They found themselves in the family car—a 2022 Hyundai Palisade, black on black. The interior felt darker than usual, the kind of quiet that made the leather seem colder. Peter sat in the back, bag at his feet, the engine humming low.
Their first stop was a 24-hour gas station.
The white lights overhead buzzed softly. The store cast a dull glow over the lot, painting sharp edges across the dash. Their dad parked close, fingers tapping the steering wheel like he was running through a list in his head.
He said they needed more supplies. Once they were on the road, he'd talk.
Then he opened the door and got out. Annie followed a second later, without a word.
The doors clicked shut behind them.
The silence sat heavy.
Nicki finally broke it.
"What the hell is going on?" she said.
Her voice wasn't loud. It came out quiet, steady—but edged with frustration.
Peter turned to look at her. In the dark, her face was lit by the red-white haze of the store's neon. She looked tired. A little scared. Calm in that way she got when she didn't know what else to be. Her brows were pulled slightly, her mouth drawn tight—not angry, just waiting for someone to make sense of any of this.
Peter didn't respond. He didn't know what to say. Things felt too big, too fast. His chest was tight, and the tension had started to settle in behind his eyes. He just looked at her in the dark, then turned forward again.
Peter sat still, watching the reflections shift across the windshield.
Twenty minutes later, their parents came back out with two carts—one packed with bottled water, the other stacked with canned and dry food.
Stuff that didn't go bad.
Gerald didn't say a word as he eased the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot.
The Palisade rolled smooth across the pavement, headlights sweeping the lot. Everything they'd packed—bottled water, dry goods, bags—sat quiet in the back.
No music. No conversation. Just the road humming beneath the tires.
Once they merged onto the highway, Annie glanced over at him. Just a quick look. Nothing said, but something passed between them anyway—something measured, serious.
The car settled into silence.
If they were heading to the cabin, it'd be about a three-hour drive. His aunt and uncle's place—out in the country, backed up to a lake. Trees everywhere. A gravel drive, an old dock, and barely enough cell signal to text if you held your phone up to the sky.
Then, finally, his dad spoke.
"Okay… I know you probably have a few questions, kids."
Nicki didn't hesitate.
"Obviously," she said. Her tone was dry, clipped. Tired and irritated all at once.
Normally, that would've drawn a warning. This time, his parents let it go.
Peter didn't blame them. He felt the same way.
Their dad gave a small smile—relaxed, warm, just enough to settle the edge in his voice. It was the kind of smile that made people lean in when he spoke, made strangers think he had everything under control even when he didn't say much at all.
Peter remembered a team dinner once, sitting just close enough to hear one of the moms say to another, eyes flicking toward his dad, voice low:
"I know what I'll be thinking about tonight… and I'll definitely be showing up to more of these if he's here."
Peter had pretended not to hear it. He still didn't know how to un-hear it.
Gerald kept his smile, but it faded slowly. He looked like he was trying to unload something he'd been holding in. He took a deep breath, exhaled through his nose, and shared a look with Annie.
"I talked to your Uncle Jed," he said, eyes still forward.
He paused and took another breath.
"The cell phone outage—and the service blackout—it's not just local. It's happening everywhere."
Peter didn't respond. He just listened, trying to absorb what his dad was saying.
"Like… California?" Nicki asked, arms crossed, eyes still fixed on the dashboard.
"Yes. There too," Gerald said. "But not just there. I mean everywhere. Europe, China, Japan… Jed said it's global. It's already started."
Peter's mind felt like it was trying to play catch-up. He turned toward the front seat. "Started what?" he asked. "What's causing it?"
His dad glanced up in the rearview mirror, locking eyes with him.
"Jed doesn't know much," Gerald said. "Just bits and pieces. But…"
He hesitated again.
"It's coming from Earth's core. And from space."
Peter blinked. "From both?"
"Yes," his dad said.
Annie leaned forward slightly, her phone in hand, still trying to get a signal. She stared at the blank screen, swiped, tapped. Nothing.
"We'll stay at your aunt's cabin until this blows over," she said, her tone calm but tight. "We've got supplies, it's isolated, and there's a wood stove. That's the plan."
She tried the phone again. Still nothing. Her frustration flashed for a second as she set it in the center console.
Gerald shifted his grip on the wheel. "Once I drop you off, I can go back into the city—warn the rest of the family."
"No," Annie said quickly. "We stick together. We don't separate."
Her voice wasn't raised, but it was firm.
Peter sat back, the words catching up with him. His mom was worried about her side of the family. His dad's family lived up in Maine. Too far. Too late.
He swallowed, hard.
No one said it, but they were all thinking the same thing now.
This wasn't just a blackout.
Finally, after a long stretch of quiet highway and passing headlights, Peter spoke up.
"And how does Uncle Jed know all this?"
His dad glanced into the rearview mirror. "Uh… Uncle Jed does a lot of things for the government."
He hesitated, then looked over at Annie as if checking whether to say more.
"He used to be an Army Ranger," Gerald continued. "Then he moved into intelligence work. For years, it was all just… speculation, rumors. But when we talked last night, he made it clear—he's CIA. And he told me flat out: get somewhere outside the city."
Peter leaned back into his seat, absorbing that.
"In forty-eight hours," Gerald said quietly, "we'll know if this was all for nothing…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Peter picked it up. "Or shit's about to get real."
The words came out flat. Not dramatic. Just true.
Nicki looked at him. So did Annie.
But no one corrected him.
Because he was right.
They finally made it to the cabin.
It was just after one in the morning. The sky above the trees was dark and heavy, and the gravel under the tires crunched louder than it should have. The driveway was empty. No lights on. No other cars. Just the cabin sitting still, waiting.
No one had slept during the drive.
Too much tension. Too many questions. The silence in the car had stretched long, but no one had drifted off. Now, with the road behind them, the adrenaline had started to thin. Everyone moved slower.
Annie found the spare key exactly where it had always been—beneath the loose board on the side of the porch steps.
They'd stayed here a few times over the years. It hadn't changed.
The cabin was simple. No air conditioning. Just a wood-frame structure with an old fishing stove for heat and soft floors that creaked under every step. It backed up to a narrow lake, small enough that you could row around it in under an hour. Only a few cabins lined the shore, and all the neighbors had long agreed: no loud motors. You rowed, or used a small trolling motor. That was it.
Inside, they moved through muscle memory—unloading the car, carrying in bags, stacking food near the kitchen counter.
The cabin had four bedrooms. One had a queen bed. The others were made for numbers—each with three-tiered bunks, six beds to a room. There was a loft above the main living area that could sleep two more.
A wide screened-in deck stretched off the back of the house, meant for quiet mornings, lake breeze, and late summer conversations.
Once everything was inside, they all went to lie down—quietly, without saying much.
Peter picked a bunk and dropped onto the mattress. It was thinner than what he had at home, stiffer, and smelled faintly of cedar and old summers.
He stared up at the bottom of the bunk above him, his eyes following the pattern in the woodgrain.
Maybe this was all just a dramatic overreaction, he thought. Maybe they'd laugh about it in a few days and head home.
He wanted to believe that.
He let the thought sit with him a little longer.
Then, finally, sleep came.