After a couple weeks of letting Maggie "recover" (as much as she'll let herself), I figure it's about time to check in. She's still supposed to be taking it easy, but that's about as likely as snow in August. So, I stop by her place one evening, in between her parents getting home and her sneaking out for one of her "walks."

I knock on her window, and Maggie's face pops into view, just barely visible under the collar of her fuzzy pink sweater. She opens the window, and I slide in, trying not to track too much street grime onto her floor.

"Nice sweater," I say, smirking.

She rolls her eyes. "You're just jealous you don't have one." She pulls the sweater's collar up to her chin. "Warmest thing I own, and honestly, kind of stylish, right?"

"Very 'mall trip with your mom' stylish," I say, grinning as I flop down onto her bed.

She shoves me a bit as she sits down beside me, pulling her legs up and wincing. "Shut up. This is fashion, and you just don't get it."

I laugh, but it's a little forced. I hate seeing her still wincing, still hurting. I hate it even more that she's trying so hard to hide it.

"So... how's the recovery?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

Maggie shrugs, trying to look casual. "It's fine. Just a couple broken ribs. Nothing I can't handle."

"Mags, you're still supposed to be resting." I give her a look, raising an eyebrow. "You're not going out on patrols, are you?"

She hesitates, which is answer enough.

"I'm not doing anything serious," she says quickly. "Just walking around the neighborhood. Keeping an eye out. Not like I'm out there fighting crime." She pauses, glancing at me. "Not like you."

I swallow, feeling that familiar pang of frustration. "Maggie, it's not the same. I... I can take risks, you know? I mean, I heal. You don't. You're not..." I trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence without sounding like a total jerk.

"Not indestructible?" she says, her voice softer now. She's not mad; she's just... resigned, I guess.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "Not indestructible."

We both sit there for a minute, the silence settling over us like a heavy blanket. It's not like I don't know Maggie can handle herself, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier. Especially when I can see the bruises still peeking out under her sleeves, the way she's holding herself a little too carefully.

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I've been keeping an eye on the news about Mr. Nothing. Or trying to, anyway. So far, the police haven't gotten a word out of him. There's footage of him being led into an interrogation room, stone-faced and dead silent, and apparently he's refusing to answer any questions. He just sits there, hands clasped on the table, staring straight ahead like he's made of granite. They tried to question him on the Kingdom,

"Lawyer."

on the zoo heist,

"Lawyer."

on the frogs,

"Lawyer."

Nothing.

I'm not surprised, but it still makes my skin crawl a little, like he's somehow still out there even though he's locked up tight. I can only imagine what's going on in his head, what plans he's running through as he sits there, silent and smug. If he's as careful as he seems, he's probably three steps ahead of anyone trying to get information out of him.

But I can't shake the image of those frogs. Like, what are they planning? It's not like they need frogs to start a crime spree or whatever. And it's not like they're hard to get if you just want them for... frog reasons. It's like they're setting something up, but for what, I have no clue.

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Maggie sighs, breaking the silence in her room, pulling me out of my thoughts. "I get it, you know," she says, her voice softer. "You're worried. But... I can't just sit around doing nothing. And it's not like I'm totally helpless. I've got my powers, too."

"Yeah, but it's not the same," I say, looking down. "You don't heal like I do, Mags. You can't just bounce back from stuff like... like bullets."

She gives me a look, half-amused, half-annoyed. "Sam, you're acting like I go looking for bullets." She pauses, glancing down at her hands. "But... I know what you mean. It's just... hard, you know? Sitting around while everyone else is out there."

I nod. I get it, more than she probably realizes. "Yeah, it's hard. But that's kind of... the thing, right? We have to be smart about this. I don't want you to end up hurt."

Maggie snorts, rolling her eyes. "You know, for someone who throws herself into danger on a regular basis, you sound pretty overprotective right now."

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"Yeah, well, that's kind of my thing," I say, grinning a little. "Overprotective shark-girl with a martyr complex."

She laughs, and it's genuine, which makes me feel a little better. But then her smile fades, and she looks at me, really looks at me, like she's trying to see past all the jokes and bravado.

"You know," she says, her voice softer now, "I don't... expect you to protect me all the time. I chose this, too. I chose to go out there, to help people. It's not just about you."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. She's right, of course. But that doesn't make it any easier.

"Besides," she says, trying to lighten the mood, "if I didn't go out there, who would make sure you didn't do anything stupid?"

I laugh, but it's a little hollow. "I think you overestimate my ability to be stopped by reason."

"Oh, trust me, I know you're unstoppable," she says, smirking. "But someone's gotta try."

I'm about to reply, to make some sarcastic comment, when her mom's voice calls from the kitchen.

"Girls! Mac and cheese is ready!"

We both sit there for a second, the tension lingering between us, and then Maggie grins, rolling her eyes. "Dinner calls."

I follow her out, feeling a little better, but the worry's still there, like a stone in my chest.

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Shabbat at Pop-Pop Moe's place in Ventnor means two things: first, that we're actually getting out of Philly for a minute, and second, we're getting Schlemiel. He's a kitten still, but a big one--big eyes, a little too skinny, and constantly tripping over himself. But he's Pop-Pop's pride and joy now. Now it's him, Schlemiel, and probably the most complete collection of classic sci-fi books outside a university archive.

When we walk in the door, Schlemiel wobbles over to us, like he's doing his best impression of a toddler learning how to impersonate two penguins taped together.

"Sam, look at him--he's trying to be social," my dad says, bending down to give Schlemiel a scratch on the head, even though the cat immediately stumbles over onto his side and just stays there, purring like a little motorboat.

Pop-Pop shuffles over, grinning ear to ear. "That's right, Schlemiel. Show 'em how you welcome guests. In my day, they just threw cats outside, you know. Now look, this one, he's practically running the house. If he could hold a fork, he'd be in charge of the chicken."

"Trust me, Moe, he'd try," my mom says, smiling and stepping forward to hug him. She gives him a quick kiss on the cheek before squeezing his arm. "You look good. I don't think I've seen you this tan in a while."

"Thank the patio," Pop-Pop says, gesturing out the back window, which shows the Jersey coastline in the distance, very far past More Houses. "And Costco's SPF 80. Only the best."

The entryway smells like it always does here--like old books and a little bit like the sea, and I already feel some of the week's weight melting off. And I do feel lucky to be here, not just because I get to spend time with Pop-Pop, but because it's just... normal. Or as normal as it can get. I mean, it's been a while since I could do Shabbat without any looming "incidents" or last-minute calls pulling me out the door. Even the pressure that's been building in Philly these past few weeks feels like it's on pause tonight.

Pop-Pop pulls out a chair for my mom at the dining table, which is already set up with challah, a couple of non-dairy sides (in small deli containers, courtesy of the kosher market), a half-eaten rotisserie chicken, and one fancy-looking bottle of wine, already open.

"Wine's from Trader Joe's," he announces proudly, like this is something special. "It's kosher and five dollars. G-d loves a bargain, I tell you."

"Then I'll take grape juice," Mom says, reaching for the big plastic jug on the table.

Pop-Pop raises an eyebrow. "You sure? What, you're swearing off wine now?"

"Just a bit less," Mom says, pouring herself a small cup of grape juice instead. "It's not even the wine, really. I just... think it'll make me feel better. Just trying it out. Could be a phase."

"Yeah, she's in her grape juice context," I mutter, making Pop-Pop chuckle and Mom roll her eyes, but she's grinning a little too.

Dad sits down next to her and reaches for the challah. "Alright, ready to do this? Sam, you want to do the honors?" He nods toward the wine, the grape juice, and then the candle. "It's been too long since you were here for this."

We go through the blessings together, one for each thing, and it's kind of nice--hearing our voices mixing together. Pop-Pop gets louder with each one, and by the end, he's practically belting it out. Schlemiel's ears flatten a little, like he's annoyed by the noise, but he doesn't leave his spot on the floor. Just keeps purring away.

Once we finish, Pop-Pop raises his glass and nods to me. "Alright, now we can eat. Sam, you said you got news about your 'friends' in the hero world?"

I grin, glancing at Mom and Dad before I start. They know about the zoo, about the whole... well, most of it. They know about my 'extracurriculars,' as they call them, but not that I was there for the whole thing. I figure, this time, I can actually talk about it with them. Or at least, as much as I can tell them without it becoming a whole interrogation.

"Okay, so," I start, scooping a bit of potato salad onto my plate. "There was this big heist a couple months back, at the zoo--like, everyone knows about it by now. They made a huge show out of it, with rhinos and the whole Jurassic Park treatment. That one's public knowledge. Mr. Tyrannosaur himself was there, remember?"

Pop-Pop's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, I remember, alright. How could I forget? That no-goodnik wrecked your house, didn't he? They had helicopters on him for, what, three hours?"

"I don't even know how he got away," Dad mumbles.

I nod. "Yeah, that's the one. But here's the thing: that whole thing with the rhinos? That was basically just a distraction. They didn't want the rhinos at all. They were actually after... a bunch of poison dart frogs. Like, hundreds of them."

There's a pause as everyone at the table blinks at me.

"Frogs?" Pop-Pop says, sounding almost disappointed. "What, they didn't want something cooler? They made a mess of an entire zoo for frogs?"

I can't help but laugh at his expression. "Hey, frogs are cool! Besides, they're poison dart frogs, which means they're highly toxic. But, yeah, I know--big animal rampage, Kingdom guys crawling all over, and they left with... frogs."

Dad groans, reaching for a drumstick. "Oh, G-d, what do they even need frogs for? And more importantly, how the heck did they pull that off without getting busted on the way out? Like, what, did they have an armored terrarium waiting for them outside?"

Mom shakes her head, obviously still trying to wrap her head around it. "Maybe it's easier to steal frogs than rhinos. And if they're poison, maybe they're--"

"A biological weapon," Pop-Pop finishes, his voice dropping in mock seriousness as he lifts his hands, like he's about to cast a spell. "Imagine, a rain of frogs falling down on the city. Toadpocalypse!" He pauses, then shakes his head, chuckling. "But really, poison dart frogs? That's some serious business. Seems like they're aiming to make trouble in a... creative way."

"Sounds like Passover," Dad jokes, his face a little clenched up.