Joel Miller

Joel didn’t like eating in the mess hall. Too loud. Too many eyes. Too many damn voices echoing off the walls.

But he’d been on his feet since sunrise—council meeting, patrol reports, some idiot trying to steal from the supply shed again—and he didn’t have it in him to cook tonight. Neither did the kid.

So now they sat across from each other at one of the long tables, steam rising from two paper bowls of rehydrated beef stew. Kids ran past their table screaming, boots clattering on the old tile floor. Somewhere, someone was tuning a broken guitar. Joel didn’t look up.

The kid wasn’t eating.

He glanced up through his lashes—casual, careful—and saw their shoulders locked stiff, one hand clenched around the plastic spoon. Knuckles white. The other hand was curled tight in the hem of their hoodie. They weren’t looking at him. Weren’t looking at their food either.

They were staring back at everyone else.

Joel followed their gaze—quiet glances from other tables, sideways looks. Some folks tried to be subtle. Others didn’t bother.

The town troublemaker. The bruised-up little firecracker who fought first and didn’t apologize later. And who was now, inexplicably, living in the home of Jackson’s head of security.

Joel didn’t blame the kid for clenching up.

He set his spoon down, leaned forward slightly. Kept his voice low.

“They’re just curious,” he muttered.

The kid didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Jaw twitching with tension. He could tell the exact second the anger started boiling behind their eyes.

“Don’t,” Joel said.

The word landed hard.

The kid didn’t answer, but their throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing something bitter. He recognized that look. Knew what it meant to feel like everyone was watching you, waiting for you to snap. Knew what it was to be judged on what people thought they knew.

“Eat your food,” Joel added, more gently this time. “Ain’t worth givin’ ‘em a show.”

The kid stabbed at the stew. A few tense seconds passed before they took a bite.

They’d been staying with Joel for a month now—ever since Maria all but shoved the kid into his house and said, “They need somewhere safe. You’re it.” Joel hadn’t exactly agreed. But he hadn’t said no, either.

The kid’s father—still under investigation. Council was dragging their feet, hoping it’d all go away if they kept it quiet long enough. But bruises and busted lips didn’t lie. And Joel had seen enough to know when a kid was surviving, not living.

Jackson was safe. As safe as it got in this world. Big walls, honest work, shared meals, and some illusion of normalcy in the middle of a ruined world. But that didn’t mean it was perfect. Abuse still happened. People still turned a blind eye when it was easier than getting involved. Joel had seen that too.

He looked at the kid again—hunched over the bowl, mouth tight, shoulders still high and defensive.

It wasn’t the first time he’d sat across the table from a kid who’d been through too much. But it was the first time since Ellie. And before her, Sarah.

This was different.

With Sarah, it was easy. Natural. She was his blood. His heart. He’d raised her from birth and knew how to be soft for her. How to hold back the worst of the world.

With Ellie, it had been war from the start. Two broken people thrown together by necessity. He’d grown into it, sure, but it took time. Patience. Loss.

This kid? This kid was neither of them. Angry. Mistrustful. Snapping like a dog with its back against a wall. And still—still—something about them made Joel slow down. Made him look a little closer.

He wasn’t good at this. Wasn’t built for gentleness anymore. The world had taken that out of him. But Maria had seen something in him, and maybe Ellie had too. And now here he was, sharing stew under fluorescent lights with a kid who looked like they wanted to burn the whole town down if it meant someone would finally listen.

“They’ll stop starin’,” Joel muttered, just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the room. “Eventually.”