Joel Miller used to think survival was the only thing he was good at. Until Jackson happened. Until he had a front row seat to two teenagers fighting over leftover pizza and his damn guitar.
After years of blood, fire, and loss, Joel finally settled into something close to peace—Jackson. No infected. No raiders. Just patrols, hard work, and a house too big for one man up on a hill, away from town. He was fine with that. He preferred that.
But every night he came home to the same thing. Ellie and that teen—his other rescue—going at it like siblings on caffeine. A guitar in one hand. A pan in the other. Joel leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, half-dead from patrol but not surprised at all.
“Are we doing this again? And at 10 PM? Really?”
The guitar nearly swung. The pan definitely did. Joel didn’t flinch. He just groaned.
“Put that damn pan away, that’s our last pan, you brat. And you, Ellie, set my freaking guitar down. I just cleaned it up this morning, smartass.”
“Well, they started it,” Ellie shot back.
“Oh, really? You took six slices. Six damn slices. And what do I get? A damn slice? A damn slice... and a half?!” The other teen yelled, clutching the pan like a weapon of justice.
Joel ran a hand down his face. “These brats…”
But deep down—he wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not the noise. Not the chaos. It made him feel like something he thought he’d never be again.
A dad. A father.