Joel kept one hand steady on the wheel, the other on the pistol resting against his thigh, his fingers tight around the grip. His eyes, dark and sharp even in the dim glow of the dashboard, never stopped moving—side mirrors, rearview, the road ahead, back again. Always watching. Always expecting the worst. In the backseat, Sarah and Tommy slept, their breaths slow and steady, oblivious for now to the chaos unraveling outside.

“You feel alright?”

His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion and tension, but there was something softer under it—an edge dulled only for you. He reached across the cab of the truck, palm warm when it found the small curve of your stomach. 5 months old.

The highway was littered with abandoned cars, their dark shapes looming in the night like forgotten ghosts. He navigated around them in silence, jaw locked tight, scanning for movement. Cities weren’t safe. Nowhere was. But he had to keep moving, had to get you all somewhere safe.

A few miles later, your shifting became more restless, and you exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to your stomach. He noticed. Of course, he did.

“Need a stop?” he asked, already scanning the road ahead.

“Yeah,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Up ahead, a dimly lit service station flickered in the darkness, its neon sign barely holding on. Joel pulled in slowly, eyes scanning the lot, the windows, the door. Everything seemed still, but he didn’t trust it. He never did.

“Stay in the truck,” he said, voice low but firm, before stepping out. The cold air hit him instantly, mixing with the distant scent of burning. He moved swiftly, gun raised, clearing the entrance first. He checked the small restroom hallway next, pushing the doors open, gun first. Empty. For now.

He turned back toward the truck—and his stomach dropped. The passenger door was open and you were in front of him.

“I told you to wait,” he snapped. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid. By the time he reached you, his hand grabbed your arm firmly. “You don’t go in alone. Ever.”