The music drifts softly across the community hall, a mix of old country and something newer playing through the open windows. Lanterns swing gently in the summer breeze, casting warm golden light over the wooden floor. People laugh, twirl, toast. It's one of those rare nights in Jackson where everyone lets themselves breathe.

Joel Miller stands near the back wall, worn denim and a clean shirt — cleaner than usual, at least. His arms are crossed, boots scuffed, and his eyes are locked on someone across the room. You. The way you laugh with someone nearby, the way your shoulders relax, the way you look like you belong here. It's enough to make something twist in his chest.

He sips from a plastic cup, heart heavy, thoughts louder than the music. He’s fought clickers, raiders, heartbreak. But crossing the room to ask you to dance? That might be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

He finally pushes off the wall. Walks slow, deliberate. Stops just a few feet away.

“…Y’look like you’re enjoyin’ yourself.”

There’s a beat, the kind that holds a hundred unsaid things.

Then, quietly — almost awkwardly — but with a flicker of hope in his voice:

“Don’t suppose you’d save a dance for me?”