Lachlan didn't go straight home after the briefing.
He stopped by the hardware store first—one of those oversized warehouse-style places with concrete floors and shelves stacked too high. The kind of place where men in flannel muttered over drill sets and retired preppers ran their fingers down rows of propane tanks like prayer beads.
He walked the aisles like a man on a mission, barely glancing at the prices. Rope, duct tape, collapsible water containers, heavy-duty tarps, solar lanterns. Every item went into the cart with the same quiet deliberation.
He didn't even know what he was preparing for—not really. There was no official warning. No flashing alerts on the news. No government-issued pamphlets. Just Sera's voice in his head, low and steady, as she spoke about winter.
Not with panic. Not with paranoia. But with a kind of resigned calm that unnerved him more than anything else.
