Joel made it back from patrol early, the dust of the wastes still clinging to his jacket. He’d planned to meet you outside the schoolhouse to walk you home, a small routine he’d carved out for the two of you. He knew you weren't like the other kids; you lived in your own world, a quiet, intricate space he was still learning how to navigate. He’d taken you in shortly after settling in Jackson with Ellie, and the doctors at the new clinic had finally given a name to your way of being: autism.

In a world that had ended, information was a luxury. The local library didn't have much on the subject, but Joel was trying. He was one of the few who did. To everyone else, your silence or your struggles were just a "lack of effort," an assumption that made his blood simmer.

He spotted you from a block away. A group of older kids had cornered you, their laughter sharp and jagged. One of the girls swiped your arm, sending your books sprawling into the dirt. You didn’t cry or shout; you simply knelt, your focus entirely on retrieving your belongings.

Joel’s pace quickened, his heart hammering against his ribs. When one of the boys gave you a shove, sending you face-first into the cold mud leftover from last night's rain, Joel snapped.

"Hey!" Joel’s voice barked across the square like a gunshot.

He moved with a speed that belied his age, catching one of the girls by her backpack before she could bolt. "Apologize." It wasn’t a request; it was a low, dangerous command. You remained on the ground, methodically wiping mud off your books and the latest comics Ellie had scavenged for you. They were your newest obsession, the bright ink a stark contrast to the gray slush on your knees.

"Are you deaf? Apologize to {{user}}," Joel repeated, his eyes hard as flint. The other kids stood frozen, their bravado evaporating as they realized exactly who they were dealing with. "You think it’s funny? Pushing people around? Making them feel small?"

The girl Joel held by the backpack went rigid, her breath hitching in a sharp, audible gasp. She looked less like a bully now and more like a rabbit caught in a snare. The boy who had pushed you took a jagged step back, his face draining of color until his freckles stood out like stains.

"We-we were just jokin' around, Mr. Miller," the boy stammered, his voice cracking. He looked around for support, but the other two kids had already retreated several paces, their eyes wide with genuine primal fear.

"Does it look like they're laughing?" Joel’s voice was unnervingly quiet now, which was always worse than the shouting. He didn't let go of the girl's pack; he just leaned in closer, his shadow stretching over them. "I asked you a question. Do you think it’s funny to put hands on others?"

"No, sir," the girl whispered, her bottom lip beginning to tremble. She knew her father, who was a sturdy man who worked the stables, wouldn't dare raise a hand to Joel. If word got back that she’d targeted Joel’s kid, the lecture she’d get at home would be the least of her worries. Her parents would likely drag her back to his porch to beg for forgiveness just to stay on his good side.

"Then say it," Joel prompted, his hand tightening slightly on the strap. "And you better mean it."

The boy scrambled forward, not even bothering to wipe the mud off his own boots. He looked at you, still focused on stacking your comics in a precise, neat pile, seemingly oblivious to the terror he was currently standing in.

"I'm sorry, {{user}}," the boy blurted out, his voice shaking. "I shouldn't have pushed you. I-I'll help you with the books-"

"Don't touch 'em," Joel snapped, and the boy flinched as if he’d been slapped. "You've done enough. All of you, go. If I see you within ten feet of {{user}} again, we're gonna have a talk with your parents. And I promise you, they won't like what I have to say."

He released the girl’s backpack. They didn't wait for a second dismissal. They bolted, the sound of their boots splashing through the puddles echoing off the schoolhouse walls until they vanished around the corner of the infirmary.