Friday the 13th, and Melissa won't shut up about it.

  "I'm just saying, it's statistically significant," she says, dodging a patch of ice on the sidewalk. "Bad things happen on Friday the 13th. There's studies."

  "There's studies that say the opposite," I point out. "Confirmation bias. People remember the bad stuff because they're looking for it."

  "That's exactly what someone would say right before something bad happens to them."

  "That's exactly what someone would say who failed the statistics unit in pre-calc."

  Melissa shoves me, grinning. I shove her back. It's cold enough that our breath fogs, but not cold enough for the kind of snow we've been getting lately. The sky is that flat gray that could mean anything - more snow, rain, or just February being February.

  Walking home from school used to feel normal. Now it feels like walking through a photograph of normal, everything slightly off in ways that are hard to articulate. The new chain-link fencing around the school perimeter, eight feet tall with angled tops. The security guards with their upgraded equipment - not just walkies anymore, but actual body armor under their jackets. The way everyone moves a little faster past certain corners, certain storefronts, certain blocks.

  "Did you hear about the Martinelli's?" That's Priya, on Melissa's other side. She transferred in from Central this year, something about her parents wanting her in a "safer district," which is darkly funny given how things have gone. "Their store got hit last week. Second time this month."

  "Hit how?" Melissa asks.

  "Windows. Someone threw a brick through the front at like 3 AM. They didn't take anything, just broke the glass and left." Priya's voice is carefully neutral, the way everyone's voice gets when they're talking about this stuff. "My mom says they're thinking about selling."

  "Everyone's thinking about selling," I say. "Nobody's buying."

  We pass a bodega with a protection sticker in the window - the little white chess piece that's become ubiquitous in Tacony and Mayfair. I don't know if the owner put it there willingly or if it showed up one morning and they decided not to remove it. I don't know if there's a difference anymore.

  "My dad says property values have dropped like fifteen percent since Christmas," Melissa offers. "Which, you know, great for anyone trying to buy, except nobody wants to buy in a neighborhood where your windows might get bricked."

  "It's not that bad," Priya says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

  "It's not great," I counter. "But it's not, like, apocalyptic. People are still going to school. Stores are still open. It's just..."

  "Tense," Melissa finishes. "Yeah. My mom won't let my brother walk to his friend's house anymore. He has to get picked up and dropped off like he's in elementary school. He's fourteen."

  I think about the mentorship kids. Zara, who's thirteen and takes the bus alone. Liam, fifteen, who walks from his apartment in Frankford. Alex, who I'm trying very hard not to think about because tomorrow is Valentine's Day and he's been making Significant Eye Contact all week. I'm not stupid. And Jasmine, who I don't really know how to think about.

  "How's the community center thing going?" Priya asks, and it takes me a second to realize she's talking to me. "You're, like, volunteering there, right?"

  "Good. Busy." I shrug, trying to figure out how much to say. Yeah. Sam Small just volunteering. Not an excuse to have Sam Small and Bloodhound in the same place, conveniently so. Or, well... whatever I am now.

  I threw away the helmet two days ago, anyway. Or, rather, I gave it to Amelia for 'archival', which meant 'throw it away'. Not sure if she got it. "More people showing up than we expected. Not just, you know, powered kids. Families dealing with other stuff too," I continue.

  "Other stuff meaning Jump," Melissa says quietly.

  "Yeah. That too."

  We walk in silence for a bit. Two guys are standing on the corner of Torresdale, not quite loitering, not quite anything else. They watch us pass without expression. I don't recognize them, but I recognize the type - the studied casualness, the way they're positioned to see both directions of the street. Kingdom lookouts, probably. Or just guys standing on a corner. Hard to tell the difference these days.

  "This is me," Priya says when we reach her street. "See you Monday. Try not to get cursed by Friday the 13th."

  "No promises," Melissa calls after her.

  We keep walking. Melissa's house is three blocks past mine, so she usually peels off at my corner, but today she slows down as we approach.

  "Hey, so." She's doing that thing where she looks at the ground instead of at me. "Valentine's Day tomorrow."

  "Yep."

  "You doing anything?"

  "Community center stuff. Why?"

  "Just wondering." She glances at me, then away. "There's this thing at the movies. Group thing. Me and some people. If you wanted to come."

  I feel a little twist of guilt in my chest. Melissa's been a good friend for... a given value of friend. A good... civilian? That sounds condescending. She doesn't know about Bloodhound, doesn't know about any of it, but she's never pushed when I've been vague about why I can't hang out or where I disappear to. She just... accepts it.

  "I can't," I say. "I've got the center thing, and then I'm working Sunday morning."

  "The EMT stuff?"

  "Yeah."

  "That's cool. I mean, it sucks that you can't come, but that's cool that you're doing that." She kicks at a chunk of ice. "You're like, actually helping people. Real stuff. Not just posting about it online or whatever."

  I don't know what to say to that, so I don't say anything.

  "Anyway." Melissa stops at my corner. "Have fun at your center thing. Don't let any weirdos give you chocolates."

  "Too late. There's this one guy--"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Oh my god, tell me everything."

  "There's nothing to tell. He's just... obvious." I wave a hand vaguely. "It's a whole thing. I'll tell you Monday."

  "You better." She grins and heads off toward her house, and I turn down my street.

  Home looks the same as always - the rowhouse with the slightly crooked shutters, the car in the driveway, the other car along the street that's Maxwell's, and then the third car parked in front of our house that I only vaguely recognize. Older Honda, kind of beat up, with a faded band sticker on the bumper. Actually, twelve of them, but they've sort of melded together into one shape.

  I let myself in. I see before I can hear, because the living room and the front door are connected. My Mom, and Nina. Awesome! Glad she's not dead. Inside thoughts, Sam.

  "Sam! How was school?" Mom calls.

  "Fine. Educational. The usual." I hang up my backpack on the wall and sort of amble on by without trying to make a fuss.

  Nina's on the couch, cup of tea in her hands, looking slightly less like she's about to bolt than the last time I saw her. Her hair is still that electric blue, but she's done something different with it - pulled back, more professional. The lights flicker slightly when she sees me, then steady.

  "Hey, Sam." She gives me a small wave. "Sorry to invade. Your mom and I were just going over some stuff."

  "Job stuff," Mom clarifies. "Councilman Davis's office found a few possibilities."

  "That's good." I perch on the arm of the chair, trying to look casual and not like I'm cataloging everything about Nina's body language. She's tense, but not scared-tense. More like hopeful-tense. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Anything promising?"

  "Maybe." Nina looks at Mom, then back at me. "There's an administrative assistant position at Temple. It's not as much money as..." She trails off, not saying Crescent. "As what I'm doing now. But it's days, and it's stable, and they have tuition benefits for family members."

  "That would help with your sister," I say.

  "Yeah." The lights flicker again. "I haven't decided yet. I'm still... thinking."

  "It's half tuition for dependents. Full tuition for workers," my Mom adds, nodding. "Nina, honey, is your sister your dependent on the papers?"

  "Yeah," Nina mumbles, looking at anywhere but another person.

  I know what she's thinking about. The gap between Crescent money and Temple money. The risk of leaving a job where powerful people know her face. The fear of being noticed, being remembered, being a loose end someone decides to tie up.

  "Take your time," Mom says, and I can hear the genuine warmth in her voice. "This isn't something you rush. We'll keep looking, keep finding options. When you're ready, you'll know."

  There's a noise from the kitchen - something clattering, then a muffled curse. Nina jumps slightly, and the lights do more than flicker this time. They dim for a solid two seconds before coming back.

  "Sorry," she says automatically.

  "That's just Max," I say. "He's been staying with us for a while. Recovering from... a thing."

  "A thing," Nina repeats.

  "He got shot," Mom says matter-of-factly. "Shoulder. He's been helping around the house while he heals. It's been... It's been a little crazy in Northeast Philadelphia."

  Nina processes this. I can see her adding it to the mental file she's building about the Small family - the gun dad, the activist mom, the daughter who's probably Bloodhound, and now a gunshot victim living in the guest room. We're not exactly normal. "I can tell," she dryly comments.

  "I should check on him," I say, standing. "Make sure he didn't break anything important."

  Maxwell is in the kitchen, looking pleased at himself at having managed to catch a falling pot in his good hand after it managed to bounce exactly once off the floor. Or, at least, that's what I assume happened. If I spilled anything ever I'd immediately die of shame.

  "Slipped," he says before I can ask.

  "Need help?"

  "I've got it." He bends down carefully, picks up the pot with his good hand, sets it on the counter. "Your mother's friend is here again."

  "Nina. Yeah." I lean against the doorframe. "She's thinking about leaving Crescent."

  "Good. That place is a problem." Maxwell starts rinsing the pot, one-handed, with the efficiency of someone who's adapted to his limitations. "I've been keeping an eye on the news. Argus Corps hit another Rogue Wave distribution point last night. Third one this week."

  "I saw." It's been hard to miss - the coverage is everywhere. Patriot and Turbo Jett busting Jump operations, making arrests, looking like heroes. "Maya's keeping them busy."

  "She's keeping them visible." Maxwell shuts off the water, sets the pot in the dish rack. "There's a difference. Busy means they're accomplishing something. Visible means everyone sees them accomplishing something. It's PR as much as enforcement. She's always using them. The question is what for." He turns to look at me, and there's something assessing in his expression. "You've been staying out of it. The Bloodhound stuff."

  "I retired."

  "You put on the costume a week ago for the center opening."

  "That was different. That was symbolic." I fold my arms. "I'm trying to help in other ways. The EMT thing. The mentorship program. Stuff that doesn't involve punching people."

  Maxwell is quiet for a moment. Then: "That's mature."

  "Don't sound so surprised."

  "I'm not surprised. I'm..." He pauses, searching for the word. "Impressed. Most people like us, they'd be looking for excuses to get back into it. The fighting. The action. It's addictive."

  "Is that what you're waiting for?" I shoot back.

  He doesn't answer, which is an answer.

  "I'm not saying I'm done forever," I say. "I'm just saying... right now, the neighborhood doesn't need Bloodhound. It needs people who show up and do the boring work. Run programs. Train EMTs. Help families navigate the system." I shrug. "Punching doesn't fix what's wrong with Tacony."

  "No," Maxwell agrees. "It doesn't."

  From the living room, I hear Mom laugh at something Nina said. The lights don't flicker. That feels like progress.

  "She's going to be okay," I say. "Nina. I think she's going to be okay."

  "Maybe." Max dries his hand on a dish towel. "If she gets out without anyone thinking she's a danger to the operation."

  "We're being careful."

  "I know you are." He hangs the towel on its hook, precise and methodical.

  I grab an apple from the counter and head back toward the living room. "Keep working on that shoulder," I sort of half-mumble. It's a balance. Everything's a balance these days.

  "Don't you have some sort of grievous injury to be recovering from?" Maxwell snarks back.

  I sort of give myself a mental once-over. "Nah,"

  Mom and Nina are wrapping up when I get back, Nina gathering her coat, Mom walking her through next steps. There's another meeting scheduled for next week. More options to review. The slow, careful process of building an exit ramp.

  "Thanks again," Nina says at the door. "For all of this. I know you didn't have to..."

  "Of course we did," Mom says. "That's what the program is for."

  Nina nods, not quite believing it but wanting to. She catches my eye as she leaves.

  "Good luck with the Valentine's thing," she says.

  I blink. "What Valentine's thing?"

  "Your mom mentioned something about a boy." Nina's smile is small but genuine. "Sounds complicated."

  "It's not-- there's no-- Mom!"

  Mom has the audacity to look innocent. "What? I just said you had an admirer. That's not classified information."

  Nina laughs - actually laughs - and for a second she looks like a normal twenty-four-year-old instead of someone carrying the weight of secrets she never asked for. Then she's out the door, and Mom is closing it behind her, and the house settles back into its usual quiet.

  "An admirer," I repeat flatly.

  "He sounds sweet."

  "He's my subordinate. It's inappropriate."

  "He's a kid in a mentorship program you volunteer at. That's not exactly a military chain of command." Mom heads back toward the living room, collecting tea cups. "Besides, I didn't say you should date him. I just said he sounds sweet."

  "You told Nina about him."

  "I told Nina you had normal teenage problems." Mom waves a hand. "People with superpowers have normal problems all the time, don't they?"

  I don't have a good response to that, so I follow her into the kitchen and start helping with the dishes. Maxwell has vanished out the back, I assume for some sort of walk. Maybe he saw an awkward conversation in my future and wanted out.

  "How is she really?" I ask after a minute. "Nina."

  Mom is quiet for a moment, rinsing a cup. "Scared. Hopeful. Trying to figure out if she's allowed to want something better." She sets the cup in the rack. "She reminds me of someone I used to know. Before I met your father."

  "Who?"

  "Me." Mom turns off the water, dries her hands.

  I don't really look at my Mom for a couple of seconds.

  "You're good at this," I say. "The helping people thing."

  "I've had practice." Mom kisses my forehead, quick and automatic. "Now go do your homework. And stop worrying about Nina. That's my job."

  "Yes ma'am."

  I head upstairs, but I don't do homework. Instead, I sit on my bed and look at my phone, scrolling through news alerts I've set up. Argus Corps operations. Kingdom activity. Rogue Wave distribution patterns. Weather reports for Northeast Philadelphia. A calendar that helpfully warns me that Valentine's day is in 6 hours. Thanks, man.