AARON Not for the first time, I found myself amazed at how prepared my wife was. Elena never treated preparation as a suggestion. For her, it was a duty. It was something you did before fear had a chance to take hold. People like us were expected to plan for disasters. That expectation came with our jobs, our location, and the kind of world we lived in. Even so, Elena went far beyond what most friends or family ever bothered to do. The only people who matched her level of seriousness were her parents and her siblings. That mindset had been shaped early in her life, hardened by experience, and carried forward without compromise. The power had gone out again.It had flickered off many times already over the last few days, always returning quickly enough to feel annoying rather than dangerous. This time was different. Minutes passed. Then more. The house stayed dark. The hum of electricity never returned. The silence felt heavier with every second. After fifteen minutes of using our phone flashlights and watching the battery numbers drop, Elena made the call. She did not raise her voice. She did not hesitate. She simply said it was time. We switched to the emergency lights. We stood together in the Vehicle Bay, peeling the smooth plastic film off the adhesive-backed push lights. The sound of the plastic separating felt loud in the quiet. A dozen lights waited in a neat stack, ready to be placed. The second floor was already done. Lucas could safely reach the bathroom. He could see the hallway. He could see the stairs. Elena had made sure of that before anything else. Nothing had been left to chance. Now we moved through the lower floor, pressing the lights onto the walls where they would matter most. Corners. Doorways. The start and end of each hallway. Places where a fall could happen if someone moved too fast in the dark. Each light had its own rechargeable battery and a high-efficiency LED core. They were about the size of a frisbee, solid and reliable in the hand. Each one could run for more than a week if needed. Elena had insisted on models with daylight sensors. If we forgot to turn them off, they would save power on their own. When electricity returned, they would begin recharging without anyone needing to remember a thing.Every detail had been considered long before this night arrived. With the paths lit well enough to move without injury, Elena and I turned our attention to the Compact Cruiser. Supplies went in steadily. Both the front and rear storage compartments filled quickly. We worked in near silence, moving with purpose. Boxes were lifted, shifted, rotated, and tested. Bags were compressed. Containers were stacked and restacked until they locked together just right. A strange sense of focus settled in. Hands worked while thoughts stayed quiet. A joke crossed my mind. Video games had trained me for moments like this, fitting odd shapes into tight spaces under pressure. The thought stayed unspoken. Elena never approved of time wasted on games, even during calm days. She would not find it funny now. Distraction never soothed her. It never had. Worry had always been part of who she was. Even as a child, she had planned ahead, watched the horizon, and asked what would happen next. She lifted a heavy box of dehydrated food from the floor. The weight forced her to adjust her stance before she shoved it into place. The compartment resisted, then gave way. The sight made me smile. It felt wrong to admit it, but part of me was grateful she had lived through the Great California Quake. That experience had left scars. It had also left knowledge. It had taught her what failure looked like and how quickly comfort could disappear. That memory had shaped her. It had made her ready.The world outside felt unstable and unclear. News reports contradicted each other. Sirens came and went in the distance. Nothing felt solid anymore. But inside this small piece of the world, she had given us a chance. The smile stayed. For the first time in what felt like forever, something close to happiness broke through the tension in my chest. Elena caught me looking. One eyebrow lifted in question. Then she turned back to organizing without missing a beat. “What?” she asked. A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “Just thinking how lucky I am to have you.” She shoved a box harder than necessary. The sound echoed slightly in the Vehicle Bay. Her voice stayed low, almost buried beneath the movement. “Thought she might have made you forget.” “What?” The word came out empty. I had no idea what she meant. She straightened and faced me. “You should have let me buy that truck.” The shift in topic hit fast. Confusion followed, thick and sudden. The easiest part to answer came first. “It cost twice as much as the car. We ride share. We take the metro. We barely even needed this. Buying it was already pushing it.” Her glare was sharp and focused. “It would have carried twice the supplies.” Annoyance flared before I could stop it. A small, fragile moment cracked and fell apart. “Well,” I said, “next time we shop for a vehicle, I will check the Mayan calendar. Would not want to be unprepared for the next apocalypse.” She opened her mouth to respond. Then she stopped. A slow breath filled her chest and left just as slowly. Her eyes met mine, steady and tired. “I am going to get our toiletries.” Air left my lungs without permission. A nod followed. “I love you.” She nodded back. “Love you too.” Then she turned and walked through the door into The Lockwood Residence. I stayed where I was. The Compact Cruiser supported my weight as I leaned against it. My head tipped back, eyes closed for a moment. Fingers pinched the bridge of my nose. The motion grounded me, even though I did not understand why it worked. The Vehicle Bay felt too quiet again. With nothing else to do, the phone came out of my pocket. The local network had returned. Messages loaded slowly. Signal bars flickered but stayed. Battery sat above ninety percent. That part did not worry me. The car could charge everything if it came to that. That had been the reason for buying it in the first place. Elena had remembered weeks without power as a child in California. She had remembered the cold nights, the uncertainty, and the feeling of being cut off. She never forgot. And because of that, neither would I.