4.11

I woke up warm, comfortable, feeling like a kid again, safe in my parents’ bed. Voices around me, familiar and not. Brian and Lisa, and an old man, arguing about my condition. Too bright, too dry, my eyes struggled to open. I was weak, arms heavy, unable to move.

Brian’s voice, soothing, like Dad used to be. The arguing continued – a concussion, blood loss, nervous system damage, the girl insisted. The old man, worried about complications, reputation. They needed me awake, to stop the bugs. My power, active even in sleep, drawing insects to me.

“Good as done,” I mumbled, sending the bugs away. A distraction – music. Outside. Latin? English? Japanese? “You’re babbling, Taylor,” Brian said. But Lisa confirmed, a guy on the steps, listening to music.

Jostled awake again, in a car. Brian’s voice, a comforting rumble against my side. Lisa, nearby. We arrived at my house, my dad, worried, apologizing. He had made up the sofa bed. This was surreal, my dad, Brian, and Lisa, in my house.

They talked in the kitchen. My dad, concerned. Lisa, reassuring. Concussion, stitches, but okay. Codeine for the pain. The cost of care – Lisa brushed it off. Her “papa” wouldn’t hear of it. Guilt, for letting it happen. They hadn’t called sooner, waiting for me to give them Dad’s number.

Rachel and Alec, okay. Brian and Lisa, scraped and bruised. A bomb, they explained. The news, explosions across the city. Bakuda. Wrong place, wrong time. I was tying my shoes, behind them, when it happened.

Dad, his face in his hands. My fault, for being there. But Lisa deflected, saying it was her idea to cut through the Docks. My dad, unable to believe it was a bomb, thought it was the bullies. Lisa knew about them. I’d told her. He was glad I had someone to talk to, disappointed it wasn’t him. A shiv of guilt in my heart.

Cookies, tea, coffee. Lisa checked on me. “Does the story pass muster?” she asked. I didn’t like lying, but what else could we do? “You like to keep different parts of your life separate,” she said. It was true.

Concussion, she warned. Brutal honesty, mood swings, memory issues. Try not to let anything slip around Dad. Brian joined us, said Dad reminded him of me. We talked about what really happened.

Bakuda, playing possum. She shot me. My costume saved me from the burn, but not the concussion, the nervous system jolt. Brian and Lisa, downed, but not as bad. Gluey string. I’d stabbed Bakuda’s foot, cut off some toes. Brian used the knife to free us.

But Bakuda got away. Brian had prioritized our safety. Lisa called their boss, got us to a discreet doctor. Money collected, mostly. Then, the bad news. A newspaper clipping, torn. “Escaped.”

Bombs all over the city. A distraction. To free Lung from the PHQ. The city, a warzone. ABB, bigger, Bakuda on a rampage. Targeting other gangs. Manic phase, Lisa said. She’d burn out. But Lung would capitalize.

Dad came in with refreshments. I couldn’t be up and about for a week. School – a perfect excuse, Lisa said. But I’d wanted to go, not skip more. They stayed, watched a movie. I dozed, woke, my head on Brian’s arm.

My dad, watching from the kitchen. I waved. He smiled, a real smile. Maybe the first in a long time. School could wait. I’d live in the present, for now.