The morning is bleary, the kind of March day where the sky looks like a dirty old sponge, all gray and full of unshed rain. It's the kind of morning where you'd stay in bed, but here I am, awake in the sterile hospital room that's become my little island. The walls are the color of weak tea, probably meant to be soothing, but they just look sick to me. My bed's a jumble of white sheets, like ice floes in a bleached sea, and there's the constant beep of the heart monitor, an annoying reminder that I'm still here, still… broken.

A voice cuts through the fog of the morning, sharp and scared, "She's my granddaughter too, Rachel! You can't just keep me from her!" That voice, it's like an itch deep in my ear, one I can't scratch away. Who even is that?

The door to my room bursts open, and this woman storms in like she's leading a parade. Behind her, Mom's trying to grab her arm, her face all pinched and desperate, like she's trying to stuff a genie back into a bottle.

I've never seen this woman before, but she's got Mom's eyes, the same stormy orange-brown, like a sandstorm you don't want to mess with. Her hair's a silver halo, kinda wild, like it's trying to escape from her head. She's wearing this long coat with a pattern that looks like someone threw a bunch of coffee beans at it, and she's got these shoes on, big black heels that click on the floor like an accusation.

"Sam? Samantha, you are Samantha, right?" Her voice is deep, like when you hear music through a wall, all bass and no treble, but it has scratch to it, not quite the way that Fury Forge's voice scratches from the cigarettes, but something a little hoarser. Like yelling. She's got this look on her face, like she's sizing me up and finding me wanting.

I nod, not sure what else to do. My heart's doing this weird little jig in my chest, and I'm not sure if it's from surprise or something else. Fear? Annoyance? Maybe both.

Mom finally gets a word in, her voice all tight, "Sam, this is… this is your maternal grandmother, Camilla de Leon."

Grandmother? That word feels foreign, like a coin from a country I've never been to. I mean, I know I have a grandma, Leah. But I've never even heard the name Camilla before. Am I Hispanic? Her name sounds… Hispanic. Am I 1/4 mixed?

"I'm not just a name on a birth certificate, Rachel. I'm her family," Camilla declares, her eyes never leaving mine. It's like she's throwing down a gauntlet, daring someone to argue with her. "Please, you can call me Mom-Mom or Cammy if you want, dear."

My eyes flick back and forth between my Mom, who looks like she'd rather have a bullet hole in - who looks extremely mortified, and Camilla, who looks like she could bore through solid steel with her glare.

Mom looks like she's swallowed something sour. "We don't need to do this here, not now."

But Camilla isn't backing down. "No, we will do this here, and we will do this now. I have as much right to be a part of her life as you do. Do I need to get my lawyer?"

I feel like I'm watching a tennis match, my head bouncing back and forth between them. This isn't what I need right now. I need quiet, I need peace, I need to not have my room feel like a battlefield. I scrunch my body up like the whole thing's eaten a lemon.

"Look, I don't know what's going on, but can we not do this here?" My voice sounds small, even to my own ears, drowned out by the adult problems filling the room.

Camilla turns her gaze to me, and there's something soft there for a moment, something almost like regret. "I'm sorry, Samantha. I didn't come here to cause you more distress. I just… I wanted to see you, to make sure you're okay."

She reaches out a hand, like she's offering peace, but her eyes, they're still hard, still fighting some invisible war. Her glasses are big and round, her jewelry chunky.

Mom's hands are fists at her sides, and she looks like she wants to say a million things but can't find the words for any of them. Instead, she takes a step back, like she's surrendering the field. "Fine. But if you touch a hair on… her… body, or, G-d forbid, bring him up, then I am telling you right now, I will hunt for a restraining order and I won't rest until we get one."

Camilla nods, satisfied. "Don't worry, Rachel. I want as little to do with him as you do. Jerry and I are very happy together these days, I don't need to be reminded about him."

"Can I ask who we're pretending to talk around?" I cut through, still flicking my eyes between one, then the other.

"Let's just say Morris's counterpart is not quite the same degree of gentleman, darling," Camilla says, cutting off my Mom before she can give a less poetic-sounding answer. "And it's for the best that you never meet him, that much Rachel and I can agree on."

"Well. I'll be just down the hall if anyone needs me," my Mom harrumphs, adjusting herself, straightening her back, and shuffling her purse around on her shoulders. "Sam, if you don't want to talk to Camilla, you don't have to."

"Don't talk about me in the third person, Rachel, I'm right here," Camilla bites back, almost literally snapping her teeth at my Mom.

"Can you two quit it? You have a half-dead 14-and-five-sixths-year-old to be keeping in mind," I interrupt, making the two of them look sheepish for a split second.

Then, my Mom leaves. I'm left with this stranger who shares my blood, feeling the weight of her expectations, her desires, her need to be a part of my life. And I don't know what to do with that, not yet.

Camilla perches on the edge of the visitor's chair like a bird about to take flight, all nervous energy and twitchy movements. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, clasping her hands together. Her rings click against each other softly, a tiny, metallic symphony that's weirdly rhythmic.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Are you Hispanic, because your name is extremely Hispanic," I half-ask, half-breathe, the words just tumbling out without any of the usual filters I might have had if my brain wasn't still scrambled from… everything.

She seems taken aback for a second, then chuckles. "Yes, I am. On my mother's side, the Fernandes line traces back to Brazil after the expulsion, you know, the Alhambra Decree. And the de Leons, well, they stayed in Spain a little longer before coming to America in the 19th century."

I can't say I'm familiar with the Alhambra Decree but I make a mental note to look it up later. I have something much more pressing in mind.

"So, does that mean I'm mixed?" I ask, unsure if I'm saying it in jest or not. I'm grappling with this new piece of my identity puzzle, trying to fit it alongside every other bit I've collected over the years.

"In the definitions that you'd use in America, well… It's complicated," she says, a wrinkle forming between her brows. "But in a way, yes. You're a tapestry of cultures, Samantha. A beautiful blend."

That word -- tapestry -- makes me think of something intricate and colorful, something with history. I'm not sure how to feel about that yet. I'm certainly a patchwork of various shades of white, most of which by now is scar tissue.

The room is too quiet after that, the kind of quiet that's loud, filled with the things that aren't being said. Camilla breaks it by asking me about school, my hobbies, my friends. It's like she's trying to download my entire life with a few questions.

"I like to read," I start, sticking to safe topics. "And I used to play a lot of soccer. Well, I did. Before…"

She nods, encouraging me to go on. "That's wonderful. And your friends? Tell me about them."

I think of Lily and Marcus, of the Young Defenders, of Jordan. How can I explain any of them without revealing too much? "They're… great. Supportive. Lily's been collecting my homework for me while I've been in here," I say, offering a sanitized version of my life. "Most of my friends just grew up on my street. Slowly, uh, putting myself out there."

"And what about after school? Any… special activities?" Camilla asks, and there's something probing in her gaze, like she's searching for something more than what I'm saying.

I shift uncomfortably, picking at the edge of my hospital blanket. "Just… normal stuff. Homework, hanging out, you know. Not much nowadays, of course."

She nods, but I can tell she doesn't buy it. There's a shrewdness in her eyes that tells me she's used to digging deeper, to finding out the things people try to hide. I'm sure she's not fooled for a second, but is it a 'my granddaughter is a superhero' not fooled, or a 'my granddaughter does drugs and smokes weed' not fooled? I don't know what she's thinking, and I really don't want to ask.

We continue the dance of conversation, me sidestepping any mention of Bloodhound, of the real reasons I'm here. She doesn't push too hard, thankfully, but there's a persistence in her that tells me she's not going to give up easily.

The room feels smaller with every question, the air thicker. I can't tell if she's being genuinely friendly or if this is some kind of interrogation. Either way, I'm on guard, playing the part of the normal teenager as best as I can.

But I'm not normal, am I? I haven't been since the day I got these… powers. And sitting here with Camilla, with her questions and her curiosity, I've never felt more like an outsider.

The conversation eventually slows, and there's a lull that feels almost comfortable. Camilla sits back, studying me with a thoughtful expression.

"You're a lot like your mother, you know. Strong. Determined." There's a note of pride in her voice, and it catches me off guard. "She's always been her own person, despite everything."

I'm not sure how to respond to that, to the sudden warmth in her words. So I just nod, and we sit in silence, the space between us filled with the unsaid, with the history that's still a mystery to me.

The silence stretches between us, a gulf filled with unspoken histories and half-secrets. I break it, my curiosity a live wire zapping through the caution. "Can you tell me about my grandfather?" I ask, the words out before I can think better of it.

Camilla's face closes up like a shop shutter coming down. "That's not a man you need to know about, Samantha," she says, her voice suddenly cold, like winter had walked into the room.

"But if you're going to pry into my life, don't I get to know about yours?" I press, not ready to let it go, feeling a rebellious spark flicker to life inside me. "Isn't that fair?"

Her mouth thins into a line, a dam holding back a flood. "Your mother and I don't see eye to eye on many things. Obviously. But one of the few things we can agree on is that you shouldn't be exposed to that man. It's easier to pretend you only have the one," she says after about a minute of harried silence, her tone final. But I can see the shadows that pass behind her eyes, ghosts of old, maybe not quite forgotten battles.

Was he violent? Is that the big secret?

Did I get that from him?

I let out a sigh, knowing I won't get more from her on this, not now anyway. "Okay, then what about Mom? What was she like growing up? What was it like in the… household? We can do a little pen pal thing. Notes for notes."

Camilla's face softens, a crack in the armor. She smiles, but it's tinged with something bittersweet. "Rachel was… she was a firecracker. Always asking questions, always pushing boundaries. Our home… it was a place of passion and learning, and yes, some conflict. But we loved deeply, even when we struggled to show it."

I can almost picture it, this vibrant, chaotic household that shaped my mom into the person she is, the person who's trying so hard to give me a different, more peaceful life. I'm sure if I asked my mom she'd have a much different way of seeing things. So I'm not sure if I'm going to ask her.

"And you, Camilla? What are you like, besides being… you?" I ask. "I mean, you know all there is to know about me. What's there to know about my intimidating grandma?"

She laughs at that, a rich sound that seems to fill the room. "I'm many things, Samantha. I'm a lover of books, of history. I'm a fighter when I need to be, and yes, maybe a bit intimidating. I've had to be, to survive in this world."

I nod, not sure whether to trust her own self assessment. There has to be a good reason why I've never heard her name before. "And now you're here, in my life. What do you want from me? I mean, what are you expecting?"

Camilla leans forward, her hands clasped together again. "I want to be part of your life, to share in your joys and your struggles. I want to be your grandmother, if you'll let me."

I'm silent for a moment, weighing her words, the offer. It's tempting, to have another person in my corner, especially one as obviously strong as Camilla. But how much trust should I be putting in her? How much to my mom? How do I divvy it up?

"I'll think about it," I say finally, and she nods, like that's all she can ask for.

The room feels different now, the air lighter somehow, like we've reached some kind of understanding, tentative as it might be. And as she stands to leave, Camilla does something unexpected. She bends down and kisses the top of my head, her sallow, dry lips pressed up against my bald scalp.

"Get well soon, Samantha. There's a whole world out there waiting for you," she says, and then she's gone, her heels clacking down the hallway.

I'm left feeling strangely empty and full at the same time, like there's a tapeworm in my stomach but I just feasted on something I didn't know I was hungry for. Pop-Pop Moe, I don't know if he's where I got my fight from. I'm sure he's cracked a couple of skulls when he needed to, but him, and my grandma - and Mom-Mom Leah - are they where my sickness came from? I can't imagine it. It has to be from this uncovered, ancient artifact. The side of the family that got left buried at the altar.

Not the radiation poisoning, but the deeper sickness. The thrills. The Small side of the family has always seemed so mild-mannered, but seeing my Mom not half an hour ago, it was like an entirely new person. Someone I'd never seen before.

What's wrong with me?