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Friday morning—the Fourth of July—Nick opened his eyes in the Kensingtons’ spare room. Next to him, Seth was snoring in his ear, arm slung over Nick’s side. Next to them, Jazz and Gibby were spooning, eyes closed, breathing deeply, strands of Jazz’s hair on Seth’s shoulder. Nick felt warm. Safe. He wanted to drift back off to sleep, but knew that wouldn’t be possible. His brain was already kicking into gear, mind flooded with racing thoughts about what this day would bring.

He lifted his head when a quiet knock came at the door. It opened slowly, and Dad stepped in. He wore jeans and a thin coat, zipper all the way up under his chin. He looked exhausted as he nodded at Nick, closing the door behind him and moving toward a high-backed chair that sat near the window, morning sunlight filtering in. He sat down, hands gripping his knees.

“Hey,” Nick said, voice hoarse with sleep. “Time is it?”

“Early,” Dad said.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Dad shrugged. “A few hours.”

Nick extricated himself from his friends carefully. Seth smacked his lips as Nick pulled away, muttering something unintelligible before burying his face in the pillow.

He stood, stretching, and went to the window where Dad sat, looking out onto the side yard. Beyond the bushes, beyond the trees, metal and glass of Nova City in the distance, skyscrapers reaching toward a cloudless blue.

He said, “I was scared, yesterday. And I still am, but it’s notlike it was.” He glanced over at Dad, who watched him with an expression Nick couldn’t make heads or tails of. Faith, Nick thought.

“What is it now?” Dad asked quietly.

Nick thought for a moment. “Resolve. I know what we have to do. And beyond that, I know it’s therightthing to do.” He looked away. “When this is over with, I want to go back to the coast. To the lighthouse. Talk to her. Will you go with me?”

Dad pushed himself up from the chair, wrapping Nick in a hug. “I’d like that, kid.”

They descended the stairs, the five of them, Dad leading the way.

As they stepped off the stairs into the foyer, faces turned toward them from the living room. Parents. An aunt and uncle. Friends in Mateo and Chris. In Mary and Rodney Caplan. In the amazing Burrito Jerry, who, as his name suggested, was munching on a breakfast burrito, cheeks stuffed with cheesy eggs and potatoes.

Seth said, “Nick’s got a new catchphrase he’s been working on.” He nudged Nick’s shoulder. “Tell them. It’s a pretty good one.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said, distracted. “It’s awesome. ‘Let’s fucking ruin Simon Burke’s entire life.’ That’s it. Now, new point of order: Trey, you seem to be wearing a coat indoors in the middle of summer. Miles and Bob, too.” He frowned. “And my dad. Why are you—”

Miles stood from his chair. “You call that a catchphrase? Bah. Kids these days. You think once you’ve saved the city a time or two, you know everything. You want to hear arealcatchphrase? Watch and learn, children.”

Nick blinked when Trey stood up, followed by Bob. Dad joined them in the center of the living room, motioning for Nick to take a step back. Muttering under his breath about parentswho decide to steal the spotlight, Nick moved back with his friends, wondering what fresh hell was about to befall them.

It was both better and worse than he expected. Miles nodded at the other men, receiving three nods in response. And they showed why parents were the most embarrassing people in the history of anything ever.

Miles said, “We are the protectors.”

Trey said, “We are the fighters.”

Bob said, “We are strength.”

Dad winked at Nick and said, “We are unstoppable.”

Then, all as one, they turned away and said, “We are…”

They all unzipped their coats at the same time before spinning around and shouting, “The Dad Squad!”

Each of them wore a white shirt with glittering pink-and-red letters that spelled outDAD SQUAD. Underneath the words were pictures that looked as if they’d been ironed onto the shirts. On Miles, a young Jazz, her two front teeth missing. On Trey, a photo of Gibby, head half-shaved, Trey standing behind her, clippers in his hand. On Bob, Seth curled up in a chair, a book in his hands, glasses hanging off the tip of his nose. And Dad’s had a picture of Nick as a toddler, chubby arms and dimpled knees, sitting in front of the television with a gigantic block of orange cheese between his legs. The cheese looked like it’d been gnawed on, Nick’s cheeks puffed out, the picture capturing him midchew.

“Oh my god,” Nick breathed. “Why?Why?”

“Because we could,” Miles said.

“This is the daddest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Mateo said, though his phone was raised toward them, recording it for posterity.