Joel called Y/N in the middle of the damn night, no greetings, no nothing—just straight panic in his voice.

“Grab your shit. Papers, clothes, canned food, water—fuck, even the cash in the vault. Don’t argue, just do it.”

Y/N froze, heart pounding, about to ask why the hell—but Joel snapped back, low and sharp, frantic even. “Don’t fucking ask. Just stay downstairs. Don’t open the door, don’t go outside. Wait for me. Pick up anything you can swing. Or the baseball bat your mom gave you. You might need it.”

That last bit hit like a punch to the gut. Need it for what?

Then the call got messy—shouts, tires screeching, Tommy’s voice in the background: “Joel! Turn the goddamn jeep!”

Joel came back on, breathless, voice tighter. “Listen—if anything comes near you, use the bat by any means necessary. And keep Sarah safe. We're almost there.”

Click. Line dead.