Thursday morning starts with grey light and the smell of wet concrete. It rained overnight—not hard, just steady, the kind that leaves everything slick and cold. I check the weather app while eating breakfast: more of the same through the weekend, temperatures hovering just above freezing. Miserable.

  Dad drives me to school again. The 90s alt metal is back - today it's Helmet, which at least has good drums. He doesn't ask how I'm doing, which I appreciate. We've settled into a rhythm where he trusts me to tell him if something's wrong, and I trust him not to hover.

  "Office hours again today?" he asks as we pull up.

  "Probably. I've got a lot to catch up on."

  "Don't burn yourself out."

  "I won't."

  I will, obviously. But that's not his problem to solve.

  School is the same low-grade weirdness as Monday - people noticing me, not making a big deal, the awareness sitting in the air like humidity. I've stopped trying to parse what they know or think they know. It doesn't matter. What matters is polynomial division and the essay on The Crucible due next week and the physics problem set I still haven't started.

  First period: social studies. We're still on checks and balances, which feels like the universe is fucking with me. Today it's judicial review - how courts can strike down laws that violate the Constitution, how that power isn't actually in the Constitution itself but got established through precedent. Marbury v. Madison. I take notes and think about how Maya Richardson's anti-vigilante ordinance got passed through completely legal channels, how the system worked exactly as designed to make it harder for people like me to exist.

  The system isn't broken. It's working fine. It's just not working for us.

  Between classes I check my phone. Group chat has a message from Tasha: scanner picked up another "altercation" on Frankford Ave last night. no injuries reported but someone's car got keyed.

  That's the third incident this week. All minor, all deniable. The slow squeeze.

  I text back: anything we can do?

  not really. documenting.

  I put my phone away.

  Pre-calc with Ms. Patel. We're doing rational functions now, which builds on the polynomial division I barely understand. I copy everything down, flag the parts that don't make sense, and resign myself to another hour after school. At least she's patient. At least she doesn't ask why I was gone for two weeks.

  Lunch with Melissa and her group of teens, just for a change from the goths and Alex - sorry, Alex! They're talking about some college fair happening next month, which feels surreal - I'm supposed to be thinking about college applications while also running intelligence operations from my dining room table? But I nod along, eat my sandwich, make appropriate noises about SAT prep. I still don't have to think about this stuff until next year.

  "You're quiet," Melissa says.

  "Tired. Catching up is kicking my ass."

  "Ms. Patel's office hours?"

  "Every day this week."

  "Damn." She looks impressed, which is weird. "That's dedication."

  It's not dedication. I think the word is "sublimation".

  English after lunch is actually good. We're doing The Crucible and I've read it before - Mom has strong opinions about Arthur Miller - so I can participate without faking it. The discussion is about mass hysteria, how fear makes people turn on each other, how the accusers in Salem got power by pointing fingers.

  I think about the Songbirds. About "concerned citizens" with concealed carry permits harassing teenagers for the crime of having powers. About how easy it is to make someone a monster if enough people agree to see them that way.

  "Sam?" Mr. Harrison is looking at me. "You had your hand up?"

  I didn't realize I'd raised it. "Sorry, I was just - the part about Abigail. How she figures out that accusations are power. That once people believe you're the victim, you can do whatever you want to the people you accuse."

  "Go on."

  "It's not really about witchcraft. It's about--" I'm reaching for the words. "It's about how the system creates incentives. Once accusing someone of witchcraft works, everyone starts doing it. Not because they believe in witches but because it's useful. The belief is just... cover."

  Mr. Harrison nods slowly. "That's a sophisticated reading. You might explore that in your essay."

  I will. I have a lot to say about how systems create incentives.

  Physics is collisions again. Elastic versus inelastic. Conservation of momentum. I think about what happens when two objects hit each other, how kinetic energy transforms or dissipates. I think about my fist connecting with someone's jaw, which is definitely inelastic - energy lost to heat, sound, deformation.

  Morbid. But at least I understand the physics.

  After school I head to Ms. Patel's room, and then Mr. Harrison's office hours for the Crucible essay outline, and then I'm walking home in the grey wet cold and it's almost five-thirty and I'm exhausted in a way that feels productive.

  My phone buzzes. Caldwell.

  I duck under an awning and answer. "Hey."

  "Sam. Quick question - were you planning to resume your EMT internship?"

  "I was thinking about it. Why?"

  A pause. "I'd advise against it. For now."

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  "Why?"

  "Because you're on pre-trial release awaiting a hearing. If something happens during a call - if you're at a scene where there's conflict, or controlled substances, or any situation that could be construed as you seeking out trouble - it creates problems. I've been talking to people from the DA's office. They're looking for reasons to argue you're a risk. Don't give them one."

  I lean against the brick wall. The rain is picking up again, cold drops hitting the sidewalk. "So I just... don't help people."

  "You help people by not giving them ammunition. Two weeks, Sam. Get through the hearing. Then we can reassess. It's looking good, but I wanted to give you a word of warning now that the weather's nicer."

  I hear him chuckle on the other end of the line. I can't help but smile back even though I'm actually pretty upset. "Yeah. Okay."

  "How's school?" He asks.

  "Fine. Catching up." I answer.

  "Good. Keep doing that. Normal teenager stuff. That's what we want," he says. "Do you need anything from me?"

  "I think I just want this to be over," I reply sort of without thinking.

  "Me too, buddy," he replies. After a second or two of silence. "Alright, goodbye, Samantha. I'll be in touch. You're in good hands."

  "Later, Mr. Caldwell,"

  "Please," he's almost cutting me off before I'm finished saying '-well'. "Jerry. You can call me Jerry."

  I smile a little wider. "Later, Jerry."

  We hang up. I stand there for a minute, watching the rain, feeling the cold seep into my jacket.

  Normal teenager stuff. Right.

  I take the long way home, past Mr. Pak's store. The plywood is still over the window but there's a sign now: OPEN AS USUAL. I wave through the glass. He waves back.

  Three blocks later I pass two guys on a corner I don't recognize. New faces. They're not doing anything - just standing there, watching the street, being seen. I don't make eye contact. I don't speed up. I just walk, normal pace, normal teenager walking home from school.

  One of them clocks my ankle monitor. I see his eyes drop to it, then back up.

  I keep walking.

  At home I do homework until dinner, eat with my parents while half-watching the news - weather report says the cold snap is going to continue, something about an unusual pressure system over the region - and then more homework until my brain stops cooperating.

  I go out into the back street to smoke. Just one cigarette, the cold making the smoke visible, the ember the only warm thing in the grey evening. It's a bad habit. I don't care.

  Tomorrow is Friday. Saturday is the mentorship meeting. Two weeks until the hearing.

  I can do this.

  Friday is more of the same. School, office hours, the grey wet cold that won't let up. Tasha texts that someone spray-painted "SNITCH" on a garage door in Tacony - unclear if it's Kingdom-related or just regular neighborhood bullshit, but either way, the mood is getting worse.

  I spend Saturday morning cleaning my room, which is a thing I do now apparently. Making my bed, organizing the desk, putting away laundry. Nesting behaviors. Mom notices and doesn't comment, which is its own kind of comment.

  The mentorship kids start arriving at noon.

  Liam's first, dropped off by his dad in a work van with O'CONNOR ELECTRIC on the side. He's wearing a hoodie that's too thin for the weather and immediately starts complaining about the cold.

  "It's like someone's got it out for Philadelphia specifically," he says, rubbing his hands together. "My cousin says it's been ten degrees warmer in Jersey all week."

  "Weather's weird," I say, and don't mention that I have theories about why.

  Zara arrives next, her father's Prius pulling up to the curb. Dr. Khan waves at me through the window - we've met twice now, he's formal but friendly - and Zara climbs out with a messenger bag that probably contains three books she won't need.

  "Hey," she says quietly.

  "Hey. How was your week?"

  "Fine. We're doing ecosystems in bio." She pauses. "Did you know that mycorrhizal networks can transfer nutrients between trees? Like an underground internet, but for plants."

  "I did not know that."

  "It's really cool. I can show you the article later," she says, beaming like a sunbeam.

  This is Zara's version of small talk. I've learned to appreciate it.

  Alex shows up on foot, walking stiffly. His ribs are still healing, I can tell by how he moves, but he's doing a decent job of hiding it. He catches my eye and gives me a small nod - checking in without making it obvious.

  "How's urgent care?" I ask quietly while Liam argues with Zara about whether mushrooms count as plants.

  "Two cracked ribs, confirmed. And a bruised shoulder that's 'healing nicely.'" He makes air quotes. "I told my parents I fell off a roof doing parkour."

  "Did they believe you?"

  "They believed I'm stupid enough to do parkour on icy roofs, so. Yeah."

  Fair enough.

  Jasmine is last, arriving exactly at noon in a taxi. She's wearing all black, as usual, but today there's a pin on her jacket - a small enamel butterfly, blue and yellow. It's the most color I've ever seen on her.

  "Nice pin," I say.

  She touches it reflexively, like she forgot it was there. "Thanks."

  We settle into the living room - Mom and Dad are upstairs, giving us space, though I know they're listening. Maxwell is in my room, probably helping coordinate the DVDs, acting as a second brain for dispatch. Maggie should be here but is caught up with schoolwork after two days of clearing South Northeast Philadelphia, which is a mouthful. Life goes on.

  So it's just me and the four of them. Which is probably how it should be.

  "Okay," I say, settling into the armchair while they spread out across the couch and floor. "Before we do power stuff - how is everyone? And I mean actually. Not 'fine.'"

  Silence. They glance at each other.

  Liam breaks first, because Liam always breaks first. "My mom's freaking out about the break-ins. Nobody in our neighborhood got hit but she's still freaking out about it anyway."

  "The break-ins from the blizzard?"

  "Yeah. She thinks it's gonna happen again." He shrugs, trying to look casual. "I told her I could just, like, sit in the store and turn into a dragon if anyone tried anything. She did not appreciate that suggestion."

  I feel my cheeks curling up. "Did you let her know that you live in South Philly, not Northeast Philly?"

  Liam rubs his temples. "Yeah."

  Zara speaks up, quieter. "My grandmother's been praying more. She thinks the weather is--" She stops, picks her words carefully. "She thinks it's a sign. That something bad is coming."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think weather is weather." But she doesn't sound entirely convinced.

  Alex is watching me. I can feel him trying to figure out if I know more than I'm saying. I keep my face neutral.

  "Jasmine?" I ask.

  She's sitting on the floor with her back against the wall, knees pulled up. The butterfly pin catches the light.

  "My mom's working double shifts because two people at her job quit. Something about not feeling safe commuting." She picks at a thread on her sleeve. "It's fine. I'm getting used to school."

  "Okay," I say. "So. The weather sucks, people are scared, and everything feels kind of uncertain right now. That's real. I'm not going to pretend it isn't." I lean forward in the chair. "But here's what I want you to remember: scared people do stupid things. People who feel powerless look for ways to feel powerful. And sometimes that means they look for someone to blame, or someone to control, or someone to hurt."

  Four pairs of eyes on me. Listening.

  "You all have powers. That makes you different. And when people are scared, different becomes dangerous in their heads. Not because you did anything wrong - just because you're an easy target." I think about the Songbirds, about the glowing kid who ran. About the kid who electrocuted me into cardiac arrest however long ago. "So we're going to talk about what to do when that happens. How to stay safe. How to not make things worse. And how to help without putting yourself at risk."

  Liam raises his hand, which is kind of adorable. "Is this because of the vigilante stuff? The laws?"

  "Partly. But it's also just--" I search for the right words. "Look, I've been doing this for two years, I know you guys know that. The vigilante stuff. And it feels good in the moment for a certain kind of person, but I don't think it's what we should be doing with our lives. If you have that drive," I try very hard not to look at Alex, "there are ways to sublimate it. Like, to use the energy and redirect it."

  I think about Kate.

  "So today I want to start thinking about civilian applications. At some point in your life they stop asking you 'what do you want to be when you grow up', I guess because we can only have so many astronauts for some reason. But I want to know. No, seriously. What do you want to be when you grow up now? Now that you've gotten a taste of the real world," is not the speech I wanted to give, but is the one that comes out anyway.

  Jasmine cracks an uncharacteristic smile.