I wake up to the smell of cooking. For a second - just a second - I think I'm home. That Mom's making breakfast, that Dad's probably reading the news on his tablet at the kitchen table, that I need to get ready for school.

  Then I remember. Kate's apartment. Center City. Fugitive... But the smell is real. Someone's actually cooking.

  I sit up. The bed's empty except for me - Kate must've taken the couch like she said. Morning light's coming through the window. My phone says it's 9 AM. So that means I slept... what, ten hours? Ten actual hours, all at once. When's the last time I overslept like that? Before the frame-up, definitely. Maybe before I started the mentorship program. Maybe before summer ended. I feel stupid, but on the other hand, I feel like I can think again. Like a great and mighty fog has lifted from over the valley.

  I can think again.

  I get up, still wearing Kate's borrowed clothes. My own stuff is clean and folded on a chair - she must've washed them. There's voices from the kitchen.

  "--just need to be careful," a man's voice is saying. Kate's dad. Liam. "I'm not saying don't help her, I'm saying be smart about it."

  "I am being smart." Kate sounds annoyed. "She needed rest. She got rest. That's it."

  "Katie--"

  "She's my best friend, Dad."

  I should probably announce myself before this gets more awkward. I step out of the bedroom.

  Liam's at the stove making scrambled eggs. He's wearing work clothes - nice pants, button-down shirt. He looks older than I remember in just a couple months. More tired. But also... better, somehow. Less stressed. His face is less wrinkled. Not younger, just less wrinkled.

  He sees me and goes pale.

  "Sam." Not angry. Concerned. Maybe a little scared. "Your parents told me - they said you were--"

  "I'm okay, Mr. Smith." I stay in the doorway. Not threatening. Just present.

  He looks at Kate. Kate nods, confirmation that this is handled, this is safe, she's got it under control.

  Liam turns off the stove. Takes a breath. "Sit down. Eat breakfast. You're too skinny."

  "I'm not--" I protest, ready to point out that I probably weigh more than both of them just in raw muscle.

  "Sit." Dad voice. The kind that's not arguing.

  I sit. He serves scrambled eggs and toast. Real butter. Orange juice. The kind of breakfast that takes effort. Kate joins us at the table with her own plate.

  We eat in silence for a minute. It's not uncomfortable exactly, just... careful. Like everyone's measuring words before speaking.

  "Your dad would do the same for Katie if she needed it," Liam says finally. He's looking at his eggs, not at me. "Ben and I go back. We're friends. So if you need help, you get help. That's how it works."

  "I appreciate it, Mr. Smith."

  "But you need to be careful." Now he looks at me. "I don't know what you're doing out there. Kate won't tell me and I don't want to know. But whatever it is, don't be stupid about it."

  "I'm trying not to be."

  "Try harder." He stands up, goes to his wallet on the counter. Pulls out cash. More than he probably should give. Three hundred dollars, maybe more. "Here."

  "I can't--"

  "Yes you can." He puts it on the table in front of me. "Your parents would do the same for Katie. We take care of each other's kids. That's how it works."

  I want to argue but the look on his face says it won't work. I take the money. "Thank you."

  "There's leftovers in the fridge. Pierogies. Take some for the road." He's already moving, getting ready for work. "Kate, make sure she gets food before she leaves."

  "I will."

  He pauses at the door. Looks at me one more time. "Be safe, Sam. Whatever you're doing, just... be safe."

  "I'll try."

  He leaves. The apartment feels quieter without him.

  Kate gets up, starts packing pierogies into tupperware. "He worries."

  "He should. I'm a fugitive."

  "You're also sixteen and fighting crime. Of course he worries." She hands me the tupperware. "Here. Don't eat them all at once."

  I take the container, watching it start to fog up with steam. "Thanks. For everything. The bed, the food, the--"

  "We're good," Kate interrupts. "We said we're good. I meant it. Did you?"

  "Yeah."

  We stand there for a second. Not awkward, just... acknowledging each other. Like two dogs staring at each other from across the road. Or a dog and a cat, more like it.

  "Don't die," Kate says.

  "I'll try."

  "No, like actually don't die. I already faked my death once. I don't want to have to come back from the dead to attend your funeral."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  I smile despite myself. "Noted."

  She pulls me into a hug. Brief but solid. "Go do your thing," she says. "Just don't be an idiot about it."

  "When am I ever an idiot about things?"

  "Do you want the list chronologically or alphabetically?"

  "Fuck off."

  She smacks me in the shoulder. "Is that how you treat a lady?"

  "Yes. Die," I monotone back at her.

  I leave with tupperware of pierogies, three hundred dollars in cash, and ten hours of actual sleep behind me. The subway ride back feels different. Lighter. I'm not just surviving anymore. I'm ready.

  On the train I eat a pierogi straight from the container. It's cold but it's good, it's real, it's probably from a frozen baggie from Costco but it's real food. Not that the lo mein isn't good, but... I mean, the lo mein is better. But this is food from someone I know, so it has... Sentimental value. Strategic value? Maybe.

  Miasma was right. I needed kimchi

  The target's a Kingdom warehouse in Kensington. Pills, mostly - Jump and prescription stuff. Crossroads verified it stays quiet tonight. Fifteen-minute window. I've got the whole thing planned.

  I'm faster now. The lockpicking takes twenty seconds. The entry is smooth - no fumbling with doors, no hesitation, just slamming a single sided jiggler inside and raking it up against the roof until things just kind of fall open. Inside, I move like I've been here before even though I haven't. The layout makes sense immediately: storage in back, office up front, probable security camera angles.

  A lot of the buildings in North Philly probably were made by the same contractors. I've started seeing repeat layouts. There's not enough blood splatter in here for the sort of parkour proprioception I get on the streets, so I have to use my eyes, but I've gotten pretty good with those, too.

  I photograph everything. Not just documents this time - I'm looking for patterns. Delivery schedules. Supplier information. The kind of intelligence that maps networks, not just individual operations.

  My phone timer says I've been inside for four minutes.

  I hear something. Footsteps outside. Not cops - wrong rhythm. Just someone walking past. But my blood sense isn't picking up anyone bleeding, which means I can't track them precisely.

  I freeze and listen. The footsteps continue past, so whoever it is isn't coming in - but the moment of uncertainty cost me ten seconds. I gotta reorient myself, gotta move. Five minutes.

  I finish photographing the last cabinet, pocket my phone, head for the exit. The back door's exactly where I left it. I'm through and gone in six minutes total.

  Crossroads said eight-minute response window. I had time. But that ten-second freeze - that hesitation when I heard footsteps - that could've been the difference in a tighter operation. I have to trust myself more. I've spent two years being thrown into a crucible to turn into a child soldier of sorts, so I might as well be using that.

  Still. Six minutes, evidence gathered, clean exit. I'm getting better at this.

  Day ten. Silverstein again.

  I pick him up outside his office at 5 PM. Same routine - nice coat, leather gloves, purposeful walk. I stay a block back, hood up, goggles on my forehead. He stops at a coffee shop and orders something complicated. I wait across the street at a bus stop, watching through the window.

  He's meeting someone - another man, fifties, expensive suit. They talk for twenty minutes. I photograph them through the window with my phone, which isn't great quality but it's enough to identify faces later.

  When they leave separately, I follow Silverstein. He's walking faster now. Less tired than last time - maybe he took my note seriously and got his heart checked. Good for him!

  Three hours in, he stops for dinner at a restaurant in Old City. I'm across the street again, at a bodega, buying my third sandwich of the day. At this point I don't know if it's a metabolism thing or if I'm just eating because I'm bored and maybe a little stressed. Maybe both?

  The guy behind the counter gives me a look. "You were here two hours ago."

  "I'm a growing girl." I pay cash and leave.

  I eat standing up, watching the restaurant window. Silverstein's alone this time, just eating and looking at his phone. Acting extremely normal, unlike me.

  Four hours. He's taking his time. I finish my sandwich, buy another protein bar, keep watching.

  A woman walks past me - older, maybe sixties. She's got a cut on her hand. Recent, still bleeding slightly, trying to sort of tie a tissue around it but it's not working for a number of different, only vaguely interconnected reasons.

  "Excuse me," I say.

  She stops and looks around as if we're not eye level. I'm not that muffled, am I? I pull a bandaid from my backpack, the fugitive equivalent of Bloodhound's utility belt. "For your hand. That tissue's not going to hold."

  She blinks and looks at the bandaid. "Oh. Thank you."

  She takes it and applies it carefully. While she's doing that, I give her a quick once over, trying not to stare through her. I don't see anything wrong with her cardiovascular system, so I don't see the need to prolong the conversation. She smiles at me - genuine, warm. "That's very kind."

  "No problem."

  She walks away. I go back to watching Silverstein.

  It's such a small thing, but it makes me feel good and useful. A little bit less like an insurgent.

  Five hours. Silverstein's leaving the restaurant. I follow.

  The thing I'm noticing - really noticing for the first time - is that I'm taller than him. I don't know why it's only striking me right now, as opposed to the many other times in my life where I've been taller than everyone around me, but I think two years ago I was probably, what, five three? Five four on a good day? But now I'm at least adult height. Have I really just not noticed the world slowly shrinking around me?

  Now when I walk past people on the street, I'm eye level with most of them. Taller than some. When Silverstein and I were in that moment where I bumped into him last time, he didn't look down at a kid - he probably assumed he was bumping into a teenager, or a young adult, maybe. Correct assumption to make. My boots add a little extra.

  I don't really know why this is occurring to me now.

  Silverstein stops outside a building, checks his phone, makes a call. I'm half a block away, leaning against a wall, looking at my own phone like I'm texting, just another person on the street, not worth noticing. He goes into the building. I could follow but it's risky - security, cameras, limited exits, it looks new and not run down.

  Instead I wait. Photograph the building. Note the time. Add it to the pattern.

  My phone buzzes. Crossroads: "Tomorrow night. Two targets. Both quiet. 11 PM and 1 AM. Details incoming."

  I text back: "Confirmed."

  Minute by minute ticks past, so while I wait I actually look up the address of where I'm at, from the intersection. Okay. Normal office building. Nothing interesting, not even anything interesting in, like, the publicly available zoning information. Just... an office.

  Fifteen minutes later, Silverstein exits the building. He looks exhausted now, so I'm not bothering to bump into him again. I just watch as he orders a taxi with his phone, climbs in, and vanishes down Broad Street.

  Nothing interesting, but I note down the office building for later. Later, I'll comb through - or get Jordan to comb through - every single business that works in that building. Later we'll figure out how it fits into all this. But later is after tomorrow, and I've got two operations scheduled for tomorrow.

  I head back to the safehouse - the Bridesburg storage unit tonight. Miasma left supplies. Clean clothes, food, water, all nice and organized. The clothes are even folded and washed. I try to think about that, imagining Miasma cleaning and folding clothes for his pet fugitive. Would he do that? I'm sort of struck by the realization that I don't know if he would or not. I don't know him enough as a person, rather than coworker, mentor, or superhero, and I don't know if I ever will.

  I eat the pierogies Kate's dad made. They're cold but still good. Better than gas station food.

  My phone has a message from Mom, forwarded through Lily: "Caldwell says the case is weak. Tracker data is holding up as alibi evidence. Prosecutor's office is starting to ask questions about the charges. We're making progress. Stay safe. Love you."

  I read it three times. Making progress. Not solved, not exonerated, but progress. I can work with that.

  I text back through Lily: "Got it. Staying safe. Love you too."