customers, and I don't ask questions. Because asking questions seems like a really good way to end up in trouble."

  "Have they threatened you?" Mom's voice sharpens with concern. "Don't worry, I won't get the police involved or anything like that. This is just between you and me. Ben, honey, go... do something in the backyard."

  I hear the back door closing, just barely, on the line.

  "No. That's the thing, they've never had to. I just... I see things. Hear things. And I'm smart enough to know that what I'm seeing isn't legal." The lights flicker again. I can hear it through the phone - the buzz of the lamp downstairs stuttering. "And I'm smart enough to know that people who work at illegal operations and then suddenly quit or go to the police? Bad things happen to them."

  Mom is quiet. I know she's resisting the urge to ask "What have you seen?"

  Nina's voice cracks slightly. "I don't want to know enough to be a problem. That's how I've stayed safe. Not knowing."

  "Okay," Mom says gently. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me anything you're not comfortable with. All I want to do is help you the best I can."

  "But I can't keep doing this," Nina continues, and now she sounds close to crying. "It's eating me alive. I go to work and I smile and I pretend everything's normal, and then I go home and I can barely sleep because I'm thinking about the things I've overheard. The things I've seen people carry upstairs. The way my manager looks at me sometimes like he's trying to figure out if I'm going to be a problem."

  The lights in my room flicker hard enough that my laptop screen dims.

  "Do you feel unsafe?" Mom asks. "Physically threatened?"

  "No? Maybe? I don't know." Nina takes a shaky breath. "They asked me about my powers when I interviewed. Asked if I could control when they happen. I said yes, mostly. And that was the end of that conversation. Never mentioned it again. But if something is... you know. If something's happening, is me working there bad? I don't know what'd happen to my sister if I got arrested."

  "Nina." Mom's voice is firm but kind. "Listen to me. You're not complicit. You're surviving. There's a difference. And this isn't legal advice, but I think... if there was something wrong with your place of employment, the worst that would happen is some uncomfortable questioning from the police. I promise you, there's a difference."

  Silence. Then Nina's voice, very small: "I want to leave. I just don't know how."

  "What if we helped you?" Mom asks. "The program has job placement connections. We're working directly with the City Council during this pilot period--" smooth, "--and Councilman Davis knows people. We could help you find something legitimate, something that pays enough for you and your sister. It might take time but we could work toward it."

  "Why would you do that?" Nina sounds genuinely confused. "You don't even know me. I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

  "Because that's what the program is for. Helping powered people in bad situations find better options." Mom pauses. "And because I've been in bad situations before. Where the only way out was someone else offering a hand. I'd like to be that person for you, if you'll let me."

  The lights flicker once more, then steady. I'm gripping my phone so hard my knuckles are white.

  "It would be hard doing this with no sister. It would be hard to leave even if you had a whole family of people waiting to catch you," and I hear Mom's voice in my head during the pauses - so if I had to take a shot in the dark, I think you have no outlet and immediately latched onto me as your surrogate mother - or something like that. "I'm not going to say I'll replace any of that. But your life can change for the better. There's people who can help you, if you're open for it."

  Total silence. Then,

  "I don't know," Nina says finally. "I need to think about it. This is... it's a lot."

  "Take all the time you need," Mom says. "But Nina? You have my number now. If anything happens - if you feel unsafe, if they ask you to do something you're not comfortable with, if you just need someone to talk to - call me. Anytime. I mean that. You would not believe the things I have seen in the library. Nothing you can say would shock me, I promise."

  "Okay," Nina whispers. "Thank you. I should probably go. This is... I need to process."

  "Of course. Let me walk you out."

  I hear movement, goodbyes, the front door opening and closing. Then footsteps on the stairs. I set my phone down just as Mom appears in my doorway.

  "Well?" she asks.

  "Holy shit," I say.

  "Yeah," Mom agrees. "Holy shit."

  I hear the back door shut - we don't even have a backyard? - and Dad's slow, careful footsteps up the stairs. Dad appears behind her, arms crossed. "So the nightclub is definitely criminal."

  "I mean, I knew that," I point out.

  Mom sits on the edge of my bed. "She doesn't know it's the Kingdom specifically. She doesn't know the scope. But she knows enough to be scared."

  We all sit with that for a moment. I feel a gentle wave of bleakness wash over me like a soothing mist.

  "We have to help her," I say finally. I'm not bringing up the Richardson thing. Mom seems like she's in a groove of righteous indignation. I'm not gonna jostle that.

  "Agreed," Mom says. "But carefully. If we move too fast, we could put her at risk."

  "And if we move too slow," Dad adds, "they might ask her to do something that turns her from witness to accomplice."

  I look between my parents. "So what do we do?"

  Mom stands up, smoothing her cardigan. "I only think I said a single lie that entire conversation, Sam. I told you, we're not treating this woman like an intelligence asset. I said I'd help her, and by G-d, I will help her even if they send two T-Rexes and the Mayor of Philadelphia after me."