"There are still good people, Daryl."

Yeah. I know. But whoever's firing at us ain't some of 'em. Hold on tighter, 'm gonna have to turn hard up here.

Beth smiled and wrapped her clean and bare arms tighter around Daryl's leather covered waist as he swerved to avoid the oncoming bullets. He ducked, and so did she. He leaned to one side, and she followed.

Beth strained her neck to look back, trying to see where Sasha and Abraham were.

"I don't see 'em. I think they took the other road."

We'll find 'em.

"Yeah. I know."

Suddenly Daryl was wiping out, his bike skidding to the ground and onto its side. Beth disappeared, and Daryl mentally cursed. Sometimes she'd disappear and he wouldn't see her again for weeks.

He hopped back on his bike, revving the engine to quickly get away from his attackers.

Daryl had lost them for now. He was concealed by the trees as he walked his motorcycle through the skeletal looking branches. His bike became too heavy to push any further and he had to let it fall to the ground as he took labored breaths.

Daryl squinted as he looked around and pulled out his radio.

"Sasha… Abraham, you there?"

There was no response.

Daryl was still panting as he looked down and saw blood dripping onto a skull between his feet. He winced as he peeled the fingerless leather glove from his hand, shaking his wrist as if to brush away the pain. He tossed the glove aside and began to shed his jacket. As the leather stopped around his elbows, he felt a feather light touch on his shoulder. His breathing stopped, and he froze in place.

"You're hurt." Beth said from behind him as she frowned, her fingers trailing along his sweaty and bruised arm. Her soft pink skin was a sharp contrast to the layers of dirt and grime that covered Daryl.

Daryl grunted and continued to shrug out of his jacket.

Yeah. When the bike skidded back there, I hit the ground. 's nothin.

"Here, let me help." Beth said, her voice like the music of wind chimes, delicate and fleeting. She pulled the jacket down him from behind, and carefully moved it over the scrapes on his arm.

Daryl threw the jacket aside and moved to his bike. He crouched down, about to remove his small pack from the hook on the side of the motorcycle.

Beth knelt down beside him, her butter-colored sundress gathering around her. The lacy fabric laid over the dirt and blood around her, but didn't stain. She looked down at his arm, inspecting the damage.

"'m sorry Daryl. That must hurt real bad."

Don't matter. C'mon, we gotta move.

Daryl brushed her off, not wanting to talk too much or look at her too long. Instead, he saw her in brief glances, side-gazes that never lingered. He was afraid that if he allowed himself to actually look at her, she'd be gone again.

Of course, maybe he'd gotten it all wrong. That's not how it worked before, anyway. He saw her, and he touched her, he barely touched her, and then she was gone again. Taken from him with a bang and a gasp and a splat of red liquid that couldn't be blood because it couldn't be blood because it couldn't be blood.

But it was. It was blood, and she was gone, and she was gone. He carried her, but she was empty and heavy and limp.

And maybe he could have pretended for a moment that she wasn't. That she was there, and he was fine, and she was sleeping because she fell asleep in the forest under the warm sunshine with the bird-songs and insect-buzz and the warm sweet life all around her. She was sleeping, and he was carrying her back to a cabin that was waiting with canned peaches and soft blankets and books for her to read to him and a guitar for her to strum. It was fine, and he was fine, and she was warm and sleeping and limp against his chest out of trust.

But she wasn't. She was just gone.

"Daryl?"

Daryl stood and turned, his jaw clenched as he stumbled away and she trailed behind.