- A joke book is survival gear. Laughter’s worth more than bullets.

  - Shared humor is glue. Especially when the world’s unraveling.

  - But pranks? Pranks are panic in disguise. Don’t play with trust. Not in this world.

  - [Jules’ Edit]: Except the time I rigged that fake zombie head in the cooler. You screamed. Worth it. Still not sorry.

  ---

  A week after that door fiasco, things were still a bit shaky. Things were still fine between us, but I felt like I had to do something.

  We were holed up in a semi-abandoned church for a night. Quiet, peaceful. A few dusty hymnals, some emergency candles, a battery-powered lantern. Sanctuary in every sense of the word.

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  After dinner (canned ravioli, gourmet apocalypse cuisine), I pulled out the tiny paperback I’d found a week ago: “101 Dad Jokes for the Soul.”

  Jules groaned. “No. Not the dad jokes again.”

  I flipped it open. “Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom?”

  “No—”

  “Because the P is silent.”

  She burst out laughing despite herself, which just fueled me.

  We traded jokes until midnight. Dumb ones. Real groaners. I think she made up half of hers on the spot. One of them made me choke on my water, which she said was proof that hydration is dangerous.

  We didn’t talk about zombies. Or exits. Or the growing unease I felt when she avoided questions about where she came from.

  We just laughed.

  She did pull a prank the next morning—stuffed a plastic Halloween hand she found in the church’s basement into my sleeping bag.

  I nearly kicked a pew over.

  “I told you, pranks were off limits!” I yelled.

  She just grinned. “It wasn’t a prank. It was stress testing your reflexes.”

  I wanted to be mad.

  But I couldn’t be.

  Because for the first time in months, I forgot we were in the apocalypse.

  And I liked forgetting.