Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any characters or plotlines from the series.

. . . . .

I don't like waking up in the RV. I prefer a tent, being outside. But when my dad's gone, the RV it is, usually with me lying on the floor, or, if I wasn't really tired the night before, curled up in one of the front seats where I can see everything. Last night was a seat night, so I wake up now with my knee in my face and my arm asleep. It's barely dawn. I'm an early riser, always have been. My dad says that's good. He says I'm gonna be a kickass hunter someday. Someday.

I'm tangled in a scratchy blanket that someone, probably Dale or Glenn, must have put over me last night. I separate myself from it and leave it behind.

My bag's in one of the seats at the table. I have to step over Glenn, sleeping on the floor like I've done a lot of times, to get to the thing, but I do and I take it to the bathroom. I glance into the back room on my way. Bed's empty. Dale's likely already on top of the RV, if he ever even left.

I slept in one of my dad's old shirts last night, like I did a lot before the walkers came. Mom used to hate it, having to wash her ex's shirts all the time. But it was how I kept my dad close. Right now he's on a hunt, and I missed him a lot last night, more than usual, because of what happened with Merle. So that's why it's his old shirt I change out of now, rolling it up loosely and exchanging it for a plain gray T-shirt closer to my size.

On the day she died, Mom nearly keeled over sooner than she had to because she couldn't let herself pack all of the clothes she'd loved to buy for me, the colorful stuff with the frills, and the dresses, and the pretty shoes. But she knew it was time to be practical. So now I wear this T-shirt. This plain gray T-shirt.

I trade basketball shorts for jeans, pull on socks that don't match, and leave the bathroom. I put my bag back at the table, move around Glenn again to get to the door. My shoes are there. I have boots I wear when Dad takes me hunting, but those are in my bag. Haven't worn those in a long time. Not since we joined with this camp. So I put on my tennis shoes and take up the sheathed knife that sat beside them. I hook it onto my jeans and go.

It's warm outside, but the fresh air is nice on my skin. Humid, though. The sun's barely up, but I can tell it's gonna be cloudy today, at least for a while. Might rain. No, no it won't, doesn't smell like it. Dad taught me that you can always tell if it's gonna rain by smelling the air.

Not a lot of people are up yet. Jim's pacing around the cool car Glenn brought back from the supply run yesterday, examining it closely. Carol and Lori are on the far side of the fire twenty feet from the RV's door. A few others pace around, nobody I've really talked to. I haven't gotten to know many people here. Dad and Merle and I mainly keep to ourselves. When they're both gone, I keep to myself, except maybe for Carl and sometimes the other kids. But this morning I want to be alone.

Carol and Lori haven't seen me. They have a few baskets of laundry in front of them and seem to be debating something about a particular pair of pants. Dale's on top of the RV, I'm sure, but he won't try to stop me from leaving the main campsite. I don't think my dad's ever said anything to him, but Dale gets that I'm not like the other kids. I actually know what I'm doing out here.

I cut over to my left, past Jim and the car, across the road leading down the mountain, through the fence of vehicles – I run my hand over my dad's truck as I pass – and out into the woods. I glance back once and see Dale watching me. Even from a distance, I can tell he's worrying, but like I thought, he doesn't try to stop me. Camp's safe, anyway.

I get deep enough into the woods that I can't hear the sounds of the main part of camp, not clearly, anyway. It's all muffled. I reach one of the strings with the cans on it, tied around trees and hanging a couple of feet off the ground, signaling camp's border. I don't go past this string. Dad told me I can't, not without him or Merle or some other grownup. Not that I ever go anywhere with any other grownup.

I pace along the string, though, watching the thick woods beyond, still shadowy in the early morning light, and I squint, scanning for movement, keeping my footsteps as soft as I can. I'm pretty good at that, but not as good as Dad or Merle, even though I'm way lighter. Dad says it takes a lot of practice.

I don't see him. I knew I wouldn't. This was the area he left from a few days ago, but of course that doesn't mean he'll come back this way. And it's really early. If he's back today, it'll be later.

I'm just nervous. Not about my dad being okay, nothing can take him on – not even walkers – but about how he'll be when he gets back and finds out about Merle. About how Carl's dad left him on a roof in the city to die.

Shane says he'll tell Dad. That's not right, though. I'm blood, I should be the one to tell him. But I wasn't about to argue with Shane, it wouldn't do much good. I'll just have to try to beat him to it.

Movement off in the woods. My eyes go to it. Nothing. I bend down and pull a rock up from the damp soil, and I rear back and heave it where I thought I saw something. It looks like it falls a little short – still pretty far for a ten-year-old girl, though, because I'm really strong – but it serves its purpose. As soon as the stone lands with a soft thud and a harsh whisper of leaves, something darts from behind a tree. A squirrel. The thing bolts back and I almost lose sight of it, but then it runs forward again, then jumps back, forward. Merle says all squirrels are spazzes.

Used to say.

I narrow my eyes at the animal as it darts up a tree, and then I pretend to raise a crossbow and I aim in on it. I catch it in my sights when it pauses on a low branch. I make a soft clicking noise and mentally count the squirrel as my own.

Dad should have taken me hunting. I know he likes to do it alone sometimes, but I've got nothing to do around here. And I'm good at hunting. Dad says I'm a better shot than any other kid he's ever seen, except maybe himself, and he was just kidding when he said that. I should be out there with him. Not here, worrying about telling him my uncle's likely dead, torn apart by walkers, not even getting a fighting chance because of that dumb cop. Carl's dad. The man who should have stayed dead.

I don't mean that.

"Sydney!"

I look over my shoulder and pretend it's Mom's voice. But really, it's Lori's. Dale must've caved and told her I went off. Or maybe she checked the RV. I sigh and glance back at the squirrel, but it's gone now. Oh, well. I already killed it.

I trudge back to camp.

. . . . .

I like Carl. I wish I didn't, because his dad left my uncle for dead and it's not right that I should like him after that, but I can't stop now. He's been nice since I got here. And his mother looks out for me. I can't just start to hate them both.

These are my thoughts as Carl passes me an open can of beans. I mumble thanks. He smiles.

It's been an hour since I woke up. Carl and I are alone by the fire, eating breakfast. I didn't want to sit down, not with Carl already being there, but I wasn't about to run off and hide, either. So here I am. And now he's giving me food.

Carl's already scraped what he wants into a bowl, so I just dig into the can with the spoon I've been twirling in my fingers, and because I want to get it out of the way, I say, "So it's good about your dad."

I don't look at him, I look at the food, but I can still see his feet, and they twitch around. "Yeah," he says, and I can hear the effort to control his excitement but it doesn't work. "It is. I never thought –" He stops. I still don't look up. Then he says, "Sorry about your uncle."

I nod. Alright. Now it's out of the way and we can pretend like nothing's changed, at least for a while, at least until Dad gets back. I chew another bite and swallow.

Carl gets that the matter doesn't need to be brought up again. He says, "After the other kids get up, wanna play tag?"

I consider this. "Freeze tag or normal?"

"I don't know. I like normal better."

"Yeah, me too. I'll play if it's normal tag."

"Okay."

There. Carl and I can still be friends. I can hate his dad with everything I got, no problem. But Carl and I can still be friends.

Carl and I don't talk much more. We finish our breakfasts and then watch as Jim, Dale, and some others begin to strip down the car Glenn brought back, which makes me a little sad and a little mad. I really hoped to ride in the thing. Carl keeps glancing over toward his tent, waiting, I'm sure, for his ever-loving father to come out and strut around the camp, playing the hero everyone keeps acting like he is. Nobody cares about Merle around here, except my dad and me.

Sophia and Louis and Eliza arrive within minutes of each other. Eliza is carrying that doll with her. She's too old for a doll. I keep my mouth shut, though, because she's nice enough, for all she's soft.

As soon as the Morales children appear and Carl's pitched his idea for tag, we all dart away to ask our parents. Or they do, anyway. Louis and Eliza retreat to their tent, Sophia heads to Carol at the ironing board, and Carl goes to where his mom's hanging laundry on a line. I follow him, because I guess Lori's in charge of me more than Carol. Whatever, I'd go even if she said no, if I wanted to. She's not the boss of me. But if Carl can't go, not much point, I guess.

"Mom?" Carl asks, coming up to her side as she shakes out a shirt. "Can I go play tag with the other kids?"

Lori looks up at him. "Where?"

"Out in the woods. We won't go far."

She looks a little like my mom when she does that, makes that concerned face. Maybe it's just a mom thing. But no, she actually does look a little like Mom, with the dark hair and all. I touch my own dark hair as Lori says, "Carl, you know I don't like you goin' where I can't see you."

Carl looks over at me. "But I'll be with Sydney. And Sophia and the others. We'll be careful. Please?"

Lori sighs, hanging the shirt up. She thinks for a minute. "Okay, go ahead. But stay within earshot."

Carl grins at me and we go.

. . . . .

I haven't seen a rabbit around here up till now. I mean, we haven't been here for very long, but Dad hasn't even brought one back from a hunt, so I was wondering. But here one is, right in front of me.

My knife's in my hand.

Sophia spotted the thing. About twenty feet away from where our little group was at the time, panting and tired from a game of tag, deciding whether or not to play again. She thought it was cute, Sophia. And it is, I guess. But I can't think about that.

I creep closer to the animal, adjusting my grip on the knife, trying for the second time this morning to keep my steps quiet. The rabbit is crouching in the brush. I think maybe it's hurt, I can't believe it hasn't run off yet, unless it's just really unusually dumb.

"Sydney, don't," I hear Sophia plead from behind me. I halt, but not because of her. I'm close enough.

My dad gave me this knife. It's made for throwing. He's been teaching me how to use it, and I'm good, but I've never actually killed anything with it. First time for everything, though.

I square my feet and balance the knife in my hand. I throw.

It lands somewhere behind the rabbit, disappearing into the brush, and the rabbit's gone like a flash. Guess it wasn't injured after all. "Damn it."

Carl comes up behind me. "Looked like you got pretty close," he says, but he can't tell, I can't even tell. I can't see my knife from here, it's hidden under a hoard of green. I walk over.

"If I had a gun, I'da killed it, easy," I mutter.

"I'm glad you didn't get it," Sophia says in her high-pitched voice. She's two years older than me, but she doesn't act like it. "It wasn't hurting anyone."

"Yeah, neither was that squirrel you ate for supper last night." I crouch down and push my hands through the thick green. It's not one individual bush, just a bunch of weeds and vines tangled together, which makes things a bit harder. A thorn scratches my hand, but I see my knife, and yeah, it did hit pretty close to the rabbit, I think. I reach out and that's when I hear it.

Moaning. And chewing.

Carl's behind me. I think he probably sees it as soon as I hear it. All I know is that my hand is on the knife's hilt just as he's saying, "Walker!"

Sophia or Eliza screams as I stand up. My hand drags back along some thorns, but I don't think about it, because in the small clearing just beyond this brush – the clearing I've somehow managed to miss – is the walker. It's got a deer corpse in front of it and looks like it's having a fine breakfast.

My first instinct is to run, but then I feel like a chicken and so I think about using the knife in my hand to go up and stab the thing in the head, because that's where you gotta hit them, you gotta go for the brain, and I've never done it myself but I've seen my dad and uncle do it enough times. But then I remember my dad telling me that if I ever come across a walker alone, the first thing I gotta try to do is run like hell. Only stab the thing if I can't run. But I can run. So I do. Me and all the other kids, we turn tail and head back to camp.

"Mom!" Carl screams. "Dad!"

Sophia cries for Mommy. Isn't she too old for that? Am I the only girl around here who acts her age? Jesus. But I guess if there's any time to cry for mommy, it's when you've seen a walker. I hate walkers. And they are scary, I can't say different.

We run into the grownups before we reach camp. They're charging over, most of men all carrying some sort of weapon or another, they all run by too fast for me to study each one, all I know I see Carl's dad – Rick – and Shane and Dale and maybe Jim. I don't catch any of the other faces, but there are more, and then Carl's suddenly stopped, and so I stop, too. His mom's there, bending down and holding him tightly. I exhale and run my arm over my face.

"Nothing bit you?" Lori asks breathlessly as people pass. "Nothing scratched you?"

Carl confirms that no, nothing touched him. Lori looks at me and I shake my head. She lets out a long breath and stands, one hand on her son and one reaching over to me. "Come on," she says, "They'll handle it, let's get you two back."

And so we go. I hear chopping noises from behind us, though, and then there's one less walker in Georgia.

Lori takes us into the RV. Carol is there with Sophia. Carl asks, and Carol says that Eliza and Louis are fine, they're at their tent with their parents. I accept some water from Lori and drink it while leaning out the RV door, waiting for the men to come back.

But it's not Shane or Dale or the hero-sheriff Rick who comes back first. Within a minute or two, emerging from the forest with his crossbow and a bundle of squirrels, is my dad.

Of course. The deer.

I smile and jump out of the RV. Lori calls after me but I run over to the edge of the camp anyway. I'm about five feet from Dad when I remember with a sinking feeling that Merle's gone.