I leave City Hall the same way I came in - slowly, carefully, trying not to look like someone who got thrown through a partition wall yesterday. The security guard nods as I pass. "Have a good day, Ms. Small."

  "You too."

  It's a little after three. The walk home is going to suck but I don't have much choice. I could call my parents for a ride but then I'd have to explain why I'm even more tired than when I left, and I don't have the energy for that conversation.

  I head north on Broad Street. It's the most direct route home, and also - I check my phone, pull up the tracker - it intersects with where he went after leaving the Music Hall. The blue line on the map shows him going south on Frankford, then cutting west, then northwest. He would've crossed Broad around... I zoom in. Hunting Park, maybe? Somewhere in that area.

  I'm not following the trail all the way to East Falls. That's like an hour and a half on foot and I can barely walk a mile without wanting to die. But if there's blood evidence along Broad, I can check it. Confirm he was actually bleeding, confirm the tracker stayed with him. That's useful information. That's strategic, (also an excuse to do something instead of going home and sitting still, but I'm not thinking about that too hard) and intelligent. Right?

  The blood sense is always on. I can't turn it off. Every sidewalk in Philadelphia has been bled on at some point - scraped knees, bloody noses, drunk idiots who fell, worse things I don't want to think about. It's background noise, like how you stop noticing the sound of traffic after a while. My brain filters it out, uses it for proprioception instead. I haven't tripped in two years. I haven't lost my footing or accidentally stubbed my toe on a raised piece of sidewalk that tree roots shoved up out of the ground. Every surface has a texture I can feel without touching.

  But fresh blood stands out. And blood that's been there less than a couple days, that hasn't been properly cleaned, that still has residue - that stands out too.

  I'm looking for the second kind.

  I walk slow. Not just because my ribs are screaming - though they are - but because I need to pay attention. Looking for patterns, for clusters, for anything that tracks with the line on my phone.

  Broad Street is busy. Weekend afternoon, people out shopping or heading to restaurants or just existing. I stop at a corner to check my phone, ostensibly waiting for the light to change, actually checking if I'm near where the tracker crossed. Half a block north, maybe.

  I keep walking.

  There. On the sidewalk outside a pizza place, there's a stain. Brown, dried, small. Could be anything - spilled soda, dropped food. But I can feel it in my mind's eye, the way you can tell the difference between types of fabric by touch even blindfolded, but in my brain-touch. My brain-sight. Blood. A day old, maybe less. Not cleaned, just dried and ignored because it's Philadelphia and people ignore worse.

  I check the tracker path. The line passes within ten feet of where I'm standing.

  Could be coincidence. Lots of people bleed in this city.

  I keep walking. Looking for more.

  Another stain, half a block up. This one's at the base of a telephone pole, like someone stopped to lean against it. Smudged, like someone tried to wipe it off with their hand. The tracker line passes right by it.

  Okay. That's two.

  A third, near a bus stop. Smaller. The blood trail's getting lighter - he packed the wound, maybe, or it stopped bleeding on its own. But it's there. Following the same path as the blue line on my screen.

  He didn't dump the tracker. At least not immediately. He traveled this route while actively bleeding, which means the tracker was still on him - in his jacket pocket, clipped to his vest, wherever Tasha managed to tag him.

  I stop at a bodega, buy a bottle of water I don't want just to have an excuse to stand still for a minute. My ribs are on fire. The concussion headache is back with a vengeance, although with it comes the gentle buzz of my body starting to dump adrenaline for no particular reason (small benefits for PTSD). I should go home.

  But I check one more block north.

  The blood trail stops. Just... nothing. Either he got in a car, or the bleeding stopped, or he turned off Broad and I'm not following that far. But I have what I need. Confirmation. The tracker followed the bleed, which means it followed him, which means the East Falls location is probably legitimate.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Probably. Not definitely. He could've found it later, taken it off, left it somewhere. But at least for the first part of his trip, it was with him while he was injured enough to leave a trail.

  That's good intelligence. That's worth telling the DVDs about.

  Maybe.

  I turn around, start the walk home. My phone buzzes.

  Maggie: hows davis

  Sam: Pissed. Music hall is out of commission for months. Argus Corps is sniffing around.

  Maggie: SHIT

  Lily: What's the plan?

  Sam: Still figuring it out. Tracked the blood trail from the music hall, confirms the bugtag is legitimate

  Amelia: You TRACKED it? Sam, you're supposed to be resting.

  Sam: I didn't follow it. I was crossing North Broad where it would've intersected the trail. So I just checked around it to see if I could find blood stains.

  Sam: And I could. I'm not going two hours out of my way to East Falls on a Saturday.

  Amelia: Uh huh.

  Sam: Frankly I don't want to be in East Falls any day of the week.

  Maggie: did you find anything good???

  Sam: Blood trail follows the tracker route. He didn't dump it right away, which means the East Falls location is probably real.

  Tasha: So...?

  I stop walking. Stand on the corner of Broad and... I don't even know what cross street this is. I'm tired enough that the street signs are starting to blur together.

  Sam: The tracker has been stationary for 16 hours. If its a safehouse they'll just clean it out after we tip the DVDs. if its his actual place...

  Sam: IDK.

  Maggie: tipping the DVDs?

  Sam: It's an option. Davis gave me a super secret their normal anonymous tip line number.

  Sam: There might be something else on the post it I haven't checked.

  Amelia: Would mean the adults in the room actually do something for once.

  Sam: yeah

  Lily: Sounds good. get home safe ok?

  Amelia: And actually rest this time.

  Sam: yeah yeah

  I pocket my phone and keep walking.

  I get home a little after four. Mom's in the kitchen making dinner - chicken and rice, I can smell it from the door - and Dad's at the table with his laptop again. They both look up when I come in.

  "How'd it go with Davis?" Mom asks.

  "Music Hall's fucked. Water damage, century-old wood, insurance nightmare. He's working on it but it's going to be months." I drop my bag by the stairs. "Argus Corps wants to investigate. Davis is holding them off for now."

  Dad closes his laptop, rolling his eyes at the mention of Argus Corps. "You look exhausted."

  "I am exhausted. I'm going upstairs."

  "Dinner in an hour," Mom calls after me.

  I make it to my room, close the door, and collapse onto my bed without even taking my shoes off. Everything hurts. My ribs, my head, my legs from walking too far, my back from sleeping wrong last night. I should shower. I should change clothes. I should do something productive.

  Instead I pull out my phone and check the tracker.

  Blue dot. East Falls. Stationary.

  Sixteen hours and counting.

  I set an alarm for dinner and close my eyes.

  I don't really sleep. Just kind of drift in that weird space between awake and unconscious where you're technically resting but your brain won't shut up. I keep thinking about the blood trail. About that guy's threats. About Tasha's shoulder. About the Music Hall sitting empty with water damage eating through century-old wood.

  About what happens next.

  Davis gave me the DVD tip line. I could call it in right now. Anonymous tip, suspicious activity at an apartment complex in East Falls. They'd investigate, probably find something. Maybe find him. Maybe find nothing because he's already gone or it's a trap or the Kingdom cleaned it out before anyone could get there.

  Or I could wait. Watch the tracker, see if he moves, see if there's a pattern. Follow him to somewhere more important than a random apartment.

  Or I could just... not. Let it go. Focus on the mentorship program, on helping Zara and Liam and Jasmine and Alex, on being the support Davis wants instead of the vigilante he's worried about.

  (I'm not going to do that. I know I'm not going to do that. But it's nice to pretend I have the option.)

  My alarm goes off. Dinner time.

  I drag myself downstairs. Mom's set the table, Dad's already sitting down. We eat in relative silence - they ask a few questions about Davis, about the Music Hall, about whether I'm feeling okay. I give short answers. I'm too tired for conversation.

  After dinner I help clean up, then escape back upstairs with a mumbled excuse about homework. Mom doesn't push. Dad just nods.

  I check the tracker again.

  Still stationary.

  I open my laptop, pull up the research from yesterday. Silverstein's property records, the shell companies, Nina's information. All the pieces we were putting together before that guy interrupted. All the evidence that someone thought was dangerous enough to send a message about.

  I should compile it. Send it to Davis, maybe. Or just keep it organized so when we do move, we have everything ready.

  But I'm too tired to think straight. Too tired to make decisions. I close the laptop.

  Check the tracker again.

  Stationary.

  I text the group chat.

  Sam: Dots still stationary. gonna sleep on whether to call it in.

  Maggie: sounds good. sleep well!

  Lily: Night Sam!

  Amelia: Rest. Actually rest.

  Tasha: see u tomorrow

  I set my phone on my desk, face-up so I can see if anything changes. The tracker app is still open. Blue dot. East Falls. Mocking me.

  I should shower. I should change into actual pajamas. I should do a lot of things.

  Instead I just turn off the lights and get under the covers, still in my hoodie and leggings.

  It's maybe nine o'clock. Early for me. But I'm so tired I can barely keep my eyes open.

  I roll over, check the tracker one more time.

  The blue dot moves.