"I'm cold," Finn admitted, his voice smaller than before. "And my chest feels funny."
Brad cranked the heat to maximum and pulled back onto the road with newfound urgency. The engine made an unhealthy rattling sound, but it was running. In the mirror, I could see him blinking hard, forcing down whatever had almost broken through.
"Supermarket's five minutes away, buddy," he said, though we all knew it was at least ten. "Then home. Then hot chocolate."
"With marshmallows?" Finn asked hopefully, his breathing already easing as warm air filled the car.
"All the marshmallows," Brad promised, his shaking hands gradually steadying on the wheel. "Every damn marshmallow in the store."
The supermarket parking lot looked like a disaster movie scene. Cars abandoned at odd angles, shopping carts buried in snow drifts, people moving between vehicles with grim determination. Inside was worse.
The shelves were mostly empty, what remained being fought over by increasingly desperate shoppers. A man shoved past me to grab the last gallon of milk. Two women were literally playing tug-of-war with a package of batteries.
"Stay close," Brad commanded, positioning himself between Finn and the chaos while I pushed the cart.
We grabbed what we could: Finn's medications from the pharmacy counter, food, canned goods, and bottled water. Brad's athletic presence cleared a path through the crowd; people instinctively moved aside at the sight of his broad shoulders and determined expression.
We were almost to the checkout when two men blocked our path. They were both large, wearing work boots and heavy canvas jackets, faces red from cold or alcohol or both.
"That's a lot of supplies for one family," the taller one said, eyeing our cart.
"Move," Brad said simply.
"See, thing is, my kids need supplies too." The man reached for our cart. "And you look like you can afford to share."
Brad stepped forward, using his size, but the second man noticed his limp.
"Hurt yourself, tough guy?" He deliberately bumped Brad's bad knee.
Brad's face went white but he didn't move. "Back off."
"Or what?" The first man grabbed items from our cart—including Finn's medication bag.
That's when Brad moved, injured knee or not, snatching the bag back with his left hand while his right connected with the man's jaw. The second man immediately went for Brad's weak side, sweeping his bad leg.
Brad went down hard, crashing into an endcap display of soup cans that exploded across the floor. Finn screamed. Without thinking, I rammed our cart into the first attacker's stomach, then swung it sideways into the second man's shins.
"Security!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "SECURITY! HELP!"
The men hesitated just long enough for Brad to get back to his feet, though I could see the agony in every movement. An actual security guard finally appeared, hand on his radio, and the attackers melted back into the crowd.
"Sir, are you—"
"We're leaving," Brad gritted out, leaning heavily on the cart.
I took over pushing while Brad limped alongside, trying to hide his pain from Finn, who'd gone silent and pale. We made it through checkout—the teenager working the register looked as traumatized as we felt—and back to the car.
"I can drive," I said.
"I'm fine—"
"You're not. Keys."
To my surprise, he handed them over.
I'd never driven anything this large or expensive, and certainly not on roads like these. The SUV felt like piloting a boat through ice channels. Brad sat rigid in the passenger seat, hands gripping the door handle, clearly fighting not to backseat drive while also trying not to let Finn see his pain.
"Dad, are you hurt?" Finn asked quietly.
