Crossroads refuses to take my bed.

  "You're injured," I say, gesturing at the sling and bandages visible under his shirt. "The couch sucks for sleeping."

  "The couch is fine." He's already settling onto it, testing the cushions with his good arm. "I've slept worse places. And your parents are being nice enough letting me crash here at all."

  Mom's in the kitchen starting dinner. Dad's hovering in the doorway like he wants to help but doesn't know how. I can smell something with garlic and tomatoes - pasta, probably. Normal dinner smells in a house that's had too much chaos lately.

  "At least let me get you set up properly." I grab pillows from the linen closet, the good ones with actual support. Stack them so his shoulder isn't twisted. "Pain medication is every six hours. Ice for twenty minutes every two hours while you're awake. I'll check your bandages before bed."

  He raises an eyebrow. "You're very bossy for someone who just got off house arrest."

  "I'm not off house arrest. I have an ankle monitor." I tap it with my foot. "And Nurse Sylvia and Deena and Hector taught me field medicine. You're a patient now, so you do what I say."

  "Yes ma'am." But he's smiling slightly, settling back into the pillows. His eyes are tired. The kind of tired that comes from blood loss and adrenaline crash, not just lack of sleep.

  I check his shoulder bandage - no fresh bleeding, which is good. The doctors did clean work before he left against medical advice. "How's the pain, actually?"

  "Manageable. The meds are helping." He shifts carefully. "I can still coordinate, if that's what you're asking. Precog works fine. I'm just limited physically for a few weeks."

  "Months," I correct. "You got shot in the shoulder. That's not a few weeks injury."

  "We'll see."

  I don't argue. But I've seen enough EMT shifts to know: gunshots to major joints don't heal fast, even with good medical care.

  The doorbell rings at five-thirty. Dad gets it - I hear his voice, then another voice I recognize. Mr. Caldwell.

  "Mr. Small. Thanks for having me over on short notice."

  "Of course. Come in, please."

  Caldwell enters the living room carrying a briefcase that's seen some years but is still professional. He's wearing a suit that's slightly rumpled, like he got dressed in a hurry.

  "Ms. Small." He nods at me. "It's good to see you again, Crossroads."

  Crossroads sits up straighter, extending his good hand. "Just Maxwell is fine."

  They shake. Caldwell sets his briefcase on the coffee table and pulls out a folder. "Let's go over the monitor situation first. Sam, you've got pre-trial release with electronic monitoring. The ankle bracelet tracks your GPS location twenty-four-seven and requires check-ins twice daily via the app. Eight AM and eight PM. Don't miss them."

  "What happens if I do?"

  "First time, you get a warning. Second time, a warrant gets issued and we're back to square one." He pulls out a printed sheet. "You can attend school, medical appointments, work if you had a job. Stay within Philadelphia city limits. No tampering with the device - that's automatic arrest. Questions?"

  "Can I go to the mentorship program meetings? They're at my house now but they might move back to the Music Hall once repairs are done."

  "That should be fine. We'll list it as approved community service activity." He makes a note. "The hearing is scheduled for February 3rd. DA's reviewing the evidence, but given the documented impersonation and your alibi data, I'm confident the charges will be dropped before then. You turned yourself in, which shows intent to resolve this legally. That matters."

  "So I just wait?"

  "Essentially yes. Don't give them any reason to question the release. Go to school, check in on time, stay out of trouble." He glances at Crossroads. "That includes avoiding situations that might put you in contact with Kingdom operatives."

  Crossroads nods slightly. "Understood. I'm just here recovering, off the books."

  Mom calls from the kitchen. "Jerry, are you staying for dinner?"

  Caldwell checks his watch. "If it's not an imposition."

  "It's not. We're having pasta."

  We move to the dining room table. Mom's made penne with marinara and Italian sausage, garlic bread, salad. The kind of meal that takes actual effort, not just throwing something together. Dad pours water for everyone. We sit.

  For a minute it's quiet except for passing dishes. Then Caldwell clears his throat.

  "I should mention - the weapons cache your, uh, intelligence network uncovered. That's bought you a lot of good will at the DA's office. There's people on your side, Sam."

  Crossroads nods. "I passed that along through channels."

  My parents glance at each other nervously. "The what?" my Mom asks.

  I mouth at her I'll tell you later.

  "Twelve handguns plus melee weapons. Baseball bats, combat knives, that sort of thing." Caldwell cuts his sausage with the precision of someone who measures things carefully. "That's a significant escalation in the current legal climate."

  "Why?" I ask. "You're allowed to own handguns, right?"

  "Not like this." He sets his fork down. "You're probably too young, but America had a very... serious gun problem, back when I was growing up, before superpowers started becoming a reality of everyday living. And, as you know, when you get superpowers, you get what you need to survive. That meant that the government had a very strong interest in maintaining the, uh, let's just call it monopoly on firearms violence. Otherwise you'd have people walking around casually immune to small arms fire. Then, the cops would need bigger guns... which some people might become immune to anyway, and so on, and so forth."

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Dad nods. "I remember reading about the de-gunning initiatives. Federal buyback programs, stricter regulations."

  "Exactly. The government deliberately limited civilian access to firearms to prevent that arms race. If LEOs can reliably stop threats with standard equipment, powers don't escalate toward military-grade resistance." Caldwell takes a sip of water. "I do believe you own a handgun yourself, right, Mr. Small?"

  "Yes. Sam knows this, and we handle it responsibly," he confirms for the table.

  "Good. Anything more complicated than a handgun starts running into, you know, international agreements... federal restrictions. But all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't get rid of our national love of pistols."

  "So the Kingdom stockpiling a dozen pistols..." I'm following the logic now.

  "It's a major escalation. This isn't just people beating each other with hammers. We're assuming for every picture of a weapons cache you got, there's maybe four or five, maybe more, weapons caches we can't see. And we can't see whether any of them have assault rifles, hunting rifles, maybe even something crazier," Crossroads clarifies. "That's probably around 60 to 70 assorted firearms imported from who knows where for the express purpose of escalating a gang war."

  Caldwell adds. "Armed gang conflict in residential areas with bystanders everywhere. Mr., Mrs. Small, you really raised a stupendous young girl here."

  Mom's grip on her fork has gotten tighter, almost entirely ignoring the compliment. She throws on a tight, but not fake, smile. "Thanks."

  We finish dinner with lighter conversation - Caldwell asking about Dad's work in city planning, Mom talking about library programs. Normal stuff that feels weirdly fragile, like we're all pretending things are okay when we know they're not.

  Caldwell leaves around seven-thirty. "Call me if anything changes. And Sam - check-ins at eight AM and eight PM. Set alarms."

  "I will."

  After he's gone I help Mom with dishes while Dad makes sure Crossroads has everything he needs. The couch is already set up with pillows and blankets, pain medication on the coffee table with a glass of water. His laptop is open, some kind of spreadsheet with times and locations that I don't ask about.

  I retreat to my room around eight to do homework. Or try to do homework. My Spanish assignment is manageable - just vocabulary review and a short reading passage. But pre-calc is brutal. Two weeks of missed classes means I'm completely lost on the current unit. Something about polynomial functions and synthetic division that makes zero sense from the textbook alone.

  I text the Auditors group chat.

  Sam: Home, Crossroads is stable, lawyer says charges will probably drop before the hearing

  Maggie: GOOD

  Lily: How are you feeling?

  Sam: Tired. Behind on homework. Ankle monitor is annoying but could be worse.

  Tasha: I can send you my precalc notes if that helps

  Sam: Please

  Amelia: Music Hall repairs are on schedule. Should be done by early March.

  Sam: That's good. Mentorship meeting still happening Saturday at my house?

  Maggie: yes! liam and zara confirmed, alex too

  Maggie: jasmine hasn't responded yet but she usually doesn't

  Sam: Okay. I'll be ready.

  I put the phone down and stare at the pre-calc textbook. Tasha's notes help but I'm still struggling with the concepts. This is going to require actual teacher intervention, not just self-study. Or maybe just really intense self-study.

  I check the monitor app at eight PM - green checkmark, successful check-in. Set an alarm for eight AM tomorrow. Then I crawl into bed still wearing half my clothes because taking them off requires energy I don't have.

  Crossroads is quiet downstairs. Mom and Dad are watching something on TV, low volume. The house feels normal. Safe. Like maybe things could actually be okay.

  I sleep hard.

  Tuesday morning I wake up to my alarm, check in via the app, shower, get dressed. The ankle monitor sits heavy under my jeans. You can't really see it unless you're looking, but I know it's there. Every step reminds me.

  Downstairs, Crossroads - Maxwell, I correct my mental model - is already awake, laptop open, talking quietly into his phone in what sounds like Spanish. He waves at me. I wave back.

  Mom's making coffee. "How'd you sleep?"

  "Fine. Good." I grab cereal from the cabinet. "I have school."

  "Are you sure you're ready?" She's got that look - concerned parent trying not to hover.

  "I've been gone two weeks. I need to catch up." I pour milk, eat standing at the counter. "I'll be fine."

  Dad comes down in his work clothes, tie slightly crooked. "I'll drive you."

  "It's three blocks."

  "I'm paranoid."

  "Fine," I finish the cereal, rinse the bowl. "I'll check in at lunch, okay?"

  Maxwell glances up from his laptop. "Stay aware. Call if anything feels off."

  "I will."

  Nobody pays attention to a nondescript sedan headed to a normal high school in Tacony. I haven't been driven in a while, so it's nice to catch up on all the 90s alt metal my Dad refuses to turn off, but it also kind of makes me feel like I'm twelve. A weird sort of whiplash.

  School is weirder.

  People notice. They don't make a big deal about it, but I can feel the attention. Whispers when I walk past. Eyes tracking me in the hallway. I'm not a pariah - people still say hi, still act normal - but there's awareness now. They know something happened even if they don't know details.

  Social studies first period. Talking about checks and balances, separation of powers, how the federal system prevents any one branch from having too much control. I take notes like I'm supposed to, but I'm thinking about Maya Richardson serving on city council while running a criminal empire. About how the system only works if people use it the way it's designed, and what happens when they don't.

  Between classes I check my phone. Nothing urgent. The Auditors group chat is quiet - everyone's in their own schools.

  Lunch with Alex Garcia. He's talking about some drama with the robotics club, whether they're going to regionals this year. I nod and make appropriate noises but I'm not really listening. My brain keeps circling back to the weapons cache, the Kingdom preparing for something, Maya's press conference using my own evidence against me.

  Alex notices I'm distracted. "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Just tired." It's true enough. "Two weeks of missed work is catching up with me."

  "Let me know if you need notes for anything. I've got good ones for physics."

  "Thanks."

  Pre-calc after lunch is where it really hits me. We're reviewing polynomial division and I have no idea what's happening. The schedule even shifted, so I have a new teacher now - previous one is on leave, this apparently happened before Winter Break and I just got caught at the wrong time. The board might as well be in another language. I copy everything down mechanically but none of it makes sense.

  After class I approach her desk. "Ms. Patel? I'm really behind. Can I come to office hours?"

  She looks up from grading papers. "Of course, Sam. When works for you?"

  "Today after school?"

  "That should be fine. I'm here until four-thirty."

  English is better. I like that we get to read anthologies for this unit, because I don't think I can hold an entire story in my head right now.

  Physics is momentum and collisions. Equations about force and mass and velocity that feel too relevant to my actual life. I take notes anyway.

  After school I head to Ms. Patel's classroom. She's got the textbook open, working through examples on the whiteboard. For an hour she walks me through polynomial division step by step, explaining the logic I missed while I was gone. It still doesn't come naturally but at least I understand what I'm supposed to be doing.

  "You'll catch up," she says when we're done. "You're smart, you just need practice. Worst case, summer school is an option for finals if you need it."

  "I don't want to need it."

  "Then keep coming to office hours. We'll get you there."

  I'm thinking about that walking out of class. About why I care about passing pre-calc when I'm also a vigilante fugitive who just got off house arrest. It doesn't make sense on paper - being a paramedic, which, frankly, seems like the most sane option for my life - doesn't require advanced math. But I want to be good at it. A smart paramedic saves more people. Knows more treatment options, makes better decisions under pressure. The calculus matters even if the specific formulas don't.

  It's weird acknowledging that I care about school while also living a life that makes school feel completely absurd. But maybe that's the point. Maybe keeping up with homework is the thing that keeps me human when everything else is chaos.