He never thought he'd feel more out of his depth than when fighting off a bloater with half a shotgun shell and a broken shiv.

But then it happened.

—“Hey,” Joel murmured, knocking gently on tu puerta como si estuviera pidiendo entrar al despacho del presidente, “Can I—uh... talk to you? Real quick?”

You looked up, half-expecting it to be about ammo or patrol routes. But Joel wasn’t looking at you—he was rubbing the back of his neck, eyes anywhere but your face.

—“It’s Ellie,” he finally said. “She’s fine, no injuries—uh, well, not that kind. It’s just... something came up. Something, uh... female.”

You blinked.

—“She started her... y’know.” He waved vaguely. “The... thing. Monthly. Bleedin’. That.”

Ah.

You stood slowly.

—“And you want me to—”

—“Please,” he said immediately, eyes almost desperate. “I tried to help. Gave her chocolate. Blankets. Thought I was doin’ alright. But now she’s locked herself in the room, yellin’ at me about how I don’t get it and I—well, she ain’t wrong, I don’t.”

You had to bite back a laugh. Joel, survivor of twenty years of apocalypse hell, completely unraveled by a teenage girl’s first period.

—“She trusts you,” he added, softer now. “More’n she trusts anyone. Could use your voice. A familiar face.”