The waiting room at Temple Hospital smells like antiseptic and bad coffee. I've been here before - after a dozen other times I've done something stupid and paid for it, even before getting powers - but this is different. This time I'm not the one bleeding.

  I'm sitting in one of those plastic chairs that's designed to be uncomfortable enough that you don't fall asleep but not so uncomfortable that you complain. My phone is in my hand. I've checked it maybe thirty times in the last fifteen minutes. No texts from Jordan yet, but the Music Hall security system definitely went offline. They'll notice. They'll text. And then I'll have to explain.

  My ribs hurt. The electrical burns are angry again, the Lichtenberg figures pulling tight every time I breathe. I think I reopened something from Shrike's spike - there's a wet feeling under my shirt that suggests bleeding but it's probably not serious, and if I can't see it in my blood sense it's probably fine. Probably. The partition wall face-plant definitely gave me a concussion, because the fluorescent lights are making my head throb and I keep losing track of time.

  But Tasha's worse. Tasha needed an ambulance and X-rays and a proper sling and probably painkillers that actually work. So I'm fine.

  I'm fine.

  "Samantha?"

  I look up. Mrs. Reynolds is standing there, and I've known her since I was like seven years old, but I've never seen her look like this. She's still in her scrubs from work - she must have been on shift when she got the call. Her name tag says "Natalie Reynolds, RN" and there's a coffee stain on the pocket. Her face is doing that thing adults do when they're trying not to panic in front of kids.

  Mr. Reynolds is behind her. He's an "academic" (otherwise unspecified), tall, willowy, and I think Tasha gets most of her face and her eyesight from him. I've never seen him look angry before, but right now he looks like he wants to hit someone but doesn't know who.

  "Hi, Mrs. Reynolds." I stand up too fast and the room tilts slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, we were just--"

  She pulls me into a hug. It's tight enough that my ribs scream but I don't pull away because I think maybe she needs this more than I do. "Are you hurt?" she asks into my hair.

  "No. I mean, nothing serious. Tasha's the one who--"

  "I know. They told me." She pulls back, hands on my shoulders, looking me over with nurse eyes that probably see more than I want them to. "Shoulder dislocation, they reduced it on scene, no fractures on the X-ray. She's lucky." Her voice cracks on the last word.

  "She's tough," I say, because I don't know what else to say.

  Mr. Reynolds hasn't said anything yet. He's just looking at me, and I can see him doing the math. Two girls, community center, random attack. It doesn't add up right but he doesn't have enough information to know why.

  "The police said someone broke in," Mrs. Reynolds says. "That he just attacked you for no reason?"

  "We were volunteering. For Councilman Davis's project, he's starting a community center for powered youth. You know, um, my Mom got us into contact. We were doing inventory and this guy just--" I have to stop because my throat is doing something weird. "He broke the door down and started destroying everything. We tried to run but he caught Tasha and he--"

  I can't finish. Don't need to. Mrs. Reynolds's face says she understands what "he caught her" means.

  "Did you see his face?" Mr. Reynolds asks. His voice is quiet but there's something underneath it that makes me think of thunder before it gets loud.

  "No. He had bandages covering everything. I couldn't tell you anything about him except he was tall and strong and he knew how to--" How to dislocate a shoulder. How to hurt someone without leaving permanent damage. How to make a point. "--hurt people."

  "The police will find him," Mrs. Reynolds says, but it sounds like she's trying to convince herself as much as me. "They have to."

  They won't. The police barely investigate regular break-ins, and this guy is a professional contractor who's probably already out of the city. But I just nod.

  "Can I see her?" I ask.

  "They're moving her to a room for observation. Another hour or two, then she can go home." Mrs. Reynolds squeezes my shoulder. "Your parents know?"

  Shit. My parents. "I should call them."

  "The hospital already did. They're on their way."

  Of course they did. Of course they are. My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out, hoping it's just my mom asking if I'm okay, but it's Jordan.

  Jordan: Music Hall system offline. Both laptops too. Security alarm was triggered but didn't get disabled, just shut off. What happened?

  I look at Mrs. Reynolds, at Mr. Reynolds, at the waiting room full of people who don't know anything about Kingdom or investigations or why a teenager has a burner phone specifically for talking to a drug cartel. I'm not sure how this guy didn't see that. I made sure to slip it into my pocket, but it hasn't buzzed since.

  "I need to use the bathroom," I say. "Can you tell my parents I'll be right back?"

  Mrs. Reynolds nods, already turning to talk to the front desk about seeing Tasha.

  The bathroom is single-occupancy, which means I can lock the door and sit on the closed toilet lid and try to figure out how to explain this to Jordan without having a complete breakdown. My hands are shaking again. They haven't stopped shaking since the ambulance.

  Sam: Someone broke in. Smashed everything. Tasha's hurt.

  The response is immediate.

  Jordan: WHAT. How hurt? Are you okay? Do I need to come back?

  Sam: Dislocated shoulder. ER now. I'm fine. Stay at MIT.

  Jordan: I'm getting on a bus right now--

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  Sam: NO. Jordan. Stay there. I'm serious. Is the research backed up?

  There's a longer pause. I can feel Jordan fighting with themself through the phone.

  Jordan: Everything on the main servers. Hourly sync. When was the attack?

  I check the time. It's been... God, it's only been like ninety minutes since that guy broke down the door? It felt like hours.

  Sam: Around 5:15. Give or take.

  Jordan: Last sync was 3:47pm. Whatever you were working on after that is gone.

  I close my eyes and try to remember. We were looking at property records. The shell companies. Liberty Services LLC owning the Crescent building. Keystone Business Solutions. The donation records to Silverstein's campaign. The liquor licenses he signed outside his district.

  Sam: Councilman Silverstein. Property records for Crescent. Shell companies connecting him to Kingdom fronts. We just found it like an hour ago.

  Jordan: I can pull those again. Public records. What else?

  Sam: That was it. We literally just figured out the connection.

  Jordan: Okay. So we didn't lose anything that can't be reconstructed. That's something.

  Is it though? We lost the laptops, the dispatch desk, the feeling of safety that made the Music Hall somewhere we could work. We lost Tasha's shoulder function for the next month, maybe longer. At least one of the walls he had shredded through had begun leaking water. So he's damaged infrastructure, we've lost that.

  Sam: How did they know?

  Sam: We were careful. We didn't tell anyone. How did they know to come TODAY?

  Jordan: What have you been getting your nose into all week? Are you sure it was from today?

  Sam: Yeah. I was looking into my grandpa's trucking company again. That was yesterday I think.

  Jordan: They must have someone watching that. Social engineering operation + someone asks questions = red flag.

  Jordan: Probably someone embedded in your grandpa's company or whatever. What else?

  Sam: And Nina. My mom and I met with Nina. She works at Crescent. They probably watch their employees.

  Jordan: There it is, they saw a pattern and went nuts.

  Sam: So they sent someone to destroy whatever investigation they thought we were running.

  Jordan: But I doubt actually know what you found. They were guessing. They probably don't know whatever you found or whatever Nina told you guys about.

  I sit with that for a second. The Kingdom destroyed our research, but they don't know what the research was. They're scared of what we might find, not what we found. Which means the Silverstein connection is still secret. We can reconstruct it. They showed their hand before they knew what cards we were holding.

  Jordan: I know this is insane coming from me but you need to be more careful

  Jordan: If they're watching Kingdom-adjacent people, we can't just call them up and ask questions.

  Jordan: They're more paranoid than they used to be, not less.

  Sam: Yeah I figured that out when a professional contractor ripped through the Music Hall and dislocated my friend's shoulder.

  Jordan: Sorry. That was insensitive. Is Tasha okay? Like, really okay?

  Jordan: Everything else is just stuff. It's replaceable. If you need me I can pull some out from my stipend.

  Sam: No, don't worry about that. We'll... figure out the laptop and computer thing.

  I think about Tasha screaming when her shoulder popped out, the way she went limp after, how she was still shaking in the ambulance, staring at nothing. The scars on her arms that I never noticed until they got exposed in the worst possible context.

  Sam: I hope she'll be fine.

  There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Sam? Honey, are you alright in there?" My mom's voice.

  "Yeah, just a second!" I flush the toilet for authenticity, wash my hands, look at myself in the mirror. There's blood on my shirt from where I caught Tasha, dust in my hair from the Music Hall, a bruise forming on my cheek from something I don't even remember. I look like I got in a fight. Because I did.

  Sam: I have to go. My parents are here.

  Jordan: Keep me updated.

  Jordan: And Sam? I'm glad you're okay.

  Sam: Thanks.

  I unlock the door and my Mom immediately pulls me into a hug that makes my ribs scream again but I don't care. She smells like the library and her lavender shampoo and safety.

  "Let me look at you," she says, pulling back and doing the same examination Mrs. Reynolds did. "The hospital said you weren't injured--"

  "I'm fine, Mom."

  "You're bleeding." She touches my shirt where the blood is and I realize it's more than I thought. It's that guy's. Probably from his shoulder.

  "It's not mine," I say, quietly.

  My Dad is there too, quieter, his hand on my shoulder. "What happened?"

  I tell them the same story I told the cops, the same one I told the Reynolds. Volunteering, community center, random attack, run, Tasha got hurt, he left. It's getting easier to tell each time, which probably says something bad about me. But I don't need my Mom to know that her reaching out to Nina probably got Tasha's shoulder dislocated. There are some white lies that need to just sit.

  "You should get checked out," my Mom says.

  "I'm fine."

  "Samantha--"

  "Mom. I'm fine. Tasha's the one in the hospital bed, not me. Can we just--" My voice cracks and suddenly I can't talk anymore because if I keep talking I'm going to start crying and I can't do that here, not in front of my parents, not when I need to hold it together.

  My Dad pulls me into his side, careful of my ribs somehow even though I didn't tell him they hurt. "Let's go see if we can visit Tasha," he says quietly.

  They let me back after another twenty minutes. Tasha's in one of those curtained-off ER bays, propped up on the bed with her arm in a sling that's way more professional than the one the paramedics used. Her face is still ashy but less gray, and her eyes are clearer. Whatever painkillers they gave her are working.

  Mrs. Reynolds is sitting in the chair next to the bed, holding Tasha's good hand. Mr. Reynolds is standing by the window, arms crossed, still looking like he wants to hit someone.

  "Hey," I say.

  "Hey," Tasha says back. Her voice is hoarse from screaming.

  "How's the shoulder?"

  "Hurts. But they gave me good drugs." She tries to smile but it doesn't reach her eyes. "X-rays are clear. No fractures. Just soft tissue damage. Four to six weeks in the sling, then physical therapy."

  "That's good. That's better than it could have been."

  "Yeah." She's not looking at me. She's looking at her arm, at the sling, at the IV in her other hand. "Sam, I'm--"

  "Can we have a minute?" I ask, looking at the Reynolds.

  Mrs. Reynolds glances at her husband, then nods. "We'll be right outside. Five minutes."

  They leave, pulling the curtain closed behind them. My parents must have stayed in the waiting room, giving us space.

  Tasha still won't look at me.

  "I'm useless," she says quietly. "I couldn't do anything. I couldn't fight, I couldn't run fast enough, I just - I got in your way."

  Oh. We're doing this now.

  I pull the other chair over and sit down, careful of my ribs. "Tasha. Look at me."

  She doesn't.

  "Tasha."

  Finally she meets my eyes, and hers are wet.

  "You're doing the thing I do," I say. "The 'I'm useless, everyone's better off without me' thing. And when I do it, what do you tell me?"

  Her face crunches. "That I'm catastrophizing."

  "Right. So. You're catastrophizing."

  "But I couldn't--"

  "You're not a fighter. You've never been a fighter. That's not your job." I lean forward. "If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. But it's not. Because we couldn't have predicted that they'd send a fucking hitman after us."

  Her good hand reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out her phone. The screen is cracked but when she wakes it up, there's a map with a little blue dot. Tasha's face pulls up into a tight little smile like she's about to burst into tears again.

  "I tagged him," she says. "When I was hitting him and it wasn't doing anything, I had one of Jordan's leftover BugTags in my pocket. I clipped it into his jacket pocket."

  I stare at the phone. At the blue dot sitting in what looks like an apartment complex in Northwest Philly.

  "You tracked him."

  "Yeah."

  "While he was dislocating your shoulder, you planted a tracker on him."

  "Before that. Right before. When I was flailing." She wipes her eyes with her good hand. "I wasn't thinking. I just did it."

  I don't know what to say. What do you say to your friend who got tortured by a professional contractor but still managed to complete the actual mission while you were busy trying and failing to punch the guy?

  "Tasha, that's--"

  "Stupid?"

  "No. That's the smartest thing either of us did tonight." I say, staring at her phone screen, trying not to let myself fall back into tactical thinking.