The conversation lulls for a moment, everyone chewing in awkward silence. Then Jake, apparently deciding he's been quiet long enough, pipes up.

"Oh hey, did I tell you guys? My buddy Zack got some wild drone footage of the aftermath of that Philly Phreaks attack. It's crazy, like something out of a movie."

I tense up immediately, my fork freezing halfway to my mouth. I was there, right in the thick of it. The memory of Deathgirl's spikes piercing my leg flashes through my mind, and I have to suppress a shudder.

Aunt Rebecca, bless her heart, tries to change the subject. "Oh, that's... interesting, Jake. Say, did anyone try the new kugel recipe I found? It has a hint of cinnamon..."

But Uncle Shelly's already latched onto the topic like a dog with a bone. "You know what's really crazy? The fact that we need increased security measures just to feel safe in our own city. In New York! It didn't even happen here! I tell you, if we had more cops on the streets, none of this superhuman nonsense would be happening."

Aunt Linda nods vigorously, nearly knocking over her water glass in her enthusiasm. "Absolutely! Why, just last week, I was setting up my jewelry stand at the flea market, and I swear I saw someone suspicious lurking around. If there had been a police presence, I would have felt so much safer."

I can see Abigail's knuckles turning white around her fork. She takes a deep breath, clearly trying to stay calm. "Actually, studies have shown that increased police presence doesn't necessarily lead to decreased crime rates. In fact, it often results in disproportionate targeting of minority communities."

Uncle Shelly snorts. "Oh, here we go with the liberal propaganda. Next you'll be telling us we should just let all the criminals go free and sing kumbaya."

"That's not what I'm saying at all," Abigail protests. "I'm just pointing out that the issue is more complex than 'more cops equals less crime.' There are systemic problems that need to be addressed."

Uncle Aaron clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation is taking. "Well, from an economic standpoint, we have to consider the cost of these increased security measures. Higher taxes could lead to business closures, which would only exacerbate the unrest. And spending more money on cops is less money that can be used for, you know... things like libraries."

He shoots Mom a meaningful look.

Mom, who's been unusually quiet up until now, suddenly chimes in. "You want to talk about police misconduct? Let me tell you about the time I got pulled over for 'suspicious behavior' while dropping off books at the library. At two in the afternoon. On a Tuesday."

Her words are slightly slurred, and I realize with a sinking feeling that she's probably had more wine than she should have. Dad places a hand on her arm, trying to calm her down, but she shakes it off.

"No, Ben, they need to hear this. It's not right, what's happening out there. It's not safe for anyone, especially not for kids like Sam and her friends," she says, her volume fluctuating every three words.

Pop-Pop Moe clears his throat, his voice cutting through the rising tension. "Now, now, let's try to look at the bigger picture here. Instead of arguing about who's to blame, maybe we should be discussing solutions. What can we do to make things better for everyone?"

For a moment, it seems like his words might actually calm things down. But then Uncle Shelly keeps going, and the dam begins to break.

"And did you hear about that Chernobyl guy? Fifty years? That's it? For what he did?" Uncle Shelly's face is turning an alarming shade of red. "And they're sending him to some cushy facility instead of a real prison? It's a joke, I tell you. A goddamn joke."

"Language, Shelly," Aunt Rebecca murmurs, but no one pays her any attention.

Abigail leans forward, her eyes blazing. "Actually, Aurora Springs is designed specifically for individuals with powers that make traditional incarceration dangerous or impossible. It's not about being 'cushy,' it's about public safety and rehabilitation."

Uncle Shelly laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Rehabilitation? For supervillains? What's next, are we going to start a book club for Deathgirl?"

I flinch at the mention of Deathgirl, memories of our fight flashing through my mind. But no one notices, too caught up in the argument.

"Maybe we should!" Abigail shoots back. "Our current system clearly isn't working. Did you know the recidivism rate for supervillains is even higher than for regular offenders? We need to be looking at alternatives, like restorative justice programs or even--"

I'm pretty sure Abigail says something about abolition, but I can't hear it over the din. The table erupts into chaos. Uncle Shelly's shouting something about "bleeding heart liberals," while Aunt Linda's voice rises shrilly above the din, talking about the safety of "normal people." Uncle Aaron's trying to interject something about taxpayer costs and privatization, but no one's listening.

Dad, in a rare moment of assertiveness, raises his voice to be heard. "Now hold on a minute. Abigail might have a point. Our tradition teaches us about the importance of teshuvah, of repentance and second chances. Shouldn't that apply to everyone, even... even supervillains?"

Uncle Shelly rounds on Dad, his face thunderous. "Oh, so now you're an expert on Jewish law, Benny? Tell me, does the Torah say anything about what to do when a guy can level a city block with his mind?"

Mom, swaying slightly in her seat, jabs a finger in Uncle Shelly's direction. "Don't you talk to my husband like that! At least he's thinking about solutions instead of just... just yelling all the time!"

"Rachel, please," Aunt Rebecca pleads, "maybe we should all just take a deep breath and—"

"No, you know what?" Mom cuts her off, her words slurring together. "I'm sick of taking deep breaths. I'm sick of pretending everything's fine when it's not. The whole system is broken, can't you see that? It's not just about supervillains, it's about regular people too. The city library is *basically* closed - we're only allowed to let so many people in! Because we're under martial law! It's not right, it's not..."

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She trails off, looking slightly green. Dad puts an arm around her, murmuring something I can't quite hear.

"At least they're doing *something* to try and cut down on all these hoodlums. Better than that spineless jury that put a supervillain in a full-service hotel," Uncle Shelley grumbles, trying to get the last word.

Throughout all of this, I've been sitting there, silent and overwhelmed. I want to say something, to defend Mom or back up Abigail or... I don't know. But every time I open my mouth, the words get stuck in my throat. How can I explain my perspective without revealing too much? How can I talk about Fedorov or Deathgirl or any of it when I'm not supposed to know anything more than what's been on the news?

Jake catches my eye from across the table, looking as lost as I feel. He mouths "What the fuck?" at me, and I can only shrug helplessly in response.

"I think we should all take a little break, maybe relax on the couch and then get back to eating..." Pop-Pop Moe says, at just above a speaking level. There's a little bit more force to it than what I'm used to hearing from him, a little more *anger*.

And then, just when I think things can't possibly get any worse, Uncle Shelly drops the drunken bomb, his face reddened with rage and wine. His hair has become a sweaty mop over his head, his butter knife jabbed around like a pointer to a whiteboard. He looks swollen. Swollen with anger.

"You know what?" he snarls, rounding on Pop-Pop Moe. "I'm sick of you sitting there, acting all wise and neutral. As if you have any right to take the high road here, you holier-than-thou snakes. Why don't you tell them, Dad? Tell them where all this family prosperity really came from?"

Pop-Pop Moe goes pale, his hands shaking as he sets down his fork. "Shelly, please. This isn't the time or the place..."

But Uncle Shelly's on a roll now, his voice rising with each word. "No, I think it's exactly the time and place. You want to talk about solutions? How about we start by acknowledging that our own father, the great Morris Small, helped build Daedalus Correctional Facility? The very supermax prison this *terrorist* should've been sent to in the first place!"

The silence that falls over the table is deafening. I feel like I've been punched in the gut, all the air rushing out of my lungs. Pop-Pop Moe? The man who introduced me to superhero comics, who always talked about justice and doing the right thing... he helped build a supervillain prison? *The* supervillain prison?

Abigail's the first to break the silence, looking defeated, like something in her was about to give out. "Did you?" She asks, like she knows the answer already.

Pop-Pop Moe looks older than I've ever seen him, aging decades in an instant, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes," he says quietly. "It's true. My firm was contracted to work on the weatherproofing, which we did. It was a different time, with different concerns, and John convinced me that the money from the contracting would help keep my family safe. Give us a cushion, if we needed one. We thought we were doing the right thing, keeping people safe."

"Keeping people safe?" Abigail repeats, incredulous, her voice rising in pitch and volume. "By building a torture chamber disguised as a prison? Do you have any idea what goes on in there? The human rights violations, the—"

"Now hold on just a minute," Uncle Aaron interjects. "Let's not get carried away here. Daedalus is a necessary facility for containing dangerous individuals, and the research done there is extremely important in helping counteract the aftermath of supervillain attacks."

"Oh, well as long as it's profitable," Abigail spits out, her voice dripping with venomous sarcasm.

Aunt Linda, apparently oblivious to the tension, chimes in. "I think it's wonderful that Pop-Pop was involved in such an important project. At least we know it was built by someone competent! We love you, Morris. You did a good job on it."

Pop-Pop Moe looks like he would really rather just walk into the ocean right now. His entire body is being pulled down by Jupiter gravity.

Linda's words hang in the air, painfully sincere and utterly tone-deaf. I want to sink into the floor, to disappear entirely. How did we get here? How did a family dinner turn into... this?

"Don't stand above us like you're... like you're above all this," Uncle Shelley almost growls through a mostly-closed mouth. "The kids deserve to know."

Jake looks at Uncle Shelley like he'd really rather be sticking a fork in his throat. And I can't say I blame him. I feel... a lot - not just at Pop-Pop, but at the lengths my uncle is going just to do, what, to spite Moe for trying to calm down a political argument? I can't tell who I hate more right now. My body is tensing up so much I can feel teeth readying themselves - a negative consequence of my training it into muscle memory.

Pop-Pop Moe looks around the table, his eyes filled with a mixture of regret and pleading. "I know it's hard to understand, but you have to believe me when I say I never wanted to cause harm. We were trying to solve a problem, to keep people safe in a world that suddenly had superpowers in it. But I've regretted my involvement ever since. That's why I've spent years trying to make amends, donating to rehabilitation programs, advocating for reform..."

"Oh, so throwing money at the problem makes it all better?" Abigail asks, quietly and bitterly.

At the same time, Uncle Shelley's arms fold unsteadily over his chest. "Go ahead and undermine the good work you did, why don't you," he half-whispers.

The questions hang in the air, unanswered. I look at Pop-Pop Moe, really look at him, and for the first time I see not the wise, kind grandfather I've always known, but a man carrying the weight of his past mistakes. It makes my chest ache in a way I can't quite describe.

The rest of the meal passes in a haze of tense silence punctuated by Aunt Rebecca's increasingly desperate attempts at small talk. "So, um, how about those new traffic lights they installed downtown? Really something, aren't they?" No one responds.

When it comes time for the blessing over the children, Pop-Pop Moe's voice wavers as he recites the familiar words. "Yesimcha Elohim ke-Ephraim ve-chi-Menashe..." His hands shake as he places them on Jake's head, then mine, then Abigail's. I can feel the weight of his regret in that touch, and it takes everything in me not to pull away. "May you be blessed like Ephraim and Manasseh, like Sarah, Rebeccah, Rachel and Leah."

As soon as the blessing is over, Uncle Shelly stands up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "Well, this has been enlightening," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Linda, we're leaving."

Aunt Linda blinks, looking confused. "But what about dessert? I brought my apple strudel..."

"Now, Linda," Uncle Shelly growls, and she scrambles to her feet, shooting apologetic glances around the table.

They're barely out the door before Uncle Aaron and Aunt Rebecca are making their excuses too, all but dragging Jake along with them. He looks back at me as they leave, his eyes wide with a mixture of confusion and sympathy.

And then it's just us – me, Abigail, Mom and Dad (who are staying the night), and Pop-Pop Moe. The silence is thick enough to cut with a knife.

After what feels like an eternity, Pop-Pop Moe clears his throat. "Sam, Abigail," he says softly, "would you like to join me for Tashlich at the pier? While your father tends to Rachel?"

Dad gives him an approving nod. I don't think he wants to go anywhere either.

I look at Abigail, who seems to be wrestling with her own inner turmoil. After a moment, she nods stiffly. "Yeah," she says, her voice hoarse. "Yeah, I think that would be good."

As we get up to leave, I catch a glimpse of Mom and Dad. Mom's slumped in her chair, looking like she might be sick, while Dad just looks lost. I want to say something, to offer some words of comfort or understanding, but what could I possibly say after all this? Pop-Pop Moe quietly cubes a piece of challah, before ripping it up into smaller pieces, stuffing it into a ziploc bag, and handing it to me to carry.