The cop's name is Officer Reilly and he doesn't know what to do with me.

  I can tell because he's asked me the same question three different ways now, each time slightly rephrased, like he's hoping the answer will change. Can you describe the men who attacked you? Can you tell me what the individuals looked like? Can you walk me through the physical characteristics of your assailants? He's got a notepad and a pen and a body camera that's been running since he stepped out of the cruiser, and he's doing everything by the book, which I appreciate, but he's also looking at me like I'm a math problem he can't solve.

  I think it's because I'm not crying.

  People expect teenage girls who just got beaten up by four men to cry. I'm not criticizing that - it's a reasonable expectation, statistically. But I'm sitting on this bench outside the barbershop with an ice pack someone gave me pressed against my cheek, my ribs aching every time I breathe, scraped palms resting on my knees, and I'm giving a clear, detailed, organized account of what happened. Descriptions. Sequence of events. Approximate timestamps. The make and color of the sedan, even though I didn't get the plate. The direction they fled. The specific words they used.

  "He said, 'Walk away from the center,'" I tell Officer Reilly. "The community center on Longshore. I volunteer there. With kids. He told me to stop volunteering, stop showing up, stop--" I pause, like I'm collecting myself. I am collecting myself, actually, but not for the reasons he thinks. "Stop playing hero. He said next time they won't be this nice."

  Officer Reilly writes this down. He's young - late twenties, maybe. Sandy hair, clean-shaven, the kind of face that hasn't been on the job long enough to develop the permanent skepticism I've seen on older cops. "And you said they were wearing yellow bandanas?"

  "Over their faces. Like masks. But one of them - the one who did most of the talking, the one with braids - he didn't put his on until after I'd already seen his face." I describe him again. Tan skin, dark hair in braids, mid-twenties, about five-eleven, strong build. I describe the second one - shorter, stockier, lighter skin, no distinguishing features I caught before the bandana went up. The two from the car I describe less precisely, because I genuinely didn't get good looks at them. "They were behind me. They grabbed my arms. I couldn't turn around."

  "And the vehicle?"

  "Gray sedan. Four-door. Older model, I think - not new, kind of beat up. I don't know cars well enough to give you a make." This is true. I don't drive. "It was pacing me while I was running. That's how I knew something was wrong."

  "You were running."

  "From school. We just got out of lockdown - the bomb threat?" I ask as if he had heard. He probably did, but. "There was a bomb threat at school. Early dismissal. I was heading to the community center to check on the kids there because I volunteer with them and I was worried." All true. Every word of it true. "I was running because I was scared for them and I wanted to get there fast."

  "And you chose this route?"

  I hesitate, and the hesitation is real. This is the part where the story gets delicate. I can't tell him I deliberately chose Torresdale for its witness density. I can't tell him I was expecting an ambush and picked the ground that would cost my attackers the most. That's not what victims say. Someone who was concerned about the distance between the Music Hall and Tacony Charter would've picked the other route.

  "I usually go different ways," I say. "I've been - since the Homecoming thing with Patriot, I try not to take the same route twice. My therapist suggested it. Varying your routine." Dr. Desai did suggest this, technically, in a conversation about hypervigilance and whether it was always maladaptive. He'd probably be fascinated to know how I've applied his advice. "Today I went down Torresdale because it felt safer. More people around."

  Officer Reilly nods. That makes sense to him. Girl who was previously attacked varies her route, chooses busy streets. Logical. Sympathetic. True. "The Homecoming thing? With Patriot? Like, Argus Corps Patriot?"

  "Yeah. There's like five different videos of me getting my nose pushed in because-- well, it's a long story," I sort of trail off into mumbles. Actual embarrassment, actually, not feigned.

  "Right, I think I heard something about that. It was news for a while. That was you?" he asks, trying to be polite.

  "Yeah," I mumble again.

  "And they mentioned being paid," he says, flipping back through his notes. "You're sure about that?"

  "The one with braids said I was 'worth way more' than three hundred dollars. I don't know what that means exactly. But it sounded like someone hired them."

  "Why did you say three hundred dollars?"

  "I was guessing. Trying to get him to tell me more." This is the part that makes me sound less like a victim and more like someone running an interrogation, so I soften it. "I watch a lot of crime shows. I thought if I lowballed it, maybe he'd correct me. He kind of did. Like... who beats some random teenager for no reason, right? That's... I mean. I like to think people aren't cruel like that for no reason."

  Officer Reilly looks at me for a long moment. I can see the gears turning. On one hand: teenage girl, beaten, shaken, sitting on a bench with an ice pack. On the other hand: teenage girl who varies her route due to prior attacks, who attempted to extract information from her assailants mid-assault, who is giving testimony with the precision of someone who's done this before.

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  I have done this before. More times than he knows.

  "We're going to want to follow up," he says. "Get a formal statement at the station, look at any video that might be available from the businesses here--"

  "The woman with the dog," I interrupt. "She said she got video. She was across the street. And the kid on the bike might have too. And there are cameras on the check cashing place and the grocery store." I point to each one in turn. "I don't know if they cover the sidewalk, but they might have caught the car."

  He stares at me again. I realize I'm doing too much.

  "Sorry," I say. "I just - I notice things. Adrenaline, I guess."

  "No, that's - that's helpful." He writes it all down. "That's really helpful, actually. Most people can't remember anything after something like this."

  Most people haven't been trained by a world-class boxer and a retired superhero and a dead superhero and spent three years fighting criminals in a dog mask, I pointedly don't say. Instead I just nod and press the ice pack harder against my cheek, letting the cold sting remind me to stay in character. Not character. Stay in role. The role of the victim who is helpful and cooperative and not at all running a parallel strategic operation while giving her statement.

  My phone buzzes. I glance down.

  Lily: at the center

  Lily: handling it, brb

  Followed by a selfie of her in full costume, domino mask up, hair hidden under a white cowl. Alright, girl, go kick butt.

  Tasha: 911 is also en route. More cops. I called from the school bathroom.

  Maggie: you guys are nuts

  I exhale. Tension I didn't know I was holding releases from my shoulders, and the ribs punish me for the movement. Lily is handling it. Cops are on the way. Not that I have a great relationship to cops, but, like... it's better in this particular situation than no cops, right?

  Tasha: what happened to you? lily said you texted torresdale

  I don't answer yet. Officer Reilly is still here, still taking notes, still being thorough. I appreciate the thoroughness. Every word of this is going into a report that becomes part of a public record, something that can be referenced and cited and used later. I'm building a paper trail. Breadcrumbs for whoever eventually puts the bigger picture together.

  "Do you need medical attention?" Officer Reilly asks, looking at my face, my ribs, the way I'm holding myself. "I can call EMS."

  "I'm okay." I am not okay, exactly, but I'm okay enough. My ribs are bruised, maybe cracked with hairline fractures but definitely not broken - I can tell the difference by now, which is a skill I wish I didn't have. My face is swelling but nothing's fractured. The scrapes on my palms are superficial. My regeneration is already working, already knitting, already converting calories into repair at an exchange rate only a few other people can match. By tomorrow the bruise on my cheek will be yellow-green instead of purple. By Sunday it might be gone entirely.

  But he doesn't know about the regeneration. To him, I'm a hurt kid who's being brave.

  "I'd really recommend--"

  "I'm an EMT trainee," I say. "With the 1400 block station. I've assessed myself. Nothing's broken, nothing needs imaging. I'll go to urgent care if anything changes." I soften it again, because I'm telling a cop what to do and that's not the play right now. Something I've learned is that cops like thinking they're in control of a situation, even with frail white-looking girls. Especially, actually. My Mom taught me that one. "But thank you. Really."

  He nods, a little uncertain, but accepts it. "Is there someone who can pick you up? A parent?"

  "I'll call my mom." I won't call my mom. Not yet. Not until I've been to the community center and seen the kids and made sure everything's actually okay, because Lily's texts are reassuring but I need to see it with my own eyes. I need to be there. "She works nearby."

  Mom does not work nearby. Mom works in Center City. But Officer Reilly doesn't know that, and I need him to close out this interaction so I can move.

  "We'll be in touch about the formal statement," he says, handing me a piece of notebook paper with numbers on it. Phone numbers, I mean, not just like random arbitrary numbers. Duh. "And if you think of anything else - anything at all - you call that number."

  "I will." I take the card, tuck it into my back pocket. "Officer Reilly? Can I ask you something?"

  "Sure."

  "The bomb threat at my school this morning. And now this." I gesture at the bench, at myself, at the general aftermath of violence. "Is anyone connecting those? Because I was locked in a library for two hours and then got attacked within twenty minutes of leaving. That feels... coordinated."

  His expression shifts. I've planted something. Not an accusation, not a theory - just a question. A scared girl asking a reasonable question that any scared girl would ask. Are these things related? Is someone targeting me? Am I safe?

  "I can't speculate on an ongoing investigation," he says, which is cop for I don't know but now I'm going to think about it. It's cop for I actually had no idea what you're talking about, but now I do. "But I'll make sure it's in the report."

  "Thank you."

  He heads back to his cruiser to file the report or call it in or whatever cops do. The woman with the dog is still hovering nearby - she gave her own statement, showed the video to Officer Reilly, and is now lingering with the particular energy of someone who witnessed something terrible and needs to process it by being near other people. Her beagle is lying on the sidewalk, bored, tail occasionally thumping.

  The grocery store guy left. The old man from the barbershop bench went inside. The teenager on the bike is gone too, but I'd bet money his phone footage is already on VidShare or wherever kids post things these days. I say, being a kid.

  I stand up from the bench. Slowly, carefully, letting my ribs announce each complaint individually. The ice pack goes in a trash can. I check my phone one more time.

  Maggie: sam PLEASE tell us what happened

  Lily: center is secure. cops are here. where are you

  Tasha: Earth to Samantha Small

  I type back: I'm fine. Got jumped on Torresdale. Four guys, Songbirds. Gave statement to cops. Heading to center now. 10 min.

  Then I start walking. Not running - my body isn't going to let me run right now, and even if it would, showing up at the community center sprinting would undermine the whole thing. I need to arrive on foot, visibly hurt, clearly having come straight from an assault. I need the kids to see me walk through that door bruised and still standing. I need Mrs. Patterson to see it. I need whoever's still watching to see it.

  I need the story to be: they tried to stop her and she came anyway.

  Torresdale Avenue stretches ahead of me, ordinary and indifferent, Friday afternoon traffic flowing past like nothing happened. A woman got beaten on this sidewalk twenty minutes ago and the city has already absorbed it, folded it into the background noise. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked. Violence happens and the world keeps moving and the only people who remember are the ones who were there and the ones who watch the video later and feel briefly, distantly bad about it.

  I'm going to make sure they feel more than briefly bad.

  I turn left on Longshore, heading southeast, and I limp at speed.