The first week of my recovery is a haze of pain, medication, and fitful sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back outside the courthouse, reliving the chaos and horror of that day. Deathgirl's snarling face, the mutated civilians, and the blood - so much blood - haunt my dreams. It's like my brain is a broken record, skipping and repeating the worst moments on an endless loop.

Mom and Dad take turns staying with me, making sure I'm as comfortable as possible. They fuss over me, adjusting my pillows, bringing me snacks, and chattering about anything and everything to keep my mind occupied. Dad tells me about the latest zoning proposals he's working on, his eyes lighting up as he describes his plans for a new park in the heart of the city. Mom shares gossip from the library, her voice hushed and conspiratorial as she reveals which patrons have been causing trouble.

"And then," she says, leaning in close, "Mrs. Goldstein had the nerve to complain about the noise! As if she wasn't the one who started the whole ruckus in the first place!"

I try to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pained grunt. Mom's face softens, and she brushes a stray hair from my forehead - finally long enough to have bangs. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be bothering you with all this nonsense."

"No, it's okay," I assure her. "I like hearing about normal stuff. I'd rather hear about that."

She nods, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know, sweetie. We're just so worried about you."

Pop-pop visits every day, armed with containers of homemade chicken soup and stacks of his favorite superhero comics. He settles into the chair beside my bed, his weathered hands gentle as he tucks the blankets around me.

"You know, Sam," he says, his voice soft and scratchy, "when I was a kid, I used to dream about being a superhero. I'd tie a towel around my neck and run around the neighborhood, pretending I was flying off to save the day."

I smile, trying to picture Pop-pop as a little boy, his face bright with excitement. "I bet you were adorable."

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I was a handful, that's for sure. But I always knew, deep down, that I wasn't cut out for that life. Not like you, Sam. You're the real deal."

I feel a lump forming in my throat, and I blink back tears. "I don't feel very heroic right now, Pop-pop. I feel... broken."

He takes my hand, his skin soft and papery against mine. "You're not broken, Sam. You're healing. And that takes time and strength, just like any battle. You'll get through this, bubbeleh. I know you will."

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Two weeks after the attack, I'm finally able to move around the house without pain, limping on the leg with a hole on it.. It's a small victory, but after being cooped up in bed for so long, it feels like a major milestone. Jordan and Connor come over to celebrate, armed with a stack of comic books and a bag of my favorite gummy worms.

"Well, well, well," Jordan says, a smirk playing at the corners of their mouth. "Look who's up and about. And here I thought we'd have to stage a jailbreak to get you out of bed."

I roll my eyes, hobbling over to the couch and plopping down with a grunt. "Ha ha, very funny. You try being stuck in bed for two weeks and see how you like it."

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Connor chuckles, folding his lanky frame into the armchair across from us. "No thanks. I've seen your bed head, Sam. It's not a pretty sight."

I chuck a pillow at him, but he deflects it easily, his reflexes lightning-fast. "Watch it, string bean," I warn, narrowing my eyes. "I may be down, but I'm not out."

Jordan clears their throat, holding up the stack of comics like a peace offering. "Okay, okay, enough squabbling. We brought you some reading material to help pass the time." they pause, grimacing over their words.

"And it's all in chrono-- chrono-logic-- uh, chronolo--," Connor tries to say.

"Chronological order," Jordan supplies with a cheesy grin.

Connor scowls playfully. "Thank you, Professor Westwood. Anyway, we figured you could use a distraction."

I grab the top comic, a vintage issue of some Japanese comic I've never read. "Did you raid my grandpa's stash?" I ask incredulously, flipping through the pages - Nep Egg? Pirates?

Jordan looks offended. "What? No! It's an omnibus of One Piece. What makes you think I, like, need to read about superheroes? I already am one. There's nothing interesting under the sun there."

I laugh, suddenly and breathlessly. "You're a superhero, now?"

Jordan scowls at me. "No."

We spend the rest of the afternoon reading comics and swapping stories about our favorite heroes. It's a welcome escape from reality, a chance to lose myself in a world where the good guys always win and the bad guys always get their comeuppance. I like when the rubber guy punches the fish guy in the face. But as the sun starts to set and Jordan and Connor get ready to leave, the weight of everything comes crashing back.

"Listen, Sam," Jordan says, their voice uncharacteristically somber. "About what happened at the courthouse..."

I feel my stomach twist, the gummy worms I'd been happily munching on turning to lead in my gut. "I don't want to talk about it," I say quickly, my grip tightening on my crutches.

"I know, but--"

"Please, Jordan. Now's not the time."

They sigh, running a hand through their dark, spiky hair. "Okay. I get it. But when you're ready, I'm here. We all are. You don't have to go through this alone."

I nod, swallowing past the sudden tightness in my throat. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

Connor reaches over, giving my shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Anytime, Sam. We've got your back, no matter what."

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The trial continues, and I watch the news coverage with a growing sense of dread. The city feels different now, like it's holding its breath, waiting for the next disaster to strike. There are more police on the streets, more heroes patrolling the skies. The courthouse has become a fortress, surrounded by barricades and armed guards.

I try to focus on my recovery, on getting stronger every day. Rampart comes over a few times to help with my physical therapy, guiding me through the exercises with his usual calm, steady presence.

"Okay, Sam, let's try another set," he says, his large hands gently supporting my leg as I struggle to bend my knee. "Remember, slow and steady. Don't push yourself too hard."

I grit my teeth, sweat beading on my forehead as I fight through the pain. "I... I can't," I gasp, my leg trembling with the effort. "It hurts too much."

Rampart nods, carefully lowering my leg back down onto the bed. "That's okay. You're doing great, Sam. I know it doesn't feel like it, but you're making progress."

I flop back against the pillows, frustrated tears stinging my eyes. "It doesn't feel like progress. I wish I could just break my own nose to make the rest of my regeneration factor."

"Don't do that," he says, matter-of-factly, browsing through his phone.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, his expression thoughtful. "You know, when I first got my powers, I thought I was invincible. I thought I could take on anything and anyone. But then I got hurt, bad. Took me months to recover, and even then, I wasn't the same. I had to learn to adapt, to work with my new limitations."

I blink up at him, surprised. "I didn't know that. I didn't know *you* could get injured."

He shows me pictures on his phone - a full arm cast, going all the way from the top of his upper arm down to his palm, eating his wrist like a big worm. "Yeah. And I can't heal like you can. But, you know, it happens. We grow and evolve. And when you're ready we can start turning your shins into lethal weapons again."

I can't help but chuckle. "Alright, weirdo. What's next on the agenda?"