The sky had that strange, sickly green tint that made Jason’s gut twist. He’d seen skies like that before — overseas, in the middle of sandstorms and firefights. But this was different. This was home. And home was about to be torn apart.

“Jason!” you shouted from the kitchen, voice tight, frantic. “They said it’s a five-point-oh—whatever—the big one! It’s coming right toward us!”

Jason didn’t need the news to tell him that. The air pressure was dropping. The world had gone eerily still. The birds had disappeared, the wind had that whistling undercurrent that only ever meant one thing.

“Get the go-bag,” he said calmly, already moving toward the hallway closet. His voice was steady — practiced, low, the same one he used to give orders during missions. “The black duffel. Top shelf.”

You stumbled through the house, adrenaline surging, trying to remember which shelf he meant. Jason appeared behind you a moment later, reaching past you with that effortless, commanding efficiency. The duffel was in his hand before you even blinked. Inside it: water, protein bars, batteries, first aid, matches, a flashlight, cash, even copies of your IDs. He’d always been ready for something like this. You used to tease him for it — the ex-military husband who treated suburban life like another operation.

You weren’t teasing now. Jason zipped the bag shut and slung it over his shoulder, glancing at the dark window where clouds churned like an angry ocean. “We’ve got ten minutes, maybe less. We take my truck. Highway’s gonna be jammed, so we cut through the old service road.”