After taking a few more drags on the cigarette, I feel my symptoms begin to subside. Not completely - there's still a dull throb behind my eyes and my hands aren't entirely steady - but enough that I can actually think straight again. My mind still feels a bit foggy, like I'm moving through water instead of air, but at least I'm functional.

  "Better?" Tasha asks, watching me with a mix of concern and clinical interest, like I'm some science experiment she's monitoring.

  "Getting there," I say, taking one last drag before carefully extinguishing the cigarette against the brick wall. I tuck the butt into my pocket - no littering, even during a withdrawal crisis. My mom would be proud. Well, of the not littering part. The smoking would probably give her an aneurysm.

  In the distance, we can still hear the confrontation from the corner store - raised voices, something hitting metal, the distinct sound of the patrol's bat tapping against a car or maybe a street sign.

  "We should go," Tasha says, sliding the pack of cigarettes back into her pocket. "Before the cops start asking for witnesses."

  I nod reluctantly. She's right. Getting picked up by the police would be bad news for all of us, especially Maggie with her strict parents. I'm about to push myself up from the ground when we hear a commotion around the corner - rapid footsteps, someone running, more footsteps following.

  A figure darts past our alley entrance, clearly fleeing from the main confrontation. They're moving fast, but I catch a glimpse of a skinny guy, maybe in his twenties, wearing a dark hoodie.

  "Move!" someone shouts from the street. "Don't let him get away!"

  Three members of the neighborhood patrol rush past in pursuit, including the man with the bat. Tasha grabs my arm, pulling me deeper into the shadows to avoid being spotted.

  "They're chasing that guy," Maggie whispers, her expression a mix of concern and excitement. "What do we do?"

  My initial instinct is to go after them, but my legs still feel wobbly, and my head isn't completely clear yet. Plus, what would we actually do? Jump the patrol guys? That's a great way to get arrested and roughed up by the larger crowd, which seems to be growing every minute.

  "Let's follow them," I decide, finding a compromise. "See what they're up to."

  "Bad idea," Tasha mutters, but she's already helping me to my feet.

  We trail after the sounds of pursuit, keeping a safe distance. The chase leads through a maze of side streets and eventually to a narrow passageway between two buildings. We hear a crash, followed by muffled shouting. Peering carefully around the corner, we see the patrol has cornered their target against a chain-link fence that blocks off an abandoned lot.

  "Thought you could run?" Bat Guy pants, advancing on him. "We've seen you dealing around here before."

  "I wasn't doing anything!" the man protests, hands raised defensively. "I was just trying to get home!"

  "Empty your pockets," commands Goatee Guy, shoving him against the fence hard enough that the metal rattles.

  I exchange a look with Maggie, whose face is tight with indignation. Tasha shakes her head frantically, but I know what Maggie's thinking because I'm thinking it too: this isn't right.

  The cornered man reluctantly empties his pockets - a wallet, keys, some loose change, and a small plastic bag that even from here is clearly just marijuana. Bat Guy snatches the bag, examining it with exaggerated disgust.

  "Just as we thought. Drug dealer."

  "It's just weed, man! For personal use!"

  Bat Guy's response is to shove him harder against the fence. "We're cleaning up this neighborhood. Consider this a warning."

  "Hey!" I shout from across the street, stupidly. "Leave him alone!"

  The patrol members freeze, turning toward us. I step partially into the light from a nearby streetlamp, letting it cut a diagonal line across my face. Maggie moves beside me while Tasha makes a strangled noise of frustration behind us.

  "Mind your own business, kid," Bat Guy calls back. "This doesn't concern you."

  "That's just weed," Maggie shouts. "Don't you have Jump dealers to be beating up? Or are they too scary for you?"

  "Yeah," I add, my own anger building, "real brave of you, three grown men against one guy with a joint. The neighborhood must feel so safe now."

  Goatee Guy takes a threatening step toward us, but the oldest patrol member - Eagles Jacket - stops him with a hand on his arm. "They're just kids," he mutters, loud enough for us to hear. "Not worth it."

  Bat Guy glares at me, recognition slowly dawning on his face. "You're that girl from before. The one who--"

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  "Who doesn't like seeing people get roughed up for no reason," I cut him off. "Let him go. He's not hurting anyone. Patrol elsewhere."

  There's a tense moment where I think this might escalate further. My hands are still shaking slightly, but for different reasons now. If they come at us, we're not exactly in fighting shape. Maggie could probably blast them with a force field, but that would mean outing herself and then they have a good reason to hold us. And I could try to beat them up, but the hole in my stomach isn't 100% and I still feel like I'm about to vomit. I can take one crowbar hit to the head. Not ten.

  Finally, Bat Guy turns back to their captive. "You," he growls, giving the man one last shove before stepping back. "We see you dealing around here again, we won't be so nice. Scram."

  The patrol stalks off, taking the weed with them and shooting dark looks at us as they pass. I wait until they're well out of sight, then hurry over to the man who's slumped against the fence, holding his side.

  "You okay?" I ask, kneeling beside him.

  He looks up, suspicious but grateful. "Yeah. Thanks for that."

  I examine him as best I can in the dim light. He's got a nasty cut above his eye that's bleeding freely, probably from hitting the fence when they shoved him, and that lets me see the rest of his body through my blood sense. He's also holding his ribs in a way that suggests they might be bruised.

  "Tasha," I call softly. "First aid kit?"

  Tasha reluctantly joins us, pulling a small kit from her backpack and handing it to me with a look that says we're definitely going to talk about this later.

  "What were you thinking?" she hisses under her breath. "We could have been arrested!"

  "For what?" I whisper back. "Standing on a sidewalk? Yelling?"

  As I clean the cut, the man watches me curiously. Now that I'm closer, I can see he's younger than I initially thought - maybe early twenties, with a scraggly attempt at a beard and dark circles under his eyes.

  "You kids shouldn't be out here this late," he says, wincing as I apply antiseptic. "Especially not picking fights with those vigilante assholes."

  "Someone has to," I say, applying a butterfly bandage to the cut. "Your ribs are probably just bruised, but you should get them checked out if you can."

  He laughs bitterly. "Yeah, sure. I'll just stroll into the emergency room. They love guys like me there."

  "They took all your weed," Maggie observes, keeping an eye on the street for any sign of the patrol returning.

  "Probably gonna smoke it themselves, hypocritical bastards." He shifts, grimacing. "Not the first time they've done this. They're always looking for someone to mess with."

  I finish bandaging the cut and help him to his feet, keeping a steadying hand on his arm until I'm sure he's stable. "You live around here?"

  "Couple blocks over," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette of his own. His hands are shaking slightly too, though probably from adrenaline rather than drug withdrawal. "You know how it is."

  "Actually," I say, thinking fast, "we're keeping tabs on what these neighborhood patrol guys are doing. And we're tracking Jump distribution too." It's a risky move, but something tells me this guy might be a useful source. "If you see anything, would you let us know?"

  He lights his cigarette, studying me through the flame. "Why? You junior detectives or something?"

  "Something like that," I say with a small smile. "We just want to make sure the right people are being targeted. Not guys with a little weed minding their own business."

  He considers this for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. "My name's Darius. If I text you about any 'neighborhood concerns,' you gonna actually do something about it? Or am I just wasting my time?"

  "We'll do something," I say firmly. "I'm friends with some of the Tacony Titans. And those other guys that run around with masks on. Believe me or not at your leisure."

  He stares at me, and I can see gears very slowly, very marijuanaly, turning. "Okay."

  We exchange numbers, and I save him in my contacts as "D - Fence Guy" which seems appropriately nondescript.

  "I don't know any Jump dealers by name," he says, taking a long drag from his cigarette. "But there's been more activity around the old Sunoco station on Longshore. People coming and going at weird hours, some guy in a bright yellow jacket always hanging around. Might be nothing, but it started around the same time all that Rogue Wave shit hit the news."

  This is actually useful information. I try not to look too eager as I nod casually. "Thanks. We'll make sure it gets to the right people."

  Darius eyes me skeptically. "No offense, but what exactly do you think you're gonna do? You're like, what, sixteen?"

  "Seventeen," I lie automatically. "Maybe we can point those dickheads in the right direction, if they're not going to stop."

  He chuckles, then winces and puts a hand to his ribs. "Whatever you say, junior detective. Just be careful. Things are getting weird out there. Weird and scary. Kids like you should be playing in your yards." He takes a final drag from his cigarette and flicks it away. "Thanks for the patch-up. And for stepping in."

  "No problem," I say, meaning it. "Thanks for the info. Let us know if you see anything else."

  He nods, then turns and limps away, disappearing into the shadows between buildings. As soon as he's gone, Tasha rounds on me.

  "What the hell was that?" she demands in a fierce whisper. "First you nearly get us killed confronting those patrol guys, then you're recruiting random dudes as informants? Are you trying to get arrested?"

  "He gave us a lead," I point out. "The Sunoco station on Longshore. Potential Jump distribution point."

  "And what if he's just making stuff up? Or setting us up?" Tasha counters. "You don't even know this guy."

  "He didn't have to tell us anything," Maggie says, supporting me as usual. "But he did. And we helped him when no one else would."

  Tasha throws up her hands in exasperation. "Fine. But if we end up in jail because you decided to turn some weed guy into a confidential informant, I'm blaming both of you."

  "Noted," I say, trying not to smile. "You don't think we can model some better model than... going around with bats and beating up stoners? I think we can do something different."

  Tasha pinches the bridge of her nose, clearly more mad about the risk than about the content of what we did.

  The cigarette helped with my withdrawal, but it's left a bitter taste in my mouth that has nothing to do with tobacco. I wonder if this is going to be my new normal - smoking in alleys, gathering scraps of intel from strangers, patching up the collateral damage left by self-appointed guardians. Everything feels smudged with grey.

  "You okay?" Maggie asks softly as we walk back towards the Music Hall, concern evident in her voice. "You've got that look again."

  "What look?"

  "The one where you're thinking too hard about everything."

  I take a deep breath of the night air, feeling the lingering ache in my head, the heaviness in my chest that isn't just from the smoking. I think about what Belle would say if she could see me now - hiding in the shadows, making deals with strangers, smoking cigarettes to deal with withdrawal from illegal superdrugs. Would she be disappointed? Or would she understand that sometimes survival means compromise?

  "Sam?" Maggie prompts when I don't answer.