Mom makes meatloaf for dinner. It's one of those meals that takes actual time - mixing the meat with breadcrumbs and egg, shaping it, waiting for it to bake. The kind of thing she only does when she's home early enough to commit to the process.

  Dad sets the table while I help Maxwell - get situated. He can walk fine but carrying things with one arm in a sling is awkward. I bring his plate to the coffee table since the dining room chairs aren't great for someone who needs to keep their shoulder immobilized.

  "You sure you don't want to sit with us?" Mom asks.

  "I'm good here. Don't want to crowd you." He's being polite, giving us family space. I appreciate it even if it's unnecessary.

  We eat. The meatloaf is good - Mom's recipe with the ketchup glaze on top that caramelizes in the oven. Dad talks about a zoning dispute he's been dealing with at work. Mom mentions the library is doing a reading program for Black History Month and she's coordinating with local schools. Normal parent conversation. Normal Tuesday night.

  The TV's on in the living room, volume low. Local news. I can see it from my seat at the table - weather map in the corner showing the Philadelphia region, a small blue blob approaching from the west.

  "Light snow expected overnight," the meteorologist is saying. "Two to three inches, mostly slush. Should be cleared by morning commute. Nothing to worry about."

  "Guess we won't need to shovel," Dad says.

  "Guess not."

  "Maybe salt the sidewalk?" Mom suggests.

  "Sure. I can do that," Dad says. "Actually, wait, I'm still recovering from a gunshot. You do it,"

  "Ben," Mom groans, staring back.

  He looks at me, as if to say, hey, give me some back up. But that was also like four months ago. But it was a bullet. "Sam?"

  "Only if you say please," I shoot back.

  Maxwell chuckles just low enough to barely be heard.

  "Please help me salt the sidewalk and our front stairs," he asks, bowing politely at the hips.

  "Okay!"

  After dinner I help with dishes while Dad packages leftovers. Through the kitchen window I can see the street - porch lights on, a few cars passing, the usual evening quiet. And something else.

  A truck idling at the corner. F-250 with a plow attachment on the front. Two guys in the cab, not going anywhere.

  "Sam?" Mom's handing me a plate to dry.

  "Sorry." I take it, keep watching the truck while I wipe. "Just distracted."

  The truck pulls away after a few minutes. I tell myself it's nothing - people have plows, people do snow removal as side work, it's January. Doesn't mean anything. But something in my brain itches. You don't need a snowplow for three inches of slush. That'll be gone just with the sun's heat.

  I finish the dishes, and my Dad and I take some time to salt the concrete and asphalt outside. He handles the stairs and front porch. I get the sidewalk.

  "You catching up at school alright?" He asks, trying to make conversation.

  "No, but that's what they have office hours for," I answer. "I'll figure it out."

  He nods knowingly, distributing rock salt like someone throwing peas and breadcrumbs to ducks. "It's okay if you don't. I don't think you need a college degree to become a paramedic."

  "How'd you know that was what I was thinking about?" I ask.

  He cracks a grin. "It seems like the sort of thing you'd be considering at this point in your life. Hector called the other day, they were wondering about you, so I told him you were recovering from a sprain. I assume you'd still like to continue that internship?"

  "Yuh," I reply noncommittally, watching a small crew of people in winter clothes, three dudes, two ladies, trudging by with big, heavy snowshovels. They climb the stairs to our across-the-street neighbor and knock on the door. I wonder what they're talking about, but I try not to eavesdrop.

  After we're done with that chore, I end up drifting into the living room. Maxwell's got his laptop open, scrolling through something with his good hand. The news has moved on to sports.

  "Hey." I settle onto the floor near the couch, pulling out my phone. "Did you see the truck outside?"

  "The F-250 with the plow? Yeah."

  "Weird, right? They're only predicting slush."

  He makes a noncommittal sound. "Could be nothing. Could be someone who takes contracts and wants to be ready just in case."

  Stolen story; please report.

  "At eight PM on a Tuesday?"

  "Some people are prepared."

  He's not dismissing me, exactly. Just noting that it's not conclusive. And he's right - I can't prove the truck means anything. Construction guys and rough contractor types look the same as criminals. I've seen enough of both to know you can't judge on appearance. Maya Richardson is an objectively beautiful woman with a face made for campaign posters, and she runs a criminal empire. Or, well, she's the, what, second, third in command of one? Same deal.

  I check my phone. Weather app says 2-3 inches overnight, clearing by morning. Low of 28 degrees. Nothing unusual.

  The Auditors group chat has been quiet since our video call. Everyone doing homework or dinner or whatever normal Tuesday night looks like for them. I send a quick update.

  Sam: Home. Quiet evening. Storm's supposed to be nothing.

  Maggie: yeah i saw. weak sauce

  Tasha: Let me know if you see anything else weird. My mom's still freaked out from earlier.

  Sam: Will do.

  I scroll through HIRC and the various forums for a while. Nothing about Mayfair or Tacony specifically. Some posts about the CapeWatch article from last week, speculation about who the "impersonator" might be. A few people theorizing it's a shapeshifter, which - yeah, obviously. But they don't know about Alice, about any of it. Some people have heard through whatever grapevine - police, first responders, maybe Jett's been gossiping, whatever - that they almost caught the imposter because the real Bloodhound showed up, two of them in one place.

  But if any of them have connected it to sixteen-and-three-quarters-year-old Sam Small, nobody is saying anything.

  My 8 PM check-in pings. I open the ankle monitor app, hit confirm, watch the green checkmark appear. Daily ritual now. Twice a day, every day, until the hearing.

  "Sam." Maxwell's voice pulls me back. "Come look at this."

  I get up, move to where I can see his laptop screen. He's got a map open - Northeast Philadelphia, with markers scattered across it. Different colors, different symbols.

  "What am I looking at?"

  "Everything I've been able to track today. Blue markers are the guys you saw on your walk home. Red are the protection offer locations Tasha mentioned. Yellow are scanner calls - noise complaints, suspicious persons reports."

  There's a lot of markers. More than I expected.

  "This is just today?"

  "Just today. And look at the distribution." He zooms out slightly. "It's not random. They're establishing a grid. Presence on major intersections, coverage of commercial blocks, systematic expansion from a central point."

  "Which is where?"

  He taps the screen. A cluster of markers near Frankford and Cottman.

  "That's like six blocks from here."

  "Yeah."

  I stare at the map. All those little colored dots representing people I walked past, conversations I didn't hear, pressure being applied to businesses and residents I'll never know about. It looks like a disease spreading. Or a military operation.

  "Can you predict where they'll go next?"

  "Not predict exactly. But I can model likely expansion patterns based on what they've already covered." He pulls up another layer - dotted lines radiating outward from the cluster. "If they're being systematic, these blocks get hit tomorrow. These by Thursday."

  My block is in the Thursday zone.

  "Great," I grumble.

  Dad comes in from the kitchen, glass of water in hand. He pauses behind the couch, looking at Maxwell's screen. "Hey, is that GIS? You modeling something for school?"

  "Something like that," Maxwell says carefully.

  Dad leans in a little, squinting at the map. City planner brain activating. "Huh. Your expansion model - you're assuming radial spread from a central point, right?"

  "Based on the data, yeah."

  "Makes sense for some things, but if these are people working territory..." Dad traces a finger along the screen without touching it. "They're probably following infrastructure. Commercial corridors, bus routes, anywhere with foot traffic. The residential blocks fill in after, not before. You'd want to weight your projection toward the major streets first."

  Maxwell blinks. Pulls up another layer. I can see him mentally recalculating. "That would put the Cottman Avenue stretch getting hit tomorrow, not Thursday."

  "If I were planning a canvassing operation, that's how I'd do it." Dad straightens up, takes a sip of his water. Then seems to register what he just said. "This isn't actually for school, is it."

  "No," I admit. "It's not."

  He looks at the map for a long moment. All those colored dots. The expansion lines that now curve along Roosevelt Boulevard, along Cottman, along the paths people actually walk.

  "You okay, kiddo?"

  "Yeah. Just thinking."

  "About anything in particular?"

  Everything. The trucks. The map. The dealer who noticed my ankle monitor. The bodega owner who looked tired and scared. Maya's press conference about her district being "under siege". Being impersonated for two weeks. Miasma is a rotting corpse forever until he dies.

  "School stuff," I say. "Pre-calc."

  He doesn't call me on the obvious lie. Just ruffles my hair, which I tolerate because I'm too tired to dodge. "Don't stay up too late."

  "I won't."

  He heads upstairs. Mom follows a few minutes later, stopping to check on Maxwell and make sure he has everything he needs. Blankets, water, pain medication within reach. She's treating him like a guest and a patient simultaneously, which seems to mildly embarrass him.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Small. Really. I'm fine."

  "Call me Rachel. And holler if you need anything. Sam's room is right at the top of the stairs."

  "I will."

  She goes up. The house settles into nighttime quiet - creaking pipes, the hum of the refrigerator, distant traffic sounds. I linger in the living room, not ready to sleep yet.

  "You should rest," Maxwell says. "School tomorrow. Assuming it's not cancelled."

  "It won't be. Two inches of slush doesn't cancel school."

  "Probably not."

  I check my phone again. Weather app notification: Winter Weather Advisory updated. 4-6 inches expected overnight. Morning commute may be affected.

  That's double what they said an hour ago.

  "Forecast is climbing," I say, showing him the screen.

  He frowns slightly. "That's a pretty significant revision."

  "Yeah."

  I think about the trucks again. The guys staging equipment for a storm that wasn't supposed to need equipment. Either they knew something the meteorologists didn't, or they were preparing for something the meteorologists couldn't predict.

  Neither option is comforting.

  "Get some sleep," Maxwell says. "Whatever's coming, you'll handle it better rested."

  "What about you?"

  "I'll monitor things for a while longer. Wake you if anything urgent happens."

  I want to argue, but he's right. I'm exhausted. Two days of school after two weeks of fugitive operations has drained me in ways I didn't expect. The adrenaline that kept me running is gone, and what's left is just a tired teenager with an ankle monitor and a pre-calc quiz on Friday.

  "Okay. Goodnight."

  "Goodnight, Sam."

  I head upstairs. Brush my teeth, change into pajamas, plug in my phone. Through my bedroom window I can see the street below. Empty. Quiet. The streetlight on the corner casts its usual orange glow on the pavement.

  And just at the edge of that glow, barely visible - snow starting to fall.

  I watch it for a minute. Small flakes drifting down, not sticking yet, just dusting the cars and sidewalks with white. Normal January stuff. Nothing to worry about.