We cross the street, trying to look casual. The neighborhood patrol guys immediately notice us changing direction and the shortest one - a stocky guy with a goatee -nudges the one with the bat. They all turn to watch us.

  "Just keep walking," Tasha murmurs. "Don't make eye contact."

  But it's too late. The one with the bat calls out, "Hey there! You kids live around here?"

  I hesitate, calculating. We could ignore them and keep going, but that might make us look more suspicious. Might be better to just act normal. I turn slightly, not fully facing them. "Yeah, couple blocks over."

  "It's getting kinda late," says the oldest one, probably in his fifties with a receding hairline and a Philly Eagles jacket under his red windbreaker. "You should be heading home soon."

  "We were just about to," Tasha says smoothly. "My dad's expecting us back for movie night."

  They exchange glances, and I can tell they're trying to decide if we're worth the trouble. For a second, I think they're going to let us go, but then the one with the bat steps forward.

  "Hold up," he says, tapping the bat against his leg. "You look familiar." He's staring right at me, and a cold feeling spreads through my stomach. "You're that Small girl, aren't you? From the school video?"

  Shit.

  "I think you've got me confused with someone else," I say, keeping my voice neutral, fighting the urge to turn and run.

  "No, no, I'm sure of it," he insists, taking another step closer. "You stood up to that Richardson lady at some school thing. Saw it on YouTube. Pretty gutsy."

  That surprises me. I expected hostility, not... whatever this is. Grudging respect?

  "Oh, um. Yeah, that was me," I admit, not seeing much point in denying it.

  "Thought so," he says, nodding like he's just won a bet with himself. "You've got guts, kid. Not many people willing to call out that snake to her face."

  Maggie shifts closer to me, still tense but looking slightly less ready to blast someone across the street.

  "Listen," I say, unsure how to navigate this unexpected turn, "we're just trying to get home. We don't want any trouble."

  "No trouble from us," says the Eagles jacket guy, but he's still blocking our path. "Just doing our part to keep the neighborhood safe. Things have been getting rough lately with all these gang kids around."

  "We appreciate that," I say cautiously, "but we're really not doing anything wrong. Just walking."

  "Never said you were," Bat Guy replies with a shrug. "Just being careful. Lots of new faces around here these days."

  The remaining two patrol members have fanned out slightly, not quite surrounding us but definitely maintaining a presence. One of them - a middle-aged Black guy with glasses - looks uncomfortable with the whole situation, like he'd rather be home watching TV.

  "We're seriously just going home," Tasha says, an impatient edge to her voice. "Is that a problem?"

  "Watch the attitude," Goatee Guy warns, pointing a finger at her. "We're trying to help here."

  "By stopping random teenagers on the street?" Maggie asks, unable to keep quiet any longer. A little bit of an implacable accent starts slipping out, something European I can't quite place.

  I put a hand on her arm, a silent warning to dial it back.

  "Look," the man with the bat says, "things aren't like they used to be. Got gang kids coming in from other neighborhoods, dealing drugs, starting fights. Those crazy contract people from the news causing trouble. And the cops? They don't show up till it's too late."

  "So you decided to take matters into your own hands," I say, trying to pull out some understanding from these... ne'er-do-wells. These aren't just neighborhood busybodies - they're scared and frustrated.

  "Somebody has to," he says grimly. "Last week, two kids got jumped right outside my house. Week before that, some lunatic with blue fire was trashing cars."

  I remember what Amelia said about the changing landscape. Lower police presence in some areas, vigilante groups forming to fill the gap. What we're seeing right here.

  "I get it," I say, and I kind of do. "But we're really not -"

  Shouting erupts from further down the block, cutting me off. We all turn to look. Two groups of guys - maybe six or seven total - are facing off in front of a corner store. Their voices are getting louder, postures aggressive. One of them shoves another, and the whole group surges forward like a wave about to break.

  The patrol guys immediately lose interest in us. Bat Guy gestures to his companions. "Let's go. Looks like actual trouble."

  They hurry off toward the brewing fight, Bat Guy in the lead, already shouting for the groups to break it up. The moment they're a safe distance away, I grab Maggie and Tasha's arms.

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  "Let's get out of here. Now."

  We turn and walk quickly in the opposite direction, not quite running but definitely not taking our time either. When we're about a block away, Tasha lets out a long breath.

  "That was weird. I thought they were going to hassle us more."

  "They respect you," Maggie says, nudging my shoulder. "You're practically a folk hero in some circles after standing up to Richardson. And getting punched in the face by Patriot. Which is weird, because most of them like Patriot, too. You should hear my uncle sometimes."

  "Great," I mutter. "Just what I need. A fan club of middle-aged men with baseball bats."

  We keep moving, but I can't help glancing back toward the confrontation. The patrol guys have inserted themselves between the two groups, and from here it looks like things might be calming down. But something about it nags at me...

  Something flashes in one guy's hand. Not a gun. But there's something metallic and sharp. A knife, maybe.

  "Guys," I say urgently, "we need to -"

  And that's when it hits me.

  The headache slams into me like a sledgehammer, so sudden and intense that my vision actually whites out for a second. My legs buckle, and I barely catch myself against a parked car.

  "Sam!" Tasha exclaims, grabbing my arm to steady me.

  I can't answer. The pain is overwhelming, radiating from behind my eyes and spreading through my skull like liquid fire. And my hands—oh god, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely keep hold of the car.

  "What's happening?" Maggie asks, panic in her voice.

  "Help me get her out of sight," Tasha says, already pulling me toward the nearest alley. "Come on, Sam, just a few more steps."

  I stumble along, led by their supporting arms, every step sending fresh waves of pain through my head. The alley is dark and smells like garbage, but at least we're out of view of the street. I slide down the brick wall to sit on the dirty concrete, cradling my head in my trembling hands.

  "Is it... is it happening again?" Maggie asks Tasha in a whisper that I can still hear perfectly.

  "Yeah," Tasha confirms, kneeling beside me. "Third time this week."

  Through the haze of pain, I try to focus. "There's... someone with a knife. Back there. In the crowd."

  "What? Are you sure?" Maggie looks towards the street.

  "Saw it," I manage to gasp out. "Metal. Someone pulled it but he... he hasn't used it yet..." I can't finish the sentence as another spike of pain drives through my skull.

  "We have to go help," Maggie says immediately.

  "No," Tasha says firmly. "Look at Sam. She can barely stand. And what exactly is your plan? Run in and do what? That's how regular people get stabbed."

  "So we just do nothing?" Maggie demands.

  "We call 911," Tasha says, already pulling out her phone. "Anonymously. Tell them there's a fight with a weapon involved."

  I want to agree with her, but at this moment, speaking feels impossible. The shaking in my hands has spread to my arms now, making my whole upper body tremble. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool evening air.

  "It'll take them forever to respond," Maggie argues. "I could just - "

  "You could just what? Display your illegal superpowers in front of a dozen witnesses including a neighborhood patrol that already knows who Sam is?" Tasha shakes her head vehemently. "Absolutely not. They're armed. You're one Magdalene. I wouldn't even trust Sam with those odds."

  I try to focus on my breathing, pushing through the pain. This is the worst episode yet. The headaches have been getting more frequent, but never this intense. It feels like someone's taken a jackhammer to my skull while simultaneously replacing my blood with liquid nitrogen.

  "Sam, are you okay? Sam?" Maggie's voice sounds far away.

  I manage to look up at her, though it takes enormous effort. "I'll... be fine. Just... need a minute."

  Tasha finishes her call and puts her phone away - when did she call? I barely even heard it. "They're sending a car. Hopefully they'll get there before anything happens." She turns her attention back to me, checking my pulse. "Your heart's racing."

  "No shit," I gasp out, trying for humor and failing miserably.

  "This isn't normal, Sam," she says quietly. "These episodes are getting worse."

  "I know," I admit, leaning my head back against the cool brick wall. "But what am I supposed to do? Go to a doctor and tell my brain is exploding for no reason?"

  Tasha doesn't answer immediately. Instead, she rummages in her pocket and pulls out something I wasn't expecting - a pack of cigarettes. She taps one out and offers it to me.

  "What the hell?" I stare at her, momentarily distracted from my pain. "Isn't your mom a nurse? Why do you have cigarettes?"

  "Same reason you're about to take one," she says matter-of-factly. "Sometimes you need something to take the edge off."

  I hesitate. My parents would absolutely kill me if they caught me smoking. And it goes against everything I know about health, and about what Pop-Pop Moe has told me about lung cancer. But right now, with my head feeling like it's about to explode and my hands shaking so badly I can barely function...

  "It's the nicotine," Tasha explains, still holding out the cigarette. "It's a stimulant. Might help with the withdrawal symptoms, at least temporarily. Better than watching you suffer."

  "Tasha, I can't believe you smoke," Maggie says, sounding disappointed.

  "I don't," Tasha says, not taking her eyes off me. "I carry these for... someone else who does. As a last resort. And this qualifies."

  I don't believe her, but at this point I'm willing to do anything for relief. After another moment of hesitation, I reach out and take the cigarette. Tasha pulls out a lighter and flicks it, the small flame illuminating our faces in the dim alley. I put the cigarette between my lips and lean forward, letting her light it.

  I've never smoked a cigarette before, and the first inhale makes me cough immediately. But Tasha was right - after the first inhale, the shaking in my hands begins to subside, although maybe that's just placebo. The second inhale - and the second wave of coughs - expels out the headache. Some of it. Like 20% of it. No, 30%.

  "Better?" Tasha asks, watching me closely.

  I nod, taking another small drag, trying not to cough this time. "Yeah. How did you know this would help?"

  "My mom's a nurse, remember? I've heard her talking about addiction and withdrawal symptoms. Nicotine is a stimulant, and whatever was in that Hypeman stuff probably was too." She shrugs. "Just connecting the dots."

  "Do you think..." I hesitate, taking another drag. "Do you think it's Hypeman?"

  "Yes," Tasha says bluntly. "It's evil superdrugs. They probably put some crazy lab chemicals in it to force people to get addicted. It makes your superpowers better, so imagine if some do-gooder takes it and now they're on the leash. You could make them do anything." She glances at the cigarette in my hand with a grimace. "Lesser of two evils, I guess."

  In the distance, we hear sirens approaching, and I sink back against the brick wall, feeling a strange mixture of relief and shame. Relief that the immediate crisis is passing, shame that I've resorted to this. But mostly, I'm angry. Angry that I can't do what I'm supposed to do - help people. Angry that laws and gangs and my own body are all conspiring against me.

  I take another drag, watching the ember glow brightly in the darkness of the alley. This isn't what I signed up for when I became a hero. This isn't what Belle would have wanted for me.

  "You okay?" Maggie asks softly, sitting down beside me.

  "No," I admit, watching the smoke curl up into the night air, trying not to cough.