I press myself against the brick wall, trying to breathe quietly despite my lungs screaming for air. My blood sense tells me there's a dead rat three feet to my left, a syring with dried blood on it near the dumpster, and approximately eight thousand tiny blood particles coating every surface from years of urban life.

  I can also sense Jett doubling back.

  She's not being subtle about it. Her footsteps are heavy, deliberate, and I can feel the heat signature even from here - she's still at Gear 2, maybe dropping to Gear 1 to conserve energy. Smart. She knows I have better stamina. She's pacing herself.

  "You know I'm going to find you, right?" she calls out, voice echoing weird off the alley walls. "This is like, a dead end? Unless you can teleport, which I don't think is one of your shark things."

  I don't answer. I'm looking for another way out. There's a fence at the far end, chain-link, maybe six feet tall. Beyond it, I can see the backs of row homes. I know where I am now - one block from my house.

  So close.

  "Seriously, I'm impressed!" Jett continues. She sounds genuine. "You're way better at this than like, ninety percent of the people I chase. Most people give up after the first block. But you're just making this harder on yourself. Zooming all around Tacony even though we've got people surrounding the area. Aren't you worried about your parents?"

  "Are you threatening me?" I ask, trying not to hide my outrage.

  "No, I just recognize your tracker bracelet! That's a mom thing. My mom put one on me too when I first got my powers, but it was an older, shittier model," she replies. She's right - Mom and Dad are definitely watching. They've probably called someone by now. Lawyer, maybe. Or the DVD. Or they're just sitting there watching the dot move and panicking. "Do I need to go over the rooftops?"

  I squeeze out from between the alleyway walls. "Yeah. You do. Bite me."

  I sprint for the fence.

  Behind me, Jett makes an appreciative sound. "There we go! I was worried you'd just hide and make this boring."

  I hit the fence at speed, muscle memory taking over. Foot on the lower crossbar, hands on top rail, vault. My blood sense picks up the exact position before I touch it - there's blood here too, old and rusty, someone cut themselves climbing over months or years ago.

  I'm over and running before Jett reaches it.

  She doesn't vault. She just sort of... launches herself over like she's being fired from a cannon. She goes up out of my vision, and then I watch her, with a little more creativity, gymnast her way down a fire escape.

  I move through someone's yard. Their back door is lit up, I can see people moving inside through the window, normal evening activities. Dinner, probably. TV. The things people do when they're not being chased by government superheroes.

  Over another low wall. My shins are going to be bruised tomorrow. If I were normal.

  I can see my street now. I can see my street.

  My lungs are burning. The cold air feels like it's freezing the inside of my throat every time I breathe. My legs are starting to shake - not from exhaustion exactly, my stamina is still good, but from the sustained sprint. The tracker bracelet bounces against my wrist with every step. Mom and Dad are watching this dot move and probably losing their minds.

  Jett's footsteps are getting closer. She's not calling out anymore. Just running, steady and fast, heat pouring off her.

  I cut through another yard, jump a fence, land hard in slush. My sneakers are soaked through. My toes went numb about three blocks ago. None of it matters because I can see my house now, I can actually see it, the yellow porch light is on and I just need to get there, just need to get inside--

  Something changes in the air pressure behind me. She's not bantering. She's gone totally quiet.

  She's done playing.

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  I push harder. My blood sense maps out the terrain ahead - sidewalk, uneven where tree roots pushed up the concrete, I know exactly where to step. Someone had a nosebleed on this corner once, probably some kid who fell off their bike, there's still dried blood in the cracks.

  Home. Right there. Thirty yards. Twenty yards.

  I can hear the TV through the window. They're watching something, maybe the news. Normal Sunday evening. Mom probably has grading to do. Dad's probably reading.

  Ten yards.

  I'm going to make it. I'm actually going to make it.

  Jett's hand lands on my shoulder and grabs tightly enough that it's there before I'm even an arm length away from the door.

  Not a tackle. Not a grab. Just... pressure. Steady and firm and completely inevitable.

  "It's over," she says, and she's breathing hard now, steam rising off her in visible waves. "Come on."

  I try to pull away. Her grip tightens, not painful but solid.

  "Sam. Stop."

  I'm still trying to move forward, she's still holding me back, we're three feet from my porch steps and I can't get to them. The door is right there. Right there.

  The front door opens.

  Mom and Dad must have seen us from the window, or maybe they heard something, or maybe they were already coming outside to look for me because the tracker showed I was close. They're both there, backlit from the hallway light, and I watch their expressions change in real-time from confused to alarmed.

  "Samantha?" Mom's voice is sharp. "What's going on?"

  "Ma'am, I'm Turbo Jett with Argus Corps," Jett says, and her voice has gone official and formal. Professional. "I have a warrant for your daughter's arrest. Please step back inside."

  "A warrant?" Dad's moving forward now, down the porch steps. "For what?"

  "Multiple counts of unlicensed vigilantism, breaking and entering, stalking, and reckless endangerment." Jett's still holding my shoulder. I'm just standing here, breathing hard, watching my parents' faces. "Sir, I need you to step back."

  "Let go of her." Mom's coming down the steps too, and there's something dangerous in her voice. I've heard it before, but never directed at someone else. She has the scowl of a gorilla. Something ugly, imperious, and dangerous.

  It's scary. It's familiar. It makes her eyebrows look like Victor's.

  "Right now."

  "Ma'am, I can't do that. Your daughter is under arrest--"

  "She has an alibi," Mom interrupts, sounding more like an angry pitbull than a human being. She's got her phone out, already pulling up something. "She's been wearing a tracker bracelet. We can prove exactly where she's been for the past... I don't know, half a year?"

  "That's great, and she can present that evidence to her lawyer," Jett says, but there's something in her voice that wasn't there before. Uncertainty? "But right now I have a warrant and I need to--"

  A car door slams.

  Patriot's walking up the sidewalk, shield on his back, and there are police cars pulling up behind him, lights flashing but no sirens. Neighbors are starting to come out onto their porches. Someone's filming on their phone.

  This is happening. This is actually happening.

  I'm going to throw up. Everything feels like a dream.

  "Ms. Small, Mr. Small," Patriot says, his voice carrying that false-calm tone. "I understand this is upsetting, but your daughter needs to come with us. We can discuss the details at the station."

  "We're not discussing anything until we see the warrant," Dad says, and he sounds different than I've ever heard him. Harder. "And our daughter has an alibi. She's been monitored constantly."

  "I'm sure she has," Patriot says, like he's talking to children. "We'll review all evidence during processing. But first, she needs to be secured."

  Mom's still got her phone up. "The tracker shows--"

  "Let me see that," Jett says suddenly, and her grip on my shoulder loosens just a fraction.

  Everyone stops. Looks at her.

  "What?" Patriot's voice has an edge now.

  "The tracker," Jett repeats. She's looking at Mom's phone. "If it shows she has an alibi for the incidents, I need to verify the complaint basis before processing. That's..." She pauses. "That's procedure."

  Is it procedure? I'm not a cop.

  "We secure the suspect first," Patriot says slowly. "Then we review evidence."

  "But if the evidence shows--" Jett starts.

  "That's not your call, Jett."

  The pressure on my shoulder shifts. Not gone, but... different. Jett's moving forward, toward Mom's phone, and her attention is dividing between me and the screen. She's not winking at me, so I have no idea if this is on purpose or not. I just can't tell.

  Is she just an idiot?

  Everyone's clustering now. Patriot stepping closer. Mom holding out the phone. Dad moving to see. Cops approaching from the street.

  Nobody's looking at me.

  Jett's hand is still on my shoulder, but her body is angled away, toward the phone. Her weight has shifted. Her focus is split.

  I can feel my teeth pushing forward. My blood sense is screaming with information - all these people, all this blood, all these variables.

  "She's a suspect, but that doesn't mean we can just detain her willy nilly. She has rights, Richard," Jett crows, swiping through a timeline that drags the tracker all over Philly, mostly Northeast.

  "We have a warrant. That's exactly what that means, Jett. Now if you'll just let me--"

  I don't let him finish his sentence. I twist out, my leg kicking out and into Jett's, just enough to loosen her grip by hitting her toes. Most people don't clench their hands when you kick their toes. Then, I buck in the other direction.

  My limbs are fine again. My lungs don't hurt. I'm fine. I'll handle this.

  I make eye contact with my Mom for a split second and I can already see the nod in her neck before it reaches the rest of her head. For the first time in my life, I get the same kind of psychic communication that she and my Dad seem to do all the time with just a look. I can hear her. I can feel her.

  Go. We'll handle this. is what her look says.

  So I run.