69

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Begin Arc 5: Mayfly

It’s not just the shards of sunlight skipping off the windows, or the scent of fresh paint mingling with the aroma of spring that’s got me grinning like an idiot—it’s the sense of normalcy, like nothing ever went pear-shaped. I’m standing on the newly paved walkway, flanked by Mom and Dad, soaking in the absurdity of it all. April 18th, 2024, and our house—once a gnarly tangle of debris courtesy of Mr. Tyrannosaurus’ really, really bad day—looks almost… inviting. Not to say I’d ever invite Mr. T-Rex back for tea or anything, but you get the picture.

“You’d think it was always like this,” Mom says, sweeping an arm out like she’s showing off on one of those home makeover shows. “Can you believe it, Sam?”

I arch an eyebrow at her as I cross my arms. “You mean if I squint really hard and forget the past… six months of earsplitting construction noises? Yeah, totally.”

“You weren’t even here listening to them. We were here every other weekend to check in on things!” Mom says, trying to reassure me, with a gentle slap on the back. I wince, for more than one reason, and she mumbles a quick apology.

Dad’s giving the door frame a discerning look, all furrowed brows and faint mumbling to himself. Something about the workmanship or symmetry, I’m not following, but when does he not have a critique about craftsmanship?

“Ben, it’s fine,” Mom chides gently, as always steering Dad from his tangent back into the moment.

He blinks, readjusting his focus, and catches me snickering at him. “What? It’s off by like a sixteenth of an inch, I can tell,” Dad asserts. And I believe him. I mean, if Dad were a superhero, his power would be, I dunno, Laser Precision Eyes or something. Super City Planner. No, how would that get you out of a life-or-death situation? I guess if someone had a gun to your head and said ZONE THIS CITY PARK! NOW!

Mom shakes her head, her lips curving upwards with that ‘what are we gonna do with him?’ smile that’s seen a lot more mileage lately.

The breeze picks up, ribbons of air that weave through our little unit, and I can’t help but ride the wave of giddiness. “I went back to school today,” I muse aloud, my backpack straps suddenly feeling way less strangle-holdy than they did this morning. “Some guy in my math class gave me a high five. I didn’t even know people knew I was gone, let alone care enough to—”

“Sam, you’re kind of a big deal,” Mom interjects with her go-getter grin that could disarm the grumpiest of cats, “Surviving a supervillain attack? That’s one for the history books.”

“That’s… they don’t know that!” I protest, rolling my eyes, although the buzz of pride doesn’t let up. “I think this is just how they treat you if you’re in the hospital for a while?” It’s funny how a building made of bricks and mortar can be so much more. It’s a pin on the map of my life, and right now it’s shining like a beacon. Home, finally. The idea almost feels alien, like something you’d read about in a book and think, ‘Huh, wonder what that’s like?’

“That’s called ’empathy’, darling,” Mom teases, ruffling the short little buzz cut of hair growing out of my radiation inflicted scalp.

“Come on,” Dad nods to the front door, sliding out of whatever mental calculations had nabbed his attention, “Let’s go in. These guyses got nothing on the Small family fortress.”

“Not even a gigantic prehistoric pain in the tail?” I ask, deadpan.

“Not a chance,” he grins, and there’s that warmth, that goofy sense of triumph that I know means we’re okay. We’re all okay. Mom hooks her arm through mine as we step toward the door together. The sunlight isn’t the only thing that’s bright here today.

The threshold crosses underfoot and the whole place smells like plaster and possibilities. A sweep of my gaze takes in the foyer—just a tiny cubby of a space really, for coats and dreams to hang. Still, I marvel because, holy mackerel, we have a foyer.

“Here, Sam, your mom put these cushions here, you know, for sitting and changing shoes,” Dad points out, the pride in his voice practically radiating off of him. “She thought of that.” Mom offers an ‘aw shucks’ tilt of the head and Dad beams at her like she’s just reinvented sliced bread or something.

“Yeah, I can see that,” I tease, collapsing onto a bench I don’t remember owning. The way it wobbles under me is both alarming and hilarious. “Stable as my social life,” I joke, but catch the concerned glances exchanged over my head. My laughter dwindles into a cough. Right, collateral damage isn’t always about bricks and drywall.

Mom crouches beside me, her hand resting lightly on my knee, the medicated part of her that checks, and double-checks, symptoms and smiles. “How are you feeling, hon? Too much too fast?”

I shake my head, easing up. “Just getting the lay of the land. It’s all… shinier than I remember.”

The living room is next, an arm’s stretch away—no walls in between. So open plan that I can see into the kitchen, where stainless steel reflects light from the shiny new hood over an oven that looks too swish for us. Where’d the old one go, the one with the wonky burner? Some things you miss in odd ways.

“I want to see my room!” I declare, pushing up to my feet with determination. As I pass the kitchen and its odd absence of the usual fridge-art and cookbooks strewn across the counter, I overhear Mom in a murmur that follows me up the stairs.

“Ben, should she be…? It’s her first day back and—”

“Rachel, she’s a tough cookie, you know that,” Dad cuts in, his voice the kind that tries to be a blanket. “Let her have this.”

Their words drift to me, stinging sweet, as I reach the top stair and lay my hand on a banister that feels foreign under my touch. There’s supposed to be a nick here, where I dragged my backpack up and down to a hundred school mornings, but it’s gone now. It’s a different kind of wood. It’s a different shape.

My excitement picks up a notch as I slip into the second bedroom—mine. Dad must’ve measured twice and cut once because everything is just so, from the level shelves waiting for my books and trinkets to the desk, a clear span of wood with all the potential of unwritten homework and midnight doodles. A gleaming floor where I can already see myself spread out with projects and plans.

An empty canvas, that’s what this room is. Not mine, not yet, but it could be. There’s not a single poster to be found along its walls, and there really should be at least two dozen more. Maybe a poster of Chi Cheng and another one of Mia Hamm. And Allen Iverson.

I pause, hand on the doorframe, catching snippets of conversation floating up from downstairs. Something about what to hang on the neutral walls, what to put where.

“So she’s back in school,” Dad says, a rumble of worry beneath his words, “back home, but—”

“Let’s just give it time, Ben. She’s still healing,” Mom replies, her tone as soft as the new carpet under my feet.

And I am. Healing. Different. But as I hear Dad’s footsteps thudding up to join me, and he can’t stop talking about the finished basement (like he’s a kid who just discovered the final level of a video game), I feel a piece of something slot back in place. “Come on, kiddo, you’ve gotta see it. We’ve got space for a real entertainment center down there.”

And I let him lead me, basking in the normal dad stuff that feels so out of place now, yet desperately wanted.

We step together into the basin of our house, where walls are still bare and everything echoes like a promise. The basement, can you believe it, Dad had said a hundred times over the phone. He’s practically hopping from foot to foot, giddy. Turns out there was a ton of space under there that the contractors just knocked into like opening up an ancient Mummy’s tomb. The concrete is smoothed over, and there’s nothing else besides a carpet and a well-worn shopvac, but it’s better than the not-basement we didn’t have.

“I can set up all my stuff here, and, Sam, maybe you can have your friends over, watch movies. It’s—”

“—perfect,” I finish for him, a laugh escaping as I swing around in the newfound vastness. The air here is cool, tinged with the scent of earth and concrete, but it hums with something like beginnings. Or maybe that’s just the dusty shopvac in the corner.

I run back upstairs, grabbing my backpack on the way up, remembering that there’s stuff in there that needs to be unpacked. A lot of my stuff is still with Lily, so we just grabbed the essentials. Oh, I’m so excited to hang out with Lily. And have our parents eat dinner together, but, like, in person! The stairs feel so strange under my feet, from the sheer raw newness of it all.

There’s a moment—a stretched out, thick silence sort of moment—where I’m just sitting there on the edge of a bed that’s too springy to be mine. I’m in my room, sort of, surrounded by white walls that don’t know me from Adam. They’re an uncomfortable contrast to the vibrant posters and sticky-taped photos that used to be my backdrop. It’s not the futon from the hospital or the recovery house. It’s not comfort, not yet.

My backpack hits the floor with a muffled thud, and it’s like a punctuation mark, ending the sentence of my rambling thoughts. As the zipper rasps open, I peel back the fabric to reveal the guts of my current life—a half-full water bottle, my crammed-to-bursting science binder, my still-shiny laptop that didn’t get smashed in the attack.

The things that kept me company.

Next comes the costume. I fumble with it, unsure if the material can be considered a second skin or the first one. It still carries the faint smell of sweat and blood, even if I haven’t been wearing it for months. I’m recovering, supposedly. No more vigilante stunts, no more testing how my ‘Shark Powers’ stack up against the city’s worst at night with Jordan. At least, not yet. Not till the doctors say so, and maybe not even then. The cash I pull out next feels dirty, even rolled up neat as it is. Where’d it come from? This cellar or that warehouse? Which fight or fray? I slide the rolls under the bed, quick and furtive, a squirrel with her nuts.

I have to turn my back to my stash as I unpack the medicine bottles, my daily choreography of pills. The sound is louder than I remember, the rattling—a morose maraca right by my pillow. The bottles array on my nightstand like tiny soldiers. They’re a reminder of my own fragility, a crude counterattack to the rush of strength that courses through me sometimes. The iron tang of blood in my mouth, that punch-drunk sense of invincibility. But those bottles—they whisper the truth.

Truth is ugly, sometimes. I like lying when it helps.

I sigh and let my fingers dally on the sleek laptop. Fire it up, why not? It purrs to life, and I see my own face reflected in the dark screen—more wearied than I remember, framed by hair that’s too short, too unruly. That’s Chernobyl’s legacy on me. Did the old Sam survive him or did she get burned away like everything else? At least the microwave damage healed fast. I don’t think I ever want to experience a sensation like that again.

In the shadow screen, there’s a room—my room?—waiting to be filled with life and noise and color again. The new Sam has to tackle that, along with algebra homework and the now-alien ritual of text messaging friends about nothing and everything. I can’t think too hard about the future without everything going a little blurry at the edges. Fear is a live wire in my heart.

But somewhere under the old hoodie that used to fit and now hangs off me, there’s the thrum of hope, that stupid, stubborn spark. Tomorrow, I can pin a new poster to the wall—make my first declaration that this space is mine. One day, I’ll feel right in this bed, and the pills will fade from an army to a memory. My bone marrow will work correctly, and we’ll be done with that. Maybe the lithium can stay.

There’s also this growing, gnawing thought. I’m not just Sam Small anymore, am I? Every wince from Mom, every furrowed brow from Dad, they’re because of me and what I’ve chosen to do with my life. There’s a weight there that my shoulders feel ready for, but my gut isn’t. Not yet. Maybe that’s okay. Maybe it’s okay to not be okay yet, to sit with the fear and the hope swirling like the world’s lamest superhero smoothie.

From somewhere down below, Mom’s calling that dinner’s nearly ready.

But first, I tuck the costume back into the depths of the backpack. Hidden, but not gone. Just waiting.

The smell of Mom’s brisket, the kind that’s been simmering in a slow cooker until it practically falls apart if you look at it funny, leads me downstairs. We all squeeze in around the modest table sandwiched in that hybrid space between kitchen and not-kitchen. I never knew a table could feel both empty and crowded until this moment. There’s just us, a few elbow nudges too many, and too much air where clutter used to be.

“So, the Hendersons next door have been asking about you, Sam,” Dad says after a too-long silence, his voice a bulldozer through the awkward quiet. “They wanted to send over some sort of casserole. I told them maybe next week.”

I try to imagine a week from now, a tomorrow that isn’t stitched together with doctors’ appointments and physical therapy. “Tell them… tell them thanks, yeah?” It’s easier to be gracious about hypothetical casseroles than to face the question in Mom’s eyes, the one that’s asking me if I’m really sitting here with them or if I’m a thousand yards away.

Mom chimes in, keeping it light, a magician with the art of distraction. “Samantha, your teachers have been so understanding, sending work home, accommodating…”

She’s looking for my buy-in on this conversation like it’s a contract I’m not sure I signed. “Yeah, they’ve been great. Mostly. I mean, Mr. Strickland still doesn’t quite get the ‘no heavy lifting’ part, but…” I shrug, managing a half-smile, and spear a piece of brisket that’s all but begging for mercy on my plate.

The laughter that trickles in feels normal, like it used to. And I cling to it, because this, right here, is the most un-super part of my day. A dinner that’s trying so hard to be routine it’s practically overacting. So, I join in the script, playing the part of the daughter. G-d’s in His heaven, all is right in the world.

Dad’s cutting his brisket, but his eyes are on me, not the meat. “Sam,” he starts, stops, then, “how’s… How’s everything, really?”

He’s as good at this subtle stuff as I am at pretending the whole world hasn’t flipped on its head since I got Shark Teeth™. Mom’s attention sharpens, her fork mid-air in some sort of arrested development. I chew for a second too long before answering.

“It’s like the first day of school all over again,” I mutter finally, watching them relax, like it’s the answer they hoped for.

“And how was that?” Mom prods gently, and her eyes are soft around the edges, hopeful.

I give in, spinning a thread of truth into the tapestry we’re weaving tonight. “Weird. Like everyone suddenly knows your name because you missed the last pop quiz.” There’s humor there, a protective layer around the too-raw bits I can’t share. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Dad grunts, a sound that’s part agreement, part I-love-you, and entirely Dad. “As long as they treat you right.”

The conversation drifts, into safer waters, about school gossip and Dad’s latest pet projects, that maybe now he can actually convert part of the basement into his dream workshop.

I sneak a glance out the window at the setting sun, painting new shadows on the home I’m rediscovering, and think, yeah, maybe this is exactly where I need to be right now.

---

Saturday rolls around with the kind of lazy morning sunlight that you’d want to bottle up for darker days. Except I’m not soaking it up in bed, or sprawled on the sofa with cartoons chattering in the background like the soundtrack to a simpler life. Instead, I find myself pacing the familiar mats of the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ gym, a space that’s more metal and padding than coziness.

There’s a gleam of determination today, something about the softness of those leisurely rays hardening into something resolute. This is where I start taking back pieces of myself, the muscle memory and the reflexes dulled by hospital stays and convalescence – that’s the big word for ‘the time you spend recovering from an illness’. Or in my case, being punched by a nuclear reactor.

I’m eyeing the array of boxing gear spread out on a bench—headgear, gloves, and all—when Gossamer swoops in. “So they’re finally letting you hit things again, huh?” she quips, her hands fluttering over the setup, arranging things that don’t need arranging. A woven band keeps her hair out of her face, and I spy the callouses on her fingers. Signs of a life crafting, not brawling.

“It’s about time,” I answer, matching her brightness. “And who better to ease me into it than the team’s silk-slinging seamstress?”

That draws out a laugh, bright and false as fool’s gold. “Hey, you know they say it’s the weak ones you’ve gotta watch out for.” She winks theatrically, but even her levity is laced with an edge I’ve come to expect from a girl whose smiles are as cutting as her scissors.

“Please, you and I both know if Rampart sneezed too hard in our direction, we’d be across the state,” I shoot back, only half-joking. Rampart’s idea of a gentle pat could bruise steel.

She rolls her eyes, “You’re telling me. But don’t worry, I’ll be nice. I only punch above my weight, not below it.”

I can’t help the smirk. “So, the bar’s pretty low, then?”

Gossamer shrugs, a mock-offended arch in her eyebrow. “Low enough that even a dog could meet it.”

The quips are like a tennis match of thinly veiled jabs, but there’s a camaraderie in it. A shared understanding that we’re not the front line, not the first charge—our strengths lie elsewhere. But today we’re equals, paired up in this gym with a single, shared purpose—to get better, one punch at a time.

Her grin spreads wider, sharp as a needle, as she helps me strap on the headgear. It’s all padding and promise. “Ready to dance, Bee?”

I nod, even if inside I’m a whole playlist of nervous energy. “As long as you lead, Goss.”

The gym’s air is thick with the scent of rubber and exertion. I bounce on the balls of my feet, trying to remember everything Rampart ever showed me about being rooted to the ground, even as I’m facing off against Gossamer whose feet barely seem to touch it.

“Keep your guard up, Bee,” Gossamer commands, her voice both velvet and steel. She flicks a jab at me, deceptively light but quick as a blink. “Like you’re shielding but ready to snap, yeah?”

My hands, encased in gloves that feel like they could double as personal flotation devices, raise higher. It’s a more disciplined posture than I’m used to, elbows in, fists by my jaw. I’m itching to just wail on something—anything—but her gloves flicker out, rapping me on the headgear whenever my focus drifts.

“You’re telegraphing. Stop showing me every thought that crosses your mind,” Gossamer scolds gently, with a swift one-two that taps my gloves but reminds me she’s got a reach advantage, gymnast build be damned.

“But thoughts are, like, lightning quick,” I protest, bobbing to the side. “Aren’t they?”

“Not when your left tells me where it’s going five seconds before it does,” she retorts with a click of her tongue.

Alright, Sam, get it together. I launch into a forward press, a flurry of punches that might have more in common with a windmill than boxing, but it’s something. My left hook goes wide, not the piercing strike I envisioned.

Gossamer doesn’t smack it away so much as guide it past her, leaving me off-balance. “Precision over power,” she says, illustrating the point with a jab to my side that doesn’t hurt but certainly tells.

“Okay, Rampart,” I verbally jab. How much have I heard the same thing from him? Is every single fighting technique I learn going to have to rely on me being precise? I hate being precise.

It’s a rhythm, I realize—a different kind of fight from the frantic scuffles I’m used to. The punches aren’t just wild swings; they’re a language. And Gossamer, she’s fluent. Her footwork is a delicate dance, giving and closing distance in smooth strides while she carries on with her boxing sermon.

“There you go, now, twist more with your punches. You’ve got power in those wolf muscles,” she says, encouraging even as her gloved hands pat the air like she’s putting a puzzle together, one that I can’t quite solve.

And yet, despite the metaphoric chess match, there’s something freeing about it. The structure, the dance of it. I let out a puff of breath, smiling under the headgear. “Who knew getting punched by a friend could feel this good?”

She chuckles, a punch-pull back as light as her namesake. “Friend? Let’s see if you still say that after a few more rounds, Bee.”

The alarm on Gossamer’s phone sounds, a starting pistol for the dance of knuckles and sweat. Our gloves are up, eyes locked, the world shrinking to just this—Gossamer and me, the space between us.

I feint left, a diversion of footwork while my right glove whips forward aiming for Gossamer’s guard. She parries, reading my intent like a headline. I throw a left hook, but she’s not there, sidestepping with a grace that’s infuriatingly balletic.

Our shadows on the floor tangle as I pivot, following her lead. I drive in with a series of calculated strikes, each breath-synced with motion. Jab to the body. Cross to the head. Her defenses are iron-clad, gloves up, deflecting, yet she’s always moving, light on those feet that never fully plant.

I cut the distance, aggressive, hungry for the hit that will give me a sliver of edge. My gloves are hammers seeking a nail. Left to her body, but she rolls with it, a fluid dip of her shoulder redirecting my power into the empty air. Right hook sails towards her head; she ducks, coils, then counters with a sharp jab that snaps my head back, a clear point scored on the invisible tally.

Determination calcifies in my veins as I reset, feet shuffling on the mat, seeking leverage. An uppercut, but she’s swift, angling away, turning my momentum against me. The world is a storm of leather and potential energy, every move a cast die.

A one-two combo from Gossamer forces me back, but I’m learning, anticipating. Our gloves graze, parry, strike—a symphony of impact that sings in the fibers of my muscles. Her counter lands on my ribs, a thud absorbed by layers of padding and will.

I’m undeterred, pressuring forward, each step calculated and reactive. Another feint—a dance step in this brutal ballet—a setup for the real play. My straight right cuts through the air, an arrow shot towards a moving target. Impact, a satisfying thud as glove connects with guard, and I follow through, the energy coursing up my arm.

She’s unfazed, but I’m adapting, hungry for more—more contact, more challenge, more proof that I’m still here, still capable. An overhand right thrown with intention, a whisper of danger as it sails over her ducked form. Adrenaline and focus, sharper than any tooth, guide me.

Back and forth we weave, a chess match in punches thrown and dodged. Jab, cross, slip, counter—a cascade of movements all answered in the split-second language of fighters. Each hit absorbed is a note in our song, and I’m writing the melody with every swing of my arm.

The claps of gloves meeting gloves resound through the gym, a staccato rhythm underlining our duel. My senses narrow until there’s nothing but Gossamer’s motions in my vision—every feint, every pivot, every arching sweep of her arms as she parries my onslaught. I ignore the mounting fatigue in my limbs, the way my lungs clamor for air, even as my feet keep their insistent shuffle.

I launch another jab, quick as a striking snake, but Gossamer’s evasion is slick as water. She returns with a hook, ducking under my wilder swing. My cheek stings with the kiss of her glove, a brush too close. The immediacy of combat, a hunger to land just one more clean hit, propels me. I can’t let up.

Determination is a pulsing drumbeat in my veins, driving me to throw a combination—a one-two that’s blocked, a three-four sidestepped. But I’m learning her dance now, anticipation honed to a fine point. I wait for her advance, and when it comes, I’m ready with a counter that glances off her side. A minor victory in the grand melee.

We’re two storms colliding, force against finesse, and for a time, we exist in a bubble of effort and exertion, the world beyond the mats an inconsequential blur.

And then, the shrill beep of the timer cuts through the air, a ceasefire in our unspoken war. Gloves drop, hands on knees, and we gasp for air like fish on land. My head swims with the vestiges of combat—the surge of blood in my ears, the juddery thrill of having held my own. It’s a potent reminder of life, pulsing under my skin.

Gossamer is huffing too, the strain etched in her face a mirror of my own exhaustion. We slump to the mat in unison, shedding our headgear like old skins. I can’t tell if I’m grinning or grimacing, the joy of exertion mingled with a dizziness that makes the room tilt. But it feels right, somehow. It feels earned.

“Good… fight, Bee,” Gossamer manages between breaths, her usual chirpiness weighed down by the lead of fatigue.

“Y-yeah,” I sputter, my tongue heavy. “Who knew… getting pummeled by a friend could be so… rejuvenating?”

Laughter bubbles up, two tired souls finding mirth in the shared ordeal. We sit there, gulping water and shaking out the tremors in our muscles, grounded by the presence of one another. The spin of the room eases, the simple reality of rest knitting back the edges frayed by our spar.

“That right hook,” she begins, voice steadying with every word, “was almost passable.”

I scoff, a vestige of our banter, but it’s muffled by affection. “Passable is just another word for awesome, right?”

---

An hour drifts by with the easy camaraderie of teammates patching up and packing away the tools of training. The afterglow of a good workout lingers, muscles humming their quiet symphony of aches. I’m on the bench, feet still pulsing to the ghost beat of our sparring session, when Gossamer sidles up to me with a medkit.

“So,” she begins, flipping open the clasp with a practiced ease, “word is we’re gonna bump your survival stats up.”

I quirk an eyebrow, following her movements as she lays out bandages, gauze, and a rainbow of other supplies that look like they belong in a game of Operation rather than real life. “By turning me into a walking first-aid manual?”

Gossamer smiles wryly. “Can’t hurt. Literally.” She holds up two different types of bandages. “Can you tell me which one’s for a sprain and which one’s for a laceration?”

I squint at them. “The… less sticky-looking one for sprains? Because… wrapping?” I hazard a guess, but I’m shooting in the dark here.

“Bingo.” Her approval rings with a hint of surprise. “And the other one’s self-adhesive, stops bleeding. Keep the sticky side away from the wound though—rookie mistake.”

I nod, filing the information away mentally as if it were tactical data rather than first aid trivia. The truth is, I’ve always been better at getting injuries than treating them. I can regenerate through a lot, but I’m sure it would make my parents less worried if I knew how to patch myself up instead of just relying on my superpowers to push through everything. “Did Crossroads mandate I take first aid?”

“Yes,” she says, matter-of-factly. She demonstrates a roll of gauze, her fingers nimble as she wraps it around her own arm in an expert mockup of a dressing. “Your turn,” she says, eyes expectant as she hands it over.

Taking the gauze, I mimic her movements, clumsy but determined, wrapping it around my wrist. It’s like a strange sort of hand-to-hand combat with the gauze. “So I just… wrap it, snug but not, like, tourniquet-snug?”

“You got it, Bee. You want to avoid cutting off circulation, unless you actually need a tourniquet, which—let’s face it—is usually out of the, ‘Oh crap,’ handbook.” Her chuckle is gentle, forgiving my fumbling.

The thought of turning battlefield triage into my next sparring session feels weirdly right. I complete the wrap job, inspecting my handiwork with the critical eye of a novice craftsman. “Okay, not too shabby,” I admit, and Gossamer nods.

“Not bad for a first go. By the end of this, you’ll be patching up paper cuts and scrapes like a pro. And, who knows, maybe even tie a tourniquet without turning someone’s limb blue,” she teases, but there’s pride in her eyes.

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Baby steps, Goss. Let’s start with me not panicking at the sight of a first-aid kit.”

“Deal.” She packs the medkit away, securing each item with the care of a librarian shelving books. “Next time, we’ll level up. How do you feel about CPR?”

I groan but there’s a smile playing on my lips. “Doesn’t that mean I get to practice on one of those creepy dummies with no legs?”

She nods, solemn as a judge. “We’ll get you two introduced. It’s a… breath-taking experience.”

The groan I let out is twice as loud, but the eye roll can’t hide my smirk. “I’m going to hit you with a brick.”

---

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