Chapter Eleven
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24 | Jem

Why.

Why is this happening.

This time, I didn't have my phone. Couldn't remember if I had it on me or left it behind when I had gone to the bathroom.

Stumbling forward on uncertain feet, blood dripping down my face, I shook with a cold only I could feel. Nearly crumpled when I reached the stoop of the building, scanning the list of names on the buzzer dash, unseeing.

Each letter just a line of useless squiggles. No point in even trying to read. But I remembered where Dad's was, under a name that wasn't his.

I buzzed the wrong place first on accident, the button above, before hitting the right one. My hand shook with the effort, even though I'd done this dozens of times before. Leaning heavily against the door, I didn't hear it unlock. I buzzed again. No voice came on the intercom. He didn't usually speak, but I'd always got some kind of response. Was he even here? Or was I alone?

The very thought had tears springing to my eyes, the panic that had been lurking at the edges of my mind drawing in for the kill. I didn't want to be alone. I was terrified out of my mind, and there was no other way for me to get home. No wallet, no cards, no subway pass or money for a cab.

I would have to walk. And I didn't think I could make it that far. Not even to the nearest police station, wherever that might be. My breath came in sharp and ragged, my knees shaking just to keep me upright, the jamb supporting most of my weight. A pounding headache behind my eyes, thirst and hunger warring for dominance in my empty gut.

Still, I tried to speak into the intercom, hoping he'd at least hear that if he was home. That he'd know it was me. "Dad? Dad, are you there…?"

My voice was so hoarse, throat and tongue so dry, that I barely sounded like myself. Tried to summon up some saliva and try again, but it didn't help. And I was just so tired, standing here and waiting, I just wanted to close my eyes for a moment…

I must have blacked out, because next thing I knew, the door gave way and I jolted awake as my balance gave out. Arms caught me before I could fall, pulling me inside.

My first instinct was to rip myself away; but I was so weak the best I could manage was a belated twitch. My mind panicked where my body was slow to respond. The panic increased as large arms wrapped around me — but not to crush me. Only hugging me close to his chest.

"I got you, I got you," A low voice spoke into my ear, but he sounded as if he were a million miles away.

Dad.

His voice faded in and out, difficult to understand. A million frantic questions, faltering reassurances, a desperate attempt to keep his tone calm and level.

There was still a shake in his hands as he carried me up the steps.

Head lolling on my shoulders, I didn't have the strength to keep it upright, to keep my eyes open, as much as I wanted to. In fact, this seemed like the best time to pass out again, safe in Dad's arms, being brought to safety, a place I knew, locked doors and covered windows. Far away from the outside world. Away from anyone who'd try to take me again.

Dad did his best to rouse me. One moment we were in the stairwell, the next on his couch, a glass of water pushed to my lips. I sipped cautiously at first, unsure of what it was, and as soon as my body recognized nourishment I couldn't get enough. Struggled and complained wordlessly when the glass was pulled away before I could drink it too fast.

"Slowly, Mia," Dad said, a disembodied voice. "You'll make yourself sick."

I listened, only because I had no choice. It was difficult to stay in the moment, to keep from drifting. Even in the small confines of his apartment, my vision blurred, everything out of focus outside a short distance. It was just easier to rest my head against the upholstery and pretend that I was okay.

The red brick walls and the high beams were familiar, comforting, as was the scent of Dad that permeated the place. Like a blanket being wrapped around me, enclosing, protective. The hazy light from the windows, and I wished he could draw the curtains. Attempting to do it myself only wound up with me falling off the couch, Dad shepherding me back onto the cushions, and me not making any sense as I tried to explain what I wanted.

Dad gave me a sleeve of saltines to munch on while he made calls. I couldn't tell if it was one really long one or many short ones in a row — I was too busy gathering all my focus and self-restraint in order not to shove the entire stack of crackers into my mouth at once. The world swayed beneath me if I moved too fast, my head feeling both too light and too heavy at once. At a certain point my stomach started to heave and I had to put down the crackers, even as my body begged for more.

Still on the phone, Dad came over and tried to get me to sit up right, urge me too my feet. "C'mon, Mia, we need to get you to the hospital —"

"No!" That same panic gripped me again, heart pounding, skin turning cold. I pulled away with a sudden jerk.

Dad looked utterly baffled, reaching for me again. "Mia, we have to. It's okay, your aunt will meet us there and —"

"No!" It was the only sound I could make, the clearest I could be. My thoughts were a jumble, the fear mixing in with the confusion. All the places someone could find me. The twists and turns of hospital corridors, so easy to get lost in. All those secrets behind all those doors. So easy to disappear into and never be seen again.

I couldn't go. I refused.

Whether or not I could actually say any of that in a coherent way, I couldn't tell. I could only hear myself speaking, but not in any way I could understand. Everything a rush, words spilling out like vomit, a mess, nonsensical. Hands gripping the couch so hard my knuckles turned white, I'd have to be dragged away.

Dad just held up his hands, looking pale, and had caught some of my panic in the urgency of his voice. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay! We don't have to go, alright? We can stay here. You'll be safe here." And then, still looking at me, he added, "Yeah, I'm sorry, I can't get her to move. She's too scared. Can you meet us here?"

For a moment, I had this insane notion I was being watched, monitored. That Dad was reporting to some higher power, keeping me contained. Everything in my body told me to run, to hide.

Then I remembered he was talking on the phone. I could hear May's tiny voice responding, too distant to understand.

I forced myself to sit back, to somehow calm my racing heart. I didn't see how pale Dad had gotten; although he did his best to appear neutral and calm, there was a strain in his face, a tension in his jaw, his shoulders, the way he moved. A violence hidden in one's stride.

He was angry. At me? At someone else? Whoever else he was talking to on the phone. He kept pulling it down, putting it to his ear, down again. So many calls. How many people were coming?

I tugged the blanket around my shoulders tighter. I didn't remember having it before, when it got there, but I was suddenly highly aware of how cold I was.

My chest hurt, sounds faded in and out. I couldn't remember who arrived first, but one second the place was empty and quiet — and the next it was crowded and noisy and filled with too much movement, questions, voices, all crowding in on me at once.

"What happened? Has she said anything?"

"Where was she?"

"How did you find her?"

"Mia, honey, you have to tell us what happened."

"She's in shock, please, she can't say much right now."

"Did she say why she wouldn't leave?"

"No, she's — she was incoherent. She's…"

"What? She's what?"

"…I've seen it before. It'll take her a while to snap out of it."

"Well, how long is a while? She can't stay here! Have you told the police?"

"Hell no."

"Why the hell not —"

"— You know why not —"

"Hey, hey now, let's keep it together, guys. We're all on the same team, right? We're here for Mia."

"Mia, honey?" A warm hand rested on mine, soft and small. Aunt May, her voice closer, her face coming into focus. She smiled at me, but worry laced the edges of her face, her brows pinched. "I know you don't want to go to the hospital, but it's just to be safe, okay? You might be sick, you don't look well."

But I only shook my head, my voice a mumble. "No."

"No? But Mia, you look like you haven't eaten in days. You're still wearing the same clothes from a week ago. We don't know what happened to you."

Again, I shook my head. May's lips pressed together, biting back frustration, increased worry. "Okay, then. We won't go yet. Maybe later. But how about we take you home, okay? Let you sleep in your own bed again. Wouldn't that be nice?"

Her hands were already on my shoulders, as if to guide me to my feet. But I resisted, curling deeper into the couch. "No!"

Aunt May looked taken aback, throwing a helpless look at the others here. Dad, Steve. Peter. Sam. Natasha? Why did she keep showing up. None of them seemed to have an answer for May. She turned back to me. "What's wrong, Mia? Why don't you want to come home?"

I pulled the blanket up further, as if I could hide my face, hide from all their gazes, boring into me. "Not safe."

No way in hell was I stepping outside again. Every time. Every time this happened to me, I was outside. Somewhere. In a park. In a stadium. On a train. Somewhere a stranger could find me, reach me.

Not again.

"Not safe? Why is it not safe?"

Couldn't go outside. Too many places to disappear. To be taken. To wander off. Aunt May was insistent, though, "Mia, please, you don't want to do that. Please, come home with us."

Again, I shook my head, and Dad stepped in. "It's okay if she stays, if that's what she wants. I'm not gonna — I can keep her safe."

"Oh, really?" Aunt May whipped around. "Like you kept her safe on the train?"

Dad looked taken aback. "What?"

"You heard me! This wouldn't have happened if you had just kept an eye on her!"

Everyone looked stunned, Dad took a step back as if she'd slapped him. Even Natasha said, "Hey, I think that's a little uncalled for —"

"Are you going to tell me I'm wrong?" Aunt May demanded.

"No," Natasha said, her voice firmly diplomatic. "But slinging insults isn't going to help."

"It's not an insult if it's true!"

"Look, I know we're all a little high-strung —" Sam began, but May was already on the warpath now, turning on one to the next.

"If you think this is a little high-strung, you've got another thing coming," she snapped. I had never seen Aunt May so furious. It was terrifying. "Take his side if you want, but I know what's best for her."

"This isn't about taking sides or placing blame." Sam interjected. "I don't know what's better for Mia. Maybe we should just ask her for what she wants—"

"Oh, because she's really in a state to talk right now!"

"You can't just make her leave!" Bucky insisted, wringing his hands.

"Or what? You'll stop me?" Aunt May stood up to face him, something threatening in the way she stepped between us. "Mia may be your daughter but she is my child! I'm the only one responsible for her! She is not staying here—"

"You have no idea what you're dealing with here! if you push her, you'll only make this worse —"

"Oh, and you've done such a splendid job so far!"

"Hey, hey, let's take it easy!" Steve stepped between them just as their voices turned to shouts — and that's when I ducked off the couch, scrambling away for the nearest place to hide. There were not a lot of options here. I either had the bathroom or the closet. The bathroom had a small window, the closet did not. My choice was made.

I felt better, once sequestered in the darkness, the small cramped space. So easy to manage, to be in control of. Hidden away, no eyes in here.

The voices paused once, then restarted again. "Now look what you did!"

Another argument, with greater fervor than before. I didn't try to listen, it gave me a headache to try.

A shadow fell over the crack in the door. I froze, heart pounding. But they didn't open it, didn't force me into the light. A whisper. "Mia? Are you okay?"

Peter. I relaxed, closing my eyes, trying to find the words to speak. Honest answer? "No."

I could see his shadow nodding at that, crouched on the other side of the door. "Yeah, I figured. Can you come out?"

A long pause. Just for Peter, I gave it consideration. But in the end, I couldn't do it. They were still arguing out there, and I had no idea who was winning. And that's besides the fear of being forced back outside. Deep down I knew May was only trying to do what she thought was right. But she had no idea how terrified I was at this moment.

"No."

Peter sighed through his nose. "Okay. That's okay. Then, um, can you open the door? Just a little?"

I considered that, too. I wouldn't open it all the way, not a chance. But a little, maybe I could do. As long as his idea of a "little" was the same as mine. So, without saying anything, I reached over and cracked the door slightly, just an inch. A thin beam of light streamed in, and I tucked in my feet so it wouldn't touch me. It came up short, Peter blocking the rest. Then it opened a little more, and my heart skipped a beat — but it was only Peter's hand, sliding in.

His hand found mine, and he held it, firm but gentle. I wondered if he could feel how hard my hand shook.

Instead, Peter said, "Damn, Goose, your skin is freezing," A huff, like a laugh.

"I know." I didn't pull my hand away, even if leaving the door ajar freaked me out. Something in the gesture grounded me to the moment, calmed me. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."

I was unconvinced, my voice flat. "They're fighting about me."

"That's not your fault." Peter said, his voice still a murmur. It seemed no one had noticed he'd come over, too wrapped up in their argument. "They're just scared, that's all. They don't know what's going on. They're mad at each other because they don't have anyone else to pin the blame to."

"That's dumb." Came my very eloquent response. What Peter said sounded right, but that didn't mean I appreciated it any more than I already didn't.

"Yeah," Peter laughed a little, but it was weak, half-hearted. "Good thing we won't be like that when we grow up, right?"

I knew what he was trying to do, but something in those words disconcerted me. Grow up. Become adults. I was seventeen and very recently began to fear that was as far as I'd get to go.

…No, it's always been there. If it was seventeen, it was sixteen. Fifteen, thirteen. Nine. Six. Every year was another landmark, another step closer to the finish line.

At length, I finally said, "Yeah. I hope so."

Peter, hearing my hesitation, tried to peer at me through the crack in the door. I could barely make out his eye, glinting in the dark. "Hey, it's going to be alright, Mia. We're gonna make it through this. Just like we did every time before."

He squeezed my hand for emphasis. I squeezed back when words became too hard and I didn't know how else to show my understanding. I didn't know if I agreed, but I wanted Peter to know I heard. And that I believed he believed in that. That was good enough.

"You still don't want to come home?" Peter asked after a moment.

I could only shake my head, repeating, "I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine. I get it. When you're ready to come home, we'll be waiting. Don't worry."

For the first time since I woke up, I smiled. It was small and weak. But a smile nonetheless. "Thank you."

~o~

After an hour or two (it was hard to keep track of time), Peter managed to coax me out of my little haven. The closet was cramped even before Dad had filled it with boots and clothes and boxes. Only Peter could do it, when Steve or May or even Dad couldn't do it.

His solution was simple.

Order take-out.

It was the easiest way to feed everyone and get them to stop fighting. Can't argue when you're busy eating. And I, above all, was very much in the mood for eating. The front door opened and closed and as soon as the smell of sesame chicken, egg rolls, and fried rice wafted through the crack in the closet door, I knew my time had come.

Very, very slowly, I slipped out. Cautious, to make sure another fight didn't break out while they were setting the too-small table. Peter looked a little smug, victorious that he had known exactly what to do. I didn't mind if he rubbed it in their faces a little. I just wanted them not to fight anymore.

Dad had to scramble for extra seats. Sam had to sit on two stacked milk crates, which he complained about; although that didn't look as weird as Natasha perched on the arm of the sofa, balancing crouched on her toes with chopsticks in one hand and a carton in the other. May and Dad sat as far apart as they could from each other, which meant neither of them could sit next to me without problems arising. I couldn't choose without making it worse. So Steve sat on one side and Peter on my other. An uneasy truce was formed.

For the first ten minutes, everyone just ate in silence. Whoever footed the bill had gotten enough food for a small army, enough for everyone, including three super soldiers. I was a little put out to be given small portions of plain rice, until Steve reminded me to take it easy. Finish the rice (slowly) and I could get some tasty protein.

When I finally got my first piece of chicken, I took it in small bites, even if I could've eaten the whole thing at once. My stomach, thankfully, didn't revolt, and I kept it down long enough to get another piece, and another.

Natasha was the first to break the silence.

"We were able to follow you to the pier."

"What?" I blinked up at her.

Natasha paused to finish her bite, then continued. "Barnes alerted as soon as he realized you were missing. It was fast enough that we knew you were still in the city. I followed the tracker to a pier on the Hudson. That's where the trail ended."

"Tracker?" I asked, my gut dropping. "Wait, you put a tracker on me?"

Food had made me more lucid, made it easier to speak. Which was great, because if I wasn't shaken before, I sure as hell was now. How long had Natasha been following my footsteps?!

"Back in the hospital," Natasha nodded, as if this were totally normal. No one else raised a fuss about this, not even a little bit of surprise, and I realized with dread that I was truly the last person to know about this. "I knew that if this happened again, then I wouldn't regret it. And if it didn't? Well, it'd wash off at some point, and you'd never know. That had been key."

Wash off…? As I thought back to the last time this happened, how I had spoken to Natasha, I suddenly remembered. When she had tucked back my hair. My hand raised to the spot behind my ear. I never would've seen it. "How?"

"Because if you knew, then that would've been the first thing you'd get rid of," Natasha said, matter-of-fact, picking through her carton for the bits of meat. "That is, if you were running away intentionally. But I — we — have reason to believe you aren't, now. I found the tracker, crushed, at the pier. Got enough for a partial fingerprint, but nothing I could work with."

She let that sentence hang in the air, green eyes flicking up to meet mine. And in a moment, it clicked. "I don't have fingerprints."

Natasha pointed her chopsticks at me. "Exactly."

And I understood what that meant. Someone else had been there. Someone else had done this to me. Someone else was responsible. But who? "You haven't found out anything else?"

"No." Natasha shook her head. "Few leads. Whoever is behind this, they're… professional. No fingerprints in any system means either they're good at hiding. Or they've never been caught."

"There were no security cameras in your last known location," Sam continued, pulling up something on his phone. He presented to me a map of the city, a spot pinpointed, where I must have been last. "We called in our bloodhounds —" he gestured to Steve and Bucky "— just to make sure we weren't being thrown off."

Dad nodded, his voice quiet. "You were there. The scent was only a few hours old."

A few hours. Just a few hours. Any sooner and they might have caught something, anything, else.

"We've been keeping an eye on news reports. International incidents. Anything that might have coincided with your disappearances," Steve added, leaning his elbows on the table and folding his hands together. "But nothing we can tie together. We were hoping you might be able to tell us something, now that you're safe."

Safe. I could've laughed. But I tried to stay serious, like they were. Even if it felt like I'd walked into the Twilight Zone and the whole world was out to make a mockery of me. I could only shrug. "Same story. I don't remember. I'm sorry."

A flicker of disappointment all around me, but no one looked particularly surprised. My cheeks warmed with embarrassment, so I just bowed my head and kept eating. May, who had been watching me in earnest this entire time, leaned forward and said, "Mia, are you sure you don't want to at least come home?"

Maybe she thought that being more coherent now, I'd come to see reason. But that same fear reared its ugly head as soon as she asked, and it was all I could do not to bristle. My voice was tight, shoulders hunched, when I said, "N-no, I can't. Whoever this is, they know how to find me. I was ten feet away from Dad when they got me. That's all it took. I just — I can't go outside. It's not safe."

Aunt May wilted in defeat. But this time she did not swing her anger onto Dad, or keep insisting the point. Looked around, as if anyone might convince me to change my mind. Sam just raised his eyebrows at her. At last, May heaved a long sigh. "What do you want to do, then, Mia?"

"Stay here."

Aunt May opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Then she frowned. This was not the answer she wanted, but I wasn't going to give her another one. "Okay, that's fine. That's… that's fine. I'll go home and bring you back some clothes, does that sound good?"

I offered her a grateful smile, not wanting to Aunt May to think I didn't appreciate her trying to help. And some fresh clothes did sound good. I didn't even know if this dress could be saved. Which sucked. I really liked it. "That sounds good. Thank you, May."

That seemed to ease her, and May sat back, her posture relaxing. Maybe just having something to do was enough. She still didn't acknowledge Dad, and he likewise pretended she wasn't there. It wasn't total peace, but it was better than it was a few minutes ago.

She was almost reluctant to leave later, even though she'd be back in an hour or so with clothes. Peter, too, and I imagined the only reason Aunt May didn't insist she also stay was for the current animosity between her and Dad, and the very little space available. I might have been glad for it. This place was crowded even with just me and Dad.

The rest also made their departure, with an exchange of hugs or reassurances. And then, very soon, it was just me and Dad again, and a shit ton of left overs. Dad let me have my pick, and I ate until I was comfortably full.

It felt like ages since I last got to eat like that. Too troubling to linger on.

May returned, just as she said, within the hour and a bundle of clothes in her arms. Once more taking the opportunity to implore, to take me to the hospital, just a quick trip. But my stance hadn't changed, and she had to compromise. If (and that was a very strong if) I felt safer, we could go. But only then.

It was the only way to satisfy her, and I felt bad for making Aunt May worry so badly. I knew going to the hospital was the right idea, too. But even stepping out into the building's hallway was enough to give me palpitations.

Straying too far from Dad's side. No. I had to stay in one place.

May also insisted I'd call or text her frequently, just to make sure I was okay. And at this point, I was in no position to argue. Texting her every hour or so was a small ask after everything that's happened. Texting Peter would be easier, and work just as well.

I put on those new clothes right away. Sweatpants and a loose shirt, that smelled like Aunt May's fabric softener. After a shower, of course. Aunt May waited around long enough to collect the dress, with a promise to fix it, make it better. As if fixing the dress might also fix the rest of this mess.

Then, at last, crashing on the couch. Dad was right there with me, tucked into his side. He said nothing and he didn't have to. After all the questions launched at me, all the answers I had been unable to give, it was nice to just sit in silence. To dwell in the moment, parse through what happened, while Antiques Roadshow provided a superficial excuse to curl up on the couch. Pretend we were a totally normal family with totally normal things to be worried about.

Waiting. Waiting for something. I didn't know what. Natasha and Steve and Sam had all left with promises to keep searching for answers, but they hardly had more than they started with months ago.

At this point, I didn't have hope left for any miracle breakthrough. It was easier to just close my eyes and try to sleep.

~o~

I woke slowly.

It was the kind of waking up where I didn't even realize I was awake, until a muscle twitch or a blink alerted me that I was in my body and not in a dream.

I sat up, head turning to look around. The apartment was dark, faint light glowing from the windows, curtains drawn as I had finally requested earlier that evening. The bed on the opposite side of the room, the dark pile of blankets that was Dad, sleeping softly. He didn't rouse as I came to my feet, silent against the floorboards.

May had also brought my sneakers, now parked by the door. My feet carried me over. Slipping them on. Hand reaching for the doorknob.

Slowly, very slowly. Dad would wake at the slightest sound, the wrong noise. Undo every lock, one by one. So meticulous. One by one, they all fell away.

I didn't close the door behind me. Too much noise, not enough time. The hallway was dim and narrow. Less quiet — an apartment further down was playing music. Another, came the smell of popcorn. I passed them all.

The streets were largely empty at this time of night. Into the wee hours of the morning, not even a taxi could be found.

A homeless man dozed on the corner, jolted when I walked by. He cursed, as if seeing a ghost. "Someone put a damn bell on you…"

I glanced at him once, and he looked back. Shied away. Not a threat.

As I continued on, I saw a girl in the window of a storefront.

My eyes locked with the girl on the other side, her face framed by melons.

No, not a girl.

My reflection.

I stared into the face I did not recognize, and moved on.

Somewhere inside me, my heart lurched. But my feet kept moving, one step after another. Not in any particular rush. Even as my mind began to race. As I tried to make myself stop.

Why couldn't I stop?

What was going on? What was happening to me?

My heart raced, my thoughts reeled, and yet my body continued as if it were on strings, pulled by a puppet master I couldn't see. My mind trapped inside, unable to take control. I could feel everything, see everything, hear everything. The solid concrete, the brush of my clothes, the cool air, the distant traffic. Every single breath I took. Every blink I made. It was all so very terribly real.

This wasn't a nightmare.

This was happening. And I couldn't make it stop.

I couldn't open my mouth, call out for help. As if there would've been anyone to hear me. And if there had, what would they do? Seeing a girl calling for help, when nothing was happening to her, when she was just going on her way. They'd think I was insane. Or just seeking attention, being bothersome.

My throat went dry with terror. Where was I going? Where was my body taking me?

I was heading south, towards the river. That was all I could figure out. If I stepped into the river, would my body swim? Or would I drown?

I didn't see anyone. No car stopped along the way to pick me up. But I didn't have forever. At some point, something would happen. I had to stop. I had to break out of this.

Something warm dripped down my face. I couldn't make myself look down, but I knew what it was. Blood.

This. This was it. I was asleep and then I was awake and it was happening and there was nothing I could do.

I wanted to weep, to scream, but my body refused to obey me.

An intersection ahead. The lights were green and while there were no cars coming, the crosswalk sign had its red hand up. I wanted to shriek as I stepped off the curb into open road.

No car came. I wished they had. Take me out, stop me, stop me from doing whatever it was I was doing.

"Mia!"

Oh, thank God.

"Mia, stop!"

Dad. Even sprinting, he was surprisingly quiet, but I could hear his racing footsteps. I was going at an easy pace, the only thing I could be thankful for, because Dad caught up with me quickly. He appeared in a blur, coming from behind and stepping in front of me, and it was only his hands grabbing my shoulders, holding me in place, could I finally stop.

That contact, it was like being struck by lightning. A gasp, like a punch to the chest.

"Mia, what the fuck!" Dad rarely swore around me. Not like that. Only when he was joking, casual conversation. This was anything but casual. "What are you doing out here?"

"I don't know," I choked out, my voice so small and tight I could barely get it out. Still my body pushed forward, trying to shrug him off, keep going. But this time, I could resist. Could clench my hands, bunch my shoulders. Hold myself back, inch by inch. "S-something… something's happening to me —"

It was as if my body short-circuited, and my knees gave out.

Dad caught me easily, and we both dropped to the ground, as I shook and gasped and let out a weak cry. His arms around me, a tight hug my body wouldn't break out of, as comforting as it was containing. "What do you mean? What's going on?"

"I d-don't know," I stammered, just barely clinging to control. I tasted blood in my mouth. "I j-just woke up like this. My body its — I couldn't control it —"

"You woke up like…?" Dad repeated to himself, as if trying to understand what that meant. I had already come to the same conclusion. They got me. Whoever it was, they got me.

Outside, inside. Awake or asleep. I wasn't safe.

"Oh, god," Dad whispered, as horror dawned on him.

"Don't let me go," I begged, tears finally streaming down my cheeks. "Please don't let me go."

"I won't," Dad said immediately, squeezed me tighter. His response self-assured, confident in at least one thing. "You're not going anywhere, I promise."

I was this close to believing him, when a van, parked fifty feet ahead, exploded.

The blast itself nearly bowled us right over. A giant fiery plume blew straight into the air. The windows of the van shattered in an instant, as well as the glass on several nearby buildings and vehicles.

My ears were ringing, and it took me a minute to realize it wasn't just my ears — the blast had set off multiple alarms, from both the cars and shops they damaged, the homes on the upper floors that suddenly had no windows. Fire from the van spewed everywhere, like bits of magma from a volcano. It had already spread to a nearby trash can, a bench, and part of a storefront.

And from the flames emerged a dark figure, walking through as if it were nothing. Bulky and male, heavy footsteps crunching on broken glass and litter. A face limned in white, a skull. No, not a skull. A mask.

I couldn't see the eyes beneath, but I could feel them on us. It distracted me from what was in his hands, electric rods crackling in the hot air.

"Shoulda stayed home, pops," the man called out, and my blood ran cold. I recognized that voice. "It wasn't supposed to go this way."

Brock Rumlow.