Sarge's world is spinning. Not spinning, more like swimming: the inky black of the background rolls like waves in his mind's eye. His body feels exhausted and sore and he can't really move, but very quickly that becomes okay.

"Wake up," the image in front of him says. "Wake up, Crocket."

"What?" Sarge manages a hoarse whisper. The world gives a surge and swells in tandem with his heartbeat. The Kid's eyes are dark, choppy strands of hair curling around his face like smoke, and his smile is a million watts. Sarge squints a little at him.

"You're dreaming," the Kid says with lips moist and red.

"Kid?" Sarge asks, shuddering when the Kid reaches slowly out. Every inch gained is a stolen moment of Sarge's breath.

The Kid rests his hand on the gunshot wound open and bleeding on his shoulder, gaze never wavering. Sarge allows himself to feel sorrow over the reasons, but then the Kid is leaning into him. His eyes are open when he gets into Sarge's personal space, sliding oh so long legs up to brace knees on each side of Sarge and pushing his weight hard downward. The hollowing darkness of the waves comes crashing down on them.

"Crocket," the Kid says again, voice sure and true and pulling at something in Sarge's chest. Sarge suddenly feels very old. "Crocket, you need to wake up."

So he does.

Sarge opens his eyes and it's nightfall. He's sore and exhausted, wants to close his eyes again but the unsettling fear that never quite leaves him now is something good to focus on. Sarge doesn't feel like throwing up anymore and his vision doesn't spin too much. Reality is more terrible than any nightmare he could have.

Chuck is dead.

Sarge hitches a painful breath and ends up frightening the Kid kneeling in front of the couch near him.

"Holy shit," the Kid exclaims as he flails and falls back and on his ass. He was washing his hands in a bucket of steaming water now turned deep red. He tips himself back upright, wiping wet palms heavily down the front of the jeans covering his thighs. "You're awake."

Sarge breathes out again, this time in response to how intently the Kid is looking at him.

Sarge shakes his head to distract himself. Oh, what was that? Chuck is still dead.

"How are you feeling?" The Kid says. "It looks like the bullet went right... through you. Which is why..." he trails off.

"I figured," Sarge says, and sits up better to prod at his shoulder. The Kid didn't do a bad job of bandaging him up, the cloths wrapped tight in an arc over the wound and several pieces around his chest for security. It feels awkward on his tongue but he says, "Thank you."

The Kid smiles and hands him his shirt first. Sarge winces as he struggles into it, forcing back gasps as the Kid helps him into the stale cotton. If Sarge didn't know better – which he does but right now doesn't want that think too much about it – he would say the Kid's fingers were stroking long pets down his sides and torso in the process. The Kid is spreading the camo jacket to help Sarge into that as well when they hear jostling outside the screen door.

"Fuck," Sarge says, and surges up the best he can. The Kid gets to his feet quickly, retrieving Sarge's handgun off the coffee table and aiming in the general direction of the woods outside the screen.

They wait.

Tomboy? Francisco? O'Flynn? Deadheads?

"Don't shoot!" A female voice calls out from the woods. She appears at the doorway, peering into the cabin. She's an identical match to the zombie daughter of O'Flynn they had seen riding through the field on horseback.

The field where Sarge took a fucking bullet and Chuck still died.

"Huh," the Kid says, blinking. He lowers the gun and Sarge takes it from him. "There're two of them."