As they neared their apartment building, Peter slowed.
At the entrance, their mom—Annie—stood unlocking the front door. She was still in her scrubs, her work bag slung over one shoulder, keys clinking softly as she turned them in the lock. Her expression was tight, focused. She usually didn't get home until around 5:30. With school out early and practice canceled, they weren't used to seeing her home first.
Then their dad—Gerald—rounded the corner down the street, coming from the direction of the subway station a few blocks away.
He walked with his usual long stride, jacket folded over one arm, tie slightly loosened, messenger bag hanging from his shoulder. He looked alert, but his face was unreadable—neither rushed nor relaxed, just... moving forward.
Peter glanced at Nicki. Her brows drew together, but she didn't say anything.
Inside their second-floor apartment, Gerald hung his jacket neatly on the hook and stepped out of his shoes. Annie dropped her bag by the table, already turning down the hallway.
"We're just going to change real quick," she said.
Both parents disappeared into their bedroom.
Peter and Nicki shared a look—short, subtle, but enough. Then they both headed toward the living room.
Peter reached the remote first, grabbing it like he'd won something. But before he could even aim it, Nicki stepped in from the side and knocked him off balance with a firm hip-check. He fell back into the couch, arms thrown wide, just as she pulled the remote from his hands in one clean motion.
"Seriously," he muttered, staring up at her.
She didn't answer. She was already flipping through channels, eyes narrowed at the screen.
Peter sat up, tempted to snatch it back, but he let it go. All he wanted was to see the news.
The living room was as familiar as always. The gray sectional hugged the back wall, cushions sagging just enough to mark who usually sat where. The square coffee table held two remotes, a few scattered papers, and a glass of water half-filled. A low shelf along the far wall held old paperbacks, framed family pictures, and a router blinking red. Afternoon sunlight filtered in through the blinds, striping the carpet in pale gold.
Nicki flipped through again. Still nothing.
Peter grabbed the second remote and tried himself—CNN.MSNBC.FOXNEWS.
Blank. Static. Nothing.
Footsteps approached behind them. Gerald stepped into the room.
"Try the news," he said.
Nicki didn't look back. "I did already."
Peter turned toward their dad, still holding the remote. Annie entered behind him, her hair damp from the quick rinse and her arms folded.
Peter looked between them.
"…Dad, what's going on with everything?"
Annie and Gerald shared a serious look. Neither of them said anything for a second, but it felt like a full conversation passed between them anyway.
"I'm not sure," Gerald said finally. "But I'm sure it's nothing."
Peter watched him. He trusted his dad with 150 percent confidence—always had. But right now, this felt like a pile of bullshit.
Annie crossed her arms and glanced toward the hallway. "Isn't Ed retired from telecom? He was always messing with satellite phones or radio gear or whatever it was. You think he could help you get in touch with Jed?"
Uncle Jed. Peter remembered the name, barely. He and Nicki had only seen him once or twice. Jed traveled a lot—always somewhere else. All Peter really knew was that he was single, still working for the government into his sixties, and not the kind of guy who came to Thanksgiving.
"I'll try," Gerald said, rubbing the back of his neck. "In the meantime, I think it's time for bed."
Nicki didn't hold back. She dropped into the couch and stretched out. "Yeah, 'cause I'm definitely not gonna toss and turn with all the weird shit going on."
Annie shot her a quick glance. "Just get ready for bed and lie down."
Peter stayed quiet, but he noticed they didn't even blink at the swearing.
Shit was getting real already, he thought, watching his dad grab his phone and keys and step out to go across the hall to the neighbor's apartment.
About thirty minutes later Peter was in his room, one hand on the light switch, the other brushing against the edge of his desk. His bed was turned down, the blanket tugged loose, the room dim and quiet. For the first time that day, everything felt still.
Then the front door exploded open.
A sharp, violent slam—the kind that echoed in your chest. The kind no one in the apartment ever used.
Peter flinched. The sound cut through the hallway and froze the moment in place.
Then—his father's voice.
"Annie! …Annie! …Annie!"
It came ragged and raw, thrown from the chest. Not loud for the sake of loud, but loud because it had no other way out. Each time he said her name, it cracked more.
From down the hall, his mother's voice tried to meet him where he was.
"Gerald, please—calm down. You'll wake the kids—"
He cut her off, the words crashing out of him.
"Get them up. Now. We're leaving. We… we need to get the fuck out of the city."
Peter stood completely still, heart thudding against his ribs. The swearing didn't even register at first—only the way the room had stopped breathing. He couldn't see anything from his doorway, just shadows against hallway light—but the tension carried like heat.
Then came silence.
Just breath.
Then her voice again, quieter now. "What? Why?"
His father didn't answer immediately. When he did, his voice had changed. Still taut. But slower. Like the wheels were turning mid-sentence.
"We… we don't have time," Gerald said, each word weighed and deliberate. "We need to go."
Another pause. Longer this time. The sound of thinking.
Then: "Your sister's cabin… upstate..."
The words felt spoken as they formed—like they hadn't existed a second before.
"I'll explain in the car."
The next thing Peter knew, he and Nicki were packing—fast.
"Cold-weather gear only," their dad shouted from down the hall. "Heavy layers. No shorts. No thin shirts. Boots. Gloves. Socks. Pack right."
He kept pacing between rooms, voice sharp and direct. "Hurry up. Let's go. Bags zipped. Now."
Peter yanked his duffel from the closet and got to work—hoodies, thermal shirts, heavy jeans, insulated socks. Hiking boots from the front closet. The coat that still smelled like the woods from last winter. He didn't ask questions. The tone in his dad's voice told him everything he needed to know—this wasn't a drill, and it wasn't optional.
Down the hall, he could hear his parents talking behind their half-closed bedroom door. Urgent. Quiet. Fast.
But in the living room, Nicki wasn't letting it go.
She dropped a pair of leggings into her backpack and stood there, arms crossed. "You're seriously not going to tell us anything? We're just supposed to pack like it's the end of the world and keep our mouths shut?"
Gerald came out of the bedroom fast. His face was tight, jaw clenched, and his voice exploded without warning.
"Nicki Lynn Walker—get your goddamn bag packed and move!"
The whole room froze for a breath.
Peter stood still, his hands half-full of socks.
Nicki opened her mouth to yell back, but before she could, Annie stepped out behind Gerald and cut in, quick and steady.
"Nicki, baby," she said, voice low but clear. "Please. Just listen. We need you to listen right now."
Nicki's jaw tightened, but her eyes flicked between them—between the shout and the softness. She didn't say anything. She just turned and went back to packing.
Peter zipped his bag without looking up, throat dry, chest tight.
Ten minutes later, they left the apartment.
They carried what they'd gathered—two packs loaded with food, a half case of bottled water, twelve bottles left, and two large thermals filled from the sink. Peter's bag thumped against his side as they moved, boots scuffing tile, zippers clicking. The hallway was quiet.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Unknowingly, this had been the last normal day of Peter Walker's old life.