The Greyhound pulls away from the curb with a hiss of hydraulics, Jordan's face visible through the window for just a moment before they're swallowed by the reflection of the station behind me. They're not leaving for MIT for real until the fall semester, but there's some summer program they got into, something about getting familiar with the campus and working in a lab with their internship advisor at the Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences. Apparently, having space-warping powers makes you extremely employable in the right circles.

  And setting up their apartment. For some reason, Jordan is not exactly keen on living in dorms. Go figure.

  They cried, I cried, Connor wailed like a baby. I did not think that he had that sort of thing in him, but maybe dating Jordan for a year changes your emotional wavelength or whatever. I offered to take him for ice cream after, but he said he had to get back for dinner with his foster family. Probably for the best. I'm not great at the whole comforting thing - my tactic is getting into fistfights until I feel better. Everyone else was blubbery but not particularly cry-y. I guess they respected Jordan as a friend and tactician rather than the life-changing force of nature they'd become.

  That's fair.

  The walk back home takes longer than it should because I'm still moving carefully, trying not to pull at the healing gunshot wounds. It's been almost three weeks, and they're mostly closed up now, but I still get these random spikes of pain if I twist wrong. Nurse Sylvia says that's normal. Apparently getting shot multiple times isn't something you just walk off, even with enhanced healing.

  My hands don't stop shaking the whole way home. It's getting worse.

  "You sure you don't want to come with?" Kate's dad asks, leaning out the driver's side window of his ancient Corolla. All their belongings are packed into the backseat and trunk, which isn't saying much since most of their stuff got torched when Aaron burnt down their house.

  I shake my head. "I've got chores. And homework. Summer school." All lies, but they sound better than "I don't think I can sit in a car for twenty minutes right now without throwing up."

  Kate stands awkwardly on the sidewalk between us, looking strange and unfamiliar with her newly dyed brown hair and thick-framed glasses. She's wearing a Temple University t-shirt that I'm pretty sure she bought at a thrift store. Part of the new identity, I guess.

  "Well, the offer stands," Liam says. "We'd love to have you over once we're settled."

  Kate rolls her eyes behind his back. She's been doing that a lot, but there's less bite to it now. Maybe because they're not fighting over money anymore, now that the "anonymous donor" has paid off their debts and helped with the new place's deposit. Yeah, another, different anonymous donor. Totally not Soot. Come on, Kate. Who do you think you're fooling?

  Well, Liam, apparently.

  "Thanks, Mr. Smith," I say, reaching out to shake his hand. "I'll definitely visit soon."

  "Come on, Sam, this isn't witness protection," he says, pulling me into a hug. "It's Liam still. You're not allowed to call me Mr. Smith until my hair starts falling out."

  When it's just Kate and me, she doesn't smile or cry or do any of the normal stuff people do when they're saying goodbye. She just looks at me with those intense green eyes and says, "This is stupid. It's like a twenty-minute drive."

  "Thirty in traffic," I correct, because I can't help myself.

  "Whatever." She shifts her weight, glancing back at the car where her dad is pointedly pretending to check his phone, giving us privacy. "You know where to find me if you need anything."

  "Same," I reply, even though I doubt she'll need me. Kate's always been self-sufficient to a fault. It's one of her more annoying qualities.

  "And you're..." she hesitates, "you're sure you're good with everything?"

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  I know what she's asking. Are we okay after the basketball court. Are we okay after what she confessed. Are we okay after I nearly died pretending to be her.

  "Yeah," I say. "We're good."

  She nods once, sharply, then surges forward and hugs me so quickly I barely have time to register it before she's stepping back. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

  "No promises," I say automatically.

  She smirks, then turns and gets into the passenger seat without looking back. The Corolla pulls away, and I watch until it disappears around the corner. It's not that far to Center City. Not really. But it feels like she's moving to another planet.

  The couch in our living room has a very specific Kate-shaped dent that I'm trying to avoid as I stretch out, propped up on pillows with a bowl of microwave popcorn balanced on my stomach. It's movie night, which normally means it's just me and Dad since Mom works late on Fridays, but tonight she called to say she was leaving early, so we're waiting for her before we start.

  "How're the ribs?" Dad asks from the kitchen, where he's making his special hot chocolate (the secret is a pinch of cayenne, which sounds gross but is actually amazing).

  "Fine," I lie. They're actually throbbing in time with my heartbeat, which has been way too fast all day. My hands won't stop shaking either, and I've got this weird metallic taste in my mouth that won't go away no matter how much water I drink. Probably just dehydration from walking around in the summer heat.

  "Uh huh," Dad says, clearly not believing me. "And the stomach?"

  "Also fine." Another lie. There's a strange buzzing sensation across my skin, like I'm covered in bees, and my stomach keeps cramping up. I thought it was just the takeout we had last night, but it's been almost twenty-four hours and it's not getting better.

  Dad appears in the doorway, two mugs of hot chocolate in hand, eyebrows raised skeptically. "You're a terrible liar, kiddo."

  "I'm an excellent liar," I counter. "Just not to you."

  Yeah, I busted my ribs up falling off a rooftop. Sounds a lot better than "I got shot". If my Dad suspects anything, I think he's deliberately going out of his way to not confirm his suspicions.

  He laughs at that, handing me one of the mugs as he settles into his armchair. "Fair enough."

  The front door opens, and Mom calls out, "I'm home! Don't start without me!"

  "We wouldn't dare," Dad replies, grinning at me.

  Mom bustles in, kicking off her shoes and dumping her bag on the coffee table before collapsing onto the couch next to me with a dramatic sigh. "What a day. The system crashed twice, we had three patrons try to use the computers for... adult content... and Deborah from Reference kept micromanaging my catalog updates."

  "So a normal Friday," Dad says, reaching for the remote.

  "Pretty much. What are we wat—oh, hold on." Mom grabs the remote before Dad can, turning up the volume. "I want to catch the news first."

  On screen, a serious-looking anchor is mid-sentence: "...bill introduced in the Pennsylvania state legislature today that would expand Philadelphia's anti-vigilante ordinance statewide. Representative Martin from Bucks County introduced the legislation, which he describes as 'necessary for public safety.'"

  My stomach drops. The buzzing under my skin intensifies, and for a moment, I think I might actually throw up.

  The screen cuts to footage of a press conference, where Representative Martin in a gray suit is speaking at a podium. "The Juvenile Superhuman Safety Act will ensure that young people with extraordinary abilities are properly supervised and supported, rather than engaging in dangerous vigilante activity that puts themselves and their communities at risk."

  "Oh, come on," Dad mutters. "They're not even trying to hide that it's a control bill."

  The anchor returns, continuing: "Similar legislation has been introduced in Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, and New York. Critics question the timing, as allegations recently surfaced connecting Councilwoman Richardson—who authored Philadelphia's original ordinance—to the criminal organization known as the Kingdom of Keys."

  "I knew it," I say, sitting up too quickly and wincing at the pull in my side. "Richardson has to be behind this. It's too coordinated."

  Mom nods, disgust evident in her expression. "Using what happened here as a template. Talk about a power grab."

  "It's spreading," I add, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Like a virus."

  "Or like a plan," Dad adds grimly. "This is too coordinated to be coincidence."

  The news moves on to other stories, but I'm not listening anymore. My mind is racing, connecting dots, seeing the bigger picture. This isn't just about shutting down teenage vigilantes in Philadelphia anymore. This is a multi-state campaign to sideline kids with powers, to make sure we can't interfere with whatever they're planning next.

  My hands finally stop shaking, the buzzing under my skin quieting as a cold clarity washes over me. Jordan's gone. Kate's gone. But I'm still here. Like an evolutionary remnant.

  "Sam?" Mom's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay? You look a little pale."

  "I'm fine," I say, and this time it's not entirely a lie. "Just thinking."

  "Well, stop thinking and start watching," Dad says, finally snagging the remote and pulling up our movie queue. "And don't you dare think about starting a fight with any congresspeople, okay?"

  I force a smile, settling back into the cushions as the familiar opening music starts. But behind my eyes, I'm already seeing the next moves on the board, planning my counter-strategy. They want to take us off the playing field?

  Good luck with that.