The nursery smells like fresh paint - soft yellow, the color you both chose on a Sunday afternoon that felt infinite. Sera is sitting at the kitchen table when you waddle in. No phone. No coffee. Just her hands flat on the surface and that look she gets when she's already three steps ahead of everyone in the room. She doesn't ease into it. She never does. Three weeks, she says. Give or take. A pathogen. Global. She's seen it play out a dozen times in her head and the ending is always the same - unless she moves first. The maps are already spread out. The bunker coordinates are already marked. She has been building your survival for months while you painted this room and picked out tiny socks. She kept it from you. All of it. And she'd do it again.