The thing nobody tells you about having a healing factor is that the in-between stages are weird. Not the beginning, when you're all broken and bleeding – that part sucks, but it's straightforward. And not the end, when you're back to normal and everything works again. It's the middle part that's strange, where you're mostly healed but not quite. That's where I am now, three weeks (ish) after Patriot crushed my ankle. The boot came off five days ago, but there's still a lingering tenderness, a phantom memory of pain that flares up whenever I put too much weight on it or twist wrong.

  It's not bad, just... annoying. Like an itch you can't quite reach, or a word on the tip of your tongue.

  "Miss Small, are you with us?"

  My teacher's voice snaps me back to class. He's standing at the board, marker in hand, eyebrows raised expectantly. The molecular formula he's written means absolutely nothing to me, which isn't great considering finals are in two weeks.

  "Sorry," I mumble, straightening up in my chair. "Could you repeat the question?"

  A few snickers ripple through the classroom, but they're good-natured. I've been back at school for nearly a month now, and the novelty of "Sam Small's mysterious injury" has mostly worn off. Nobody knows exactly what happened, though the rumor mill has been working overtime. Current favorite theory: I was in a street racing accident. Not sure where that came from, but it's better than the truth.

  Mr. Nunez sighs, but there's no real frustration behind it. "I asked if you could identify which functional group would be most reactive in this compound."

  I stare at the formula, willing the jumble of letters and numbers to make sense. Chemistry isn't my worst subject, but three weeks of painkillers and restless sleep haven't exactly kept me at the top of my game.

  "Uh..." I squint at the board, recalling yesterday's lecture through my mental fog. "The carboxyl group? Because of the higher acidity?"

  "That's correct," Mr. Nunez says, sounding mildly surprised. "Can you explain why?"

  I cobble together something about electron-withdrawing effects and resonance stabilization that must be close enough, because he nods approvingly before continuing the lesson. My attention drifts again almost immediately.

  Outside the window, a dark sedan is parked across the street. It's been there for at least twenty minutes. Probably nothing – just someone waiting to pick up a student – but I've been noticing cars like that more often lately. Same make, same tinted windows, sometimes the same license plate. Could be coincidence. Could be paranoia. Could be the Kingdom keeping tabs on me.

  Ever since the warehouse explosion, I've had the prickling sensation of being watched. Nothing I can prove, just... patterns. A car that stays too long. A person who glances over one too many times. The same guy getting coffee at the same shop three days in a row, always when I'm there.

  I hadn't realized I was still staring out the window until the bell rings, startling me back to the present.

  "Don't forget, review sheets are due Monday!" Mr. Nunez calls over the sudden commotion of twenty-six teenagers packing up their things. "And we'll be having a practice quiz on titration calculations!"

  I shove my mostly blank notebook into my backpack, wincing as I accidentally knock it against my ankle. Still tender.

  The hallway is a crush of bodies and noise, everyone eager to escape to the weekend. I navigate through with practiced ease, keeping close to the wall to avoid getting jostled. The security desk at the main entrance has a new face behind it – Officer Gross, according to her nameplate. She's young, probably just a few years out of the academy, with watchful eyes that scan the passing students.

  No sign of Officer Ridley, which isn't surprising. I heard he's gotten fired. Good.

  "ID check," Officer Gross says as I approach the door, holding out her hand with a polite but firm expression. Random ID checks have become more frequent since the courthouse attack last year, but they've really ramped up in the past month. Another piece of the pattern – heightened security everywhere, especially around schools.

  I fish my student ID from my pocket and hand it over. She studies it for a moment, comparing my face to the photo, then hands it back with a nod. "Have a good weekend, Miss Small."

  "Thanks, you too," I reply automatically, already looking past her to the doors. Freedom, so close I can taste it.

  Outside, the May afternoon is bright and warm, a perfect spring day. Students scatter in all directions, some heading for buses, others walking or biking home. I scan the parking lot, a habit I've developed recently. Looking for what, I'm not exactly sure. Suspicious vehicles. Familiar faces that shouldn't be familiar. Anything out of place.

  The dark sedan I spotted earlier is gone, which doesn't necessarily mean anything. I shake off the paranoia and start my walk home. My parents offered to pick me up for the first week after I got out of the boot, but that got old fast. I'm fine to walk now, even if my pace is a little slower than usual.

  I check my phone as I walk, scrolling through messages. Nothing from Jordan today, which is unusual. They've been checking in almost every morning with updates on the data from the warehouse – or rather, updates on the lack of progress with the data. For someone as tech-savvy as Jordan, hitting a wall like this has been frustrating. The files are a mixture of encrypted gibberish, scientific jargon, and partial information that doesn't make sense without context. Three weeks of effort, and we're no closer to understanding what the Kingdom was cooking up in that warehouse.

  There's a text from Maggie, though: "Got permission to come over after school! See you around 4:30 if the bus isn't late."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  I smile, the first real one all day. Maggie's parents have had her on lockdown that makes my grounding look like a vacation. This will be the first time I've seen her in person since the warehouse incident, though we've texted almost daily. The O'Briens are apparently starting to relent slightly, likely worn down by three weeks of what I imagine has been Maggie's relentless campaign of good behavior and persuasion and throwing objects with her powers.

  I'm so busy texting back that I almost miss it – another dark sedan, parked half a block ahead on the opposite side of the street. Same make and model as the one at school. As I approach, the engine starts, and the car pulls smoothly away from the curb, merging into traffic without hurry. Just before it turns the corner, I catch a glimpse of the driver: a woman with short blonde hair and sunglasses, unremarkable except for the deliberate way she doesn't look in my direction.

  My pulse quickens, but I force myself to keep walking at the same pace. It could be nothing. It could be something. Either way, freaking out in the middle of the street won't help.

  The rest of the walk home is uneventful, but I find myself checking over my shoulder more often than usual. By the time I reach my house, the paranoia has faded to a low-grade buzz in the back of my mind – always there, but manageable.

  Home is quiet when I walk in. Dad's at work until five, and Mom's probably still at the library. Kate and her dad have been spending a lot of time looking at houses lately – apparently the insurance money finally came through, though Kate remains vague about the details whenever I ask. Their absence means I have the place to myself for a couple of hours, which would normally be great, but after three weeks of being grounded, the novelty of alone time has worn thin.

  I drop my backpack by the stairs and head to the kitchen, grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. As I eat, I pull out my phone again, this time to check the news. It's become a daily ritual – scanning local headlines for anything that might be connected to the Kingdom, to Rogue Wave, to Richardson, to anything that might give us a clue about what's coming next.

  Today's top story is about increased security measures across Philadelphia public schools – apparently Tacony Charter isn't the only one with new faces at the security desk. There's also a piece about a spike in gang activity in certain neighborhoods, though it's frustratingly vague about specifics. The mayor is quoted expressing "deep concern" about "recent incidents," which could, yet again, mean literally anything. I hate living in ambiguous times!

  I'm midway through an article about city budget allocations (boring, but Richardson serves on the finance committee, so I force myself to read it) when the doorbell rings. Glancing at the time – 4:22 – I realize it must be Maggie, earlier than expected.

  When I open the door, she launches herself at me in a hug that nearly knocks me off balance. "Sam! Oh my god, it's been forever!"

  "Careful," I laugh, returning the hug while steadying myself on the doorframe. "Still a little tender."

  Maggie pulls back, eyes wide with concern. "Sorry! I forgot about your ankle. How is it? You're not still in the boot, right? Can you walk okay? Does it hurt?"

  "It's fine, just a little stiff sometimes," I assure her, ushering her inside and closing the door. "More importantly, how did you convince the prison wardens to let you out on parole?"

  Maggie rolls her eyes dramatically as she follows me to the living room. "Three weeks of straight-A grades, extra chores without being asked, and a detailed schedule of exactly where I'll be and who I'll be with at all times. Plus Mom is going to call your mom at 6:30 to verify I'm still here, and Dad's picking me up at 8:00 sharp."

  "Harsh," I say, flopping onto the couch. "But at least they're letting you out at all. That's progress, right?"

  "Barely," she sighs, dropping her backpack and joining me. "I think they're only agreeing because your parents will be home. They're convinced we're going to immediately run off and get arrested again the second they take their eyes off us."

  "To be fair, we did kind of blow up a warehouse."

  "We did not! Soot did. We just happened to be there. Oh, they didn't catch me, by the way, so don't bring that up to your parents, I wasn't there," She whispers, glancing around. "Speaking of, where's Kate? Still convinced she's our smoke-powered friend?"

  I lower my voice, even though I know we're alone. "More convinced than ever. She's still denying everything, but there've been too many coincidences. Night before last, she came home at like 3 AM – I pretended to be asleep, but I heard her. And this morning the news reported that someone matching Soot's description interrupted a drug deal near the Schuylkill River last night."

  "That's not exactly proof," Maggie points out.

  "No, but add it to the pile of evidence – the chemical smell on her clothes, the mysterious 'study groups' that always seem to happen when Soot is active, the money for a new house appearing out of nowhere..."

  Maggie considers this. "Okay, yeah, that's pretty suspicious. You think she's been, what, stealing from drug dealers?" She looks genuinely impressed at the possibility.

  "Probably. The Robin Hood approach to vigilante funding. Not that I can judge, given how much Jordan's funded our shit basically the same way. But we don't carbon monoxide people to do it,"

  Maggie opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. "Your parents?"

  I check my phone – 4:45. "Just my mom. Dad won't be home for a while yet."

  Sure enough, my mom walks in carrying a bag of groceries. "Oh, hello Maggie!" she says, smiling. "I thought you weren't coming until later."

  "Bus came early for once," Maggie replies, immediately shifting into what I think of as her "adult impression" voice – slightly higher, more polite, extra enunciation. It's subtle but hilarious to me every time.

  "Well, it's lovely to see you. Sam's been climbing the walls with only us boring adults for company." Mom sets the groceries on the counter and begins unpacking them. "How are your parents?"

  "They're good, thanks for asking. Overprotective, but good."

  Mom laughs. "I think that's in the parental job description these days. Especially when your children keep finding creative ways to get into trouble."

  "Mom," I groan, "we've been model citizens for three weeks."

  "Yes, and I'm very proud," she says, putting vegetables in the fridge. "Though I'm not sure how much credit you get for following the rules when you're physically prevented from breaking them."

  I can't really argue with that logic. "Any word from Jordan today?" I ask, changing the subject. "They usually check in by now."

  Mom shakes her head. "Not that I know of. Maybe they're busy with MIT preparations?"

  I'm about to respond when something outside the window catches my eye – a white Honda parked across the street that wasn't there when I got home. Inside, a man sits alone, reading something – or pretending to.

  "Sam?" Maggie asks, noticing my sudden distraction. "What's wrong?"

  I nod subtly toward the window. "White car across the street. Guy's been sitting there a while."

  Maggie casually glances out while pretending to stretch. "Huh. Probably nothing, right?"

  "Probably," I agree, though my instincts are saying otherwise. This fits the pattern I've been noticing – the same kind of unobtrusive surveillance that's been popping up around school, on my walks home, near Jordan's place.

  Mom catches our exchange and moves to the window, her expression shifting from confused to concerned as she spots the car. "Are you sure it's not just someone waiting for someone else? Or a taxi driver on break?"

  "Maybe," I say, though I don't believe it. "But I've been seeing cars like that a lot lately. Just... watching."

  Mom's posture changes. "Well, let's not stand by the window staring at them, whatever they're doing," she says, her voice casual but with an undercurrent of tension. "Maggie, would you like something to drink? I got that sparkling water you liked last time."