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Her body is different. Beth notices this almost instantly but doesn't appreciate it, until she has to run. There are too many walkers. She takes down two of them and sees seven more filtering through the trees, and so she shifts from fight to flight, as simple as whirling around on her heel.

The body that she'd come to know so well, that was so soft and well-cared for, has changed. She's harder, stronger, she can feel old injuries, patches of scar tissue that keen as her legs move her smoothly and quietly through the woods.

This stranger's body she's inside of has made a home of the wild.

Beth is fast. Much faster than she remembers. Her body is used to running like this. Her legs are powerful. Her worn boots don't trip her up. Her lungs pull deep.

Walkers don't get tired, but they're slow, they're breaking apart little by little. Beth only gets stronger.

Her stomach has shrunk. She doesn't feel hunger in that old way. She doesn't feel like she needs to eat throughout the day, only when her body tells her. All the same, she keeps an eye out for anything that might indicate food or, more importantly, a water source.

The world is all misshapen around her. The main road is damaged, open and terrifying, but the woods are dark and unknown. Neither option seems right. She follows the road like a river, keeping it in sight without diving in, but she isn't willing to cut straight through the trees.

Beth hurries, runs when she can, until she's too tired and she knows that she needs to rest. She doesn't know how long it's been since she's eaten, and with running and the injuries she still doesn't understand, she doesn't want to push herself.

Thirst hits her hard and with it comes memories.

"From a toilet?" she giggles, but takes the water-bottle offered to her.

The boy who handed it to her is clear in her mind for a split second. He wears a sheriff's hat and a ruby blush, "From the top part only…" he shrugs and somehow she knows he's lying, but she drinks anyway. They can't boil it, because they can't afford a fire right now, but she saw her daddy put a few drops of bleach in earlier.

Why can't we afford a fire? Frustrated, Beth halts with a drunken stumble, a vague plan in her mind inspired by the memory. She's covered a lot of ground, but she's getting faint. The sky is dark. She wants to chase her memories, wants to know who she is now and how the change happened. Images and voices are stuck in her head like jagged pieces of glass. The important parts are missing.

Abandoned cars crowd the road, gathered together for some misguided exodus. The journey home in a car would've taken maybe an hour in rough traffic.

When she sees a car that looks like it could still function she searches for keys, but even the one time she finds a spare up in the visor, it's no use. The car has been sitting far too long to run without a mechanics touch. On foot the world is stretched out.

A ways ahead, gray figures sway. She's starting to move like them as exhaustion takes her. So badly, she wants to get home today. She knows it was too far to travel in a single day, without supplies and with the dead in her path.

Murky puddles mock her. If it hadn't been for the threat of dysentery she might have given in. The sky roils once or twice but never drops rain.

A dirt path up ahead veers towards what promises to be private property. The cars have been stripped of anything useful. All the glove boxes hang open, doors left spread. The houses will probably be just as bad, but maybe she could find a toilet and at least get some water, as the mysterious boy in the sheriff's hat suggests in one of her precious memories. She'll just have to risk a fire, unless she can remember why fire is a problem sometimes.

The house she finds looks like a mugging victim, left to bleed out in the road. The walls are blackened and the windows broken. It's two stories of someone's tomb, but she doesn't feel like an intruder as she walks past the gate and onto the property. She feels her steps slow as she approaches the front porch, notices how her breathing suddenly drops to an inaudible stream through her dry, cracked lips. Her hands are tense around the crowbar.

All day, whenever she killed a walker and didn't need to run right away, she would check it for weapons. At first, she didn't even realizes what she was doing. The corpse would fall and she would drop to her knees automatically to look in all the usual places. She found one pocket-knife and some matches, but nothing better than the crowbar left in the trunk with her. She raises the crowbar at the ready, kicking the front door open loudly. She waits and doesn't hear anything, the tension in her shoulders eases.

Even without remembering exactly why, she can feel what she's supposed to do. Don't rush in. Wait. Listen. Make sure it's really deserted. A knocking in her head makes her recall knuckles and firm palms at various timber and strength against doorframes. Shave and a hair cut. She knocks her cast against the frame but doesn't hear a two bits response, or anything else for that matter. The house is as dead as everything else she's seen so far since opening her eyes and tumbling into this grey epoch.

The sun was at high noon when she woke up, now it's dark and she hasn't seen another living soul.

There have to be others. She remembers feeling that dread, that fear, but not this bad.

Why did I wake up alone?

The water in the toilet has been taken, or evaporated, or otherwise gone. Her throat is in pain, dry. Her head pounds. Dehydration probably isn't doing anything to help the wound.

Please, God, just a little water. Her prayer is answered in the form of a forgotten water-heater, behind a swollen door that needs to be pried away from the wall with the crowbar before she can get to it.

In the kitchen she digs through cupboards to find something to boil the water in. Pots and saucepans are all gone, but pushed in the back, she finds a frying pan. It's even nice, clearly never used. Ribbon is looped through the handle with a small note Congrats Robbie and Tiana! Love Bri.

Slowly, Beth unties and pulls the green ribbon off the handle. Struck by the odd sight of her filthy and scratched up hands with something so pretty wrapped around them.

Outside, she stoops down to build a fire. Even her hand with the cast knows what to do. She begins to dig awkwardly into the earth, acting without her really knowing how or where she learned this. As if in answer to the question, she looks down at her hands in forming hole and came faintly picture another pair of larger hands working the soil with her.

"Do it right, and the light won't get so high. They won't see it," the voice is gruff and unfamiliar, but there's something comforting about it. Another one of the others that she can't quite remember, like the boy in the hat. But, this is a grown man teaching her how to build a fire. His hands are large and calloused. Knuckles, still raw and swollen ominously from some bloody boxing match brush her own, as he helps her by shoveling the topsoil up and out of the small pit. She falters at his rough touch, in the memory and in the lonely yard of the desecrated home where she's planning to spend the night.

The water is still hot when she drinks it. Three pans full and she decides to look for something to carry more, for when she finishes her journey tomorrow. The cupboards are bare of food. The glasses are all broken. In a drawer she finds two ancient baby's bottles, for children that… She cringes, first thinking they were grown and then realizing they were more than likely dead. No cracks in the plastic. They'll work. She fills them both and puts them in a backpack from one of the hall closets, prepared to leave at a moment's notice, she realizes.

All the mirrors are cracked. She wants to use the broken pieces to get a better look at the back of her head, where all the pain and stickiness seems to be concentrated, but it's too dark. It will have to wait until she has sunlight to help.

Another instinctive precaution, she looks for a closet with heavy doors to sleep in. Outside the window in the guest room, something catches her eye in the moonlight. It looks like a blackberry bush. The fire caught it, and it's struggling to grow back. It's making progress, but it's the wrong time of year for fruit.

Blackberries in winter happened inside a greenhouse. It was Christmas.

She remembers the ceiling above them, broken, letting the cold inside. It must have just happened, because nothing has been killed by the cold yet.

"They'll be so happy when they see these!" she says excitedly and her body is more like how it used to be. She's sore, not used to living out in the wild yet, but she feels happy right now, in spite of hardship. She has something to be grateful for. She has blackberries. "Carl, go get Rick." This must be a long time ago. Her hands aren't so strong or scarred. She's got a handful of berries that she drops into the boy's hat.

He's called Carl. Of course he is. With the name in her mind a flood of unexpected emotions runs through her a strong breeze. Sweet Carl. Carl who is so brave. Who wants to be the perfect son. She doesn't remember meeting Carl, but she remembers his face and she remembers scolding him and hugging him and being so proud of him and sometimes, wishing he didn't have to be so strong. She remembers that she loves Carl like a little brother she didn't know she wanted.

Carl runs out of the greenhouse calling, "Dad!"

Left alone with him now. With the blue eyes and strong hands, whose name she can taste on the tip of her tongue, but can't say yet. There's hundreds of blackberries and they're both starving, without waiting for Carl or anyone else they reach for the same patch of berries. The cold has chilled the berries, but they are still soft and plump and ripe. The perfect tang hits her tongue and she has to close her eyes a moment.

"That was the best blackberry in Georgia." Beth sighs.

"Nah uh, Mine was better," her companion claims and he might have a point, as he immediately found the biggest, fastest specimen and let it bleed all over him as he devoured it. Juice stains his thumb and forefinger, dribbling in a straight line down to his wrist.

She catches his hand and closes her mouth around the bead juice on the edge of his thumb, sucking gently she gradually moves her lips up the purple trail. He's tense, as she draws back, feeling a flood of mortification at the ruby color in his cheeks. She releases his wrist with a slight jerk of her little, shaking hand. An apology bubbles in the back of her throat, but the need to stutter her embarrassment ebbs as soon as she catches the tiniest grin, pulling at the side of his mouth.

He lifts his hand back to his mouth, draws his middle and forefingers across his tongue to lap up the last of the juice.

"Yeah. Yours was better." She says, cleaning her lips and trying not to look at his. Where did that urge come from, not just to taste the juice, but to taste him. Why did I do that? Why didn't I stop myself? Why did he let me get away with it?

Blue eyes won't meet hers, as he takes a step away, turning his back to search through the bushes, revealing a pair of stitched angel's wings. "Damn straight."

Before they get into the city, Daryl should tell him. It's not the kind of thing you should just spring on your partner. He probably should have brought it up days ago, but the explanation got caught in his throat, even during the quiet, dark hours when there was nothing to do but stare into a campfire and say things that needed saying. Even if Aaron's eyes were quiet and free of judgment. Even if enough time had passed that he could say things now. Maybe not her name, but other things. He found himself grinding his teeth, furious and crushed all over again.

Still, as Atlanta looms ahead and he slows his bike, hailing Aaron to a stop, he contemplates leaving it until later. They could just come up with a plan to approach the hospital without having to talk about what has to come after.

Aaron doesn't check the surroundings very thoroughly as he gets out of the car. His demeanor only betrays a little caution, habitual vigilance, rather than legitimate worry. He trusts Daryl to keep them both safe, knows he wouldn't stop if he wasn't sure the way was clear.

"Do you still want me on point?" Aaron's eyes earnestly search him, and Daryl can read what's lurking in his thoughts, a question about exactly how bad this was. Bad enough that Daryl didn't want to return, he's worked that much out, but not so bad that he outright refuses, has a good reason why they aren't the right people. Since Daryl knows them already, shouldn't he be the first figure they see? It's a fair question, but the answer is absolutely hell no.

"Haven't been real forthcoming 'bout this," Daryl admits, almost managing to make it into a proper apology with a shameful half-shrug. "I might've… shot their leader in the head. Just about three weeks before you met us."

Aaron's eyes go wide, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "Will they…?" the gears are turning and he seems confused. Daryl doesn't blame him. He's got to be wondering how likely it is that they'll be willing to join up with them, with this new information.

"We also already asked them to join us, and they weren't interested. But. We weren't exactly offering them Alexandria." Daryl swallows, he's almost through the easy part. "I wouldn't've come this far if I didn't think they'd want it. Noah said once… they believed someone would come save them. Or they hoped for it. I think that hope was mostly dead by the time we left, but…" he trails off into a mumbled uncertainty.

"I understand," says Aaron steadily, and Daryl doesn't doubt it. He shifts his weight, choking up on the large rifle slung over his shoulder. He taps the handlebars of Daryl's bike as he thinks, "Maybe, I approach them first, and I can warn them that they're about to see a familiar face. I still think it could help introductions, catch them off-guard. They probably weren't expecting to see you again."

"If you think it'll help," Daryl spares the city a look of hatred.

"What do you think?"

Daryl frowns and shakes his head, "I think the less I say, the better, but they'll want some kind of explanation."

Nodding, Aaron waits, watching Daryl with those clear eyes. "Is that all?" he knows it's not.

Daryl takes a few good long breaths, heart high and shoulders heavy. "…I always knew I'd have to come back here. I didn't think I could handle it. I didn't want to lose it. Not when they need me, so I decided to wait, until I was…" stronger, ready, not so likely to throw myself on a funeral pyre. "Until I wasn't needed, or something." He unzips his jacket, suddenly warm, though there's a chilly breeze on the air. "We lost someone, when we were here. She grew up about forty miles out of the city before the turn, and we were gonna go back there to put her to rest. Ran into a herd on the road. Had to leave. I locked her in the trunk of a car, so they wouldn't get to her, but…" he tries to rush through the words, living it had been hell, but even just saying it slices great poisoned lesions through his chest.

The pain in Aaron's eyes is like something from the world before it ended. It's so easy now, to be hard, to just accept that it's ugly and bloody. Good girls die. Dogs are food. Friends get lost. Bodies are left behind, desecrated. "But, she deserves better," Aaron says. Then he's quiet, sympathy unquestioned. Of course she does.

"She's close. We didn't get very far out of the city. I figure, if these guys wanna join up with Alexandria it might take them a bit to put things in order and be ready to leave. While they're packing up… I can go take care of her. I know… It matters." Finally, a little relief comes. It's the emotional equivalent of removing a bullet. It hurts and makes him feel faint and sick and like he might pass out from the agony, but once it's gone, he breathes out. Still empty and aching, Daryl is relieved to see that Aaron not only understands, but isn't going to press for details.

Aaron's hand closes firmly on Daryl's shoulder, but he doesn't say anything, he just holds onto him for a moment, anticipating the city with a grim look.

The streets are more or less clear from walkers, at least in comparison to the last time he's been here. The herds must have gravitated together and into another part of the city, because there are just stragglers now, ones with broken limbs or other impediments to prevent them from keeping up.

Nervous, Daryl realizes he's never gotten this far before. He's been so preoccupied thinking about the precious task that had been neglected in their haste that he nearly forgot to anticipate the actual recruitment.

It's his job now. He and Aaron have seen people, and nearly approached them, but something always stopped them. Except for Morgan. But Daryl doesn't count that. He might be the first person that Daryl brought into Alexandria, but he hadn't exactly found him. It was more like Morgan found them.

These guys though… they were coming in cold. Only sparse, horrific history connected them. He wants to bury it deep, and he's sure they did too.

He and Aaron don't have to speak much as they make their approach. They try to wait, to see a guard or some kind of indications of life, but the hospital stands still and seemingly empty. Some shuffling in a window catches his eye. Through the scope of Aaron's gun, he confirms it's a walker in one of the patient rooms.

"It might not mean the worst," says Aaron, optimism shining out of his ass, though the weight and the grief in his eyes and the lines of his face remind Daryl not to think the man too naïve. Aaron knows full well that it might mean exactly what it looks like. "You said they took you up to a higher floor? That some parts of the hospital were blocked off?"

"Fifth floor," Daryl's throat tightens.

"Well, that's the third. Maybe that's one of the places they had to cut off."

This place looks dead. Not even seven months have passed, but it feels like decades, looking at this building. Cars with crosses are parked around the side, but not as many as Daryl remembers. Maybe they aren't all dead, but they aren't here.

They can't leave without checking it out. Even if this trip does turn out to be a bust, they can always search for medical supplies and equipment. Maybe even some instructional materials, so that Rosita could round out her medical education with text.

Daryl doesn't know whether to feel relieved or not that the hospital proves to be deserted. He's hollow as he walks these hallways, lazily putting down the occasional walker.

It seems like every place they visit has a story that could be pieced together by the evidence and scars left behind, but Grady Memorial Hospital is a mystery.

There are no clear signs of having been overrun by walkers, or visited by marauding types. It's just empty, as far as they can tell.

Maybe something bloody has gone down, and dogs and walkers came in to clean up the mess. Doors are left open and the decent supplies are mostly gone.

They still find some things. Gauze, an ultrasound and some textbooks. Aaron pockets syringes and scrubs, plastic gloves and two stethoscopes, while Daryl puts together a kit of surgical tools that hadn't made it out. A lot of it is stuff they already have in Alexandria, but maybe they'll need more one day. More than anything, he can tell that Aaron doesn't want to just return empty-handed.

Maggie needs a Doctor. Daryl remembers his fight with Glenn with an extra shot of guilt. He may not have wanted to bring Grady's Doctor into the fold, but he understands why Glenn does. It's important. It also what she would've wanted. And not just because it's her sister, but because she believed there were still good people. He pauses and glances at the directory on the wall. He's on the fifth floor, but he knew that. He remembers those stairs all too well. She was so heavy.

While Aaron is trying to crack open a locked drawer he finds himself drifting. He knew he would, but he's still not quite prepared to stand where it happened. So was so heavy.

They cleaned up all the blood. There's nothing left, but the place still feels like death hangs over it, except that means something different these days.

Daryl feels death all the time. Is ever aware of it's power. This place feels more somehow more dangerous than others, more aware. Strangely holy, this evil place. She was so heavy.

"Daryl?"

He isn't sure how long Aaron stood watching him, he didn't count the minutes.

Aaron wears an expression that says it's time to go. They've striped this tomb of everything they could carry that might be of value to them. "Come on. Let's go… we've still got something to do in this city."

You're never going to be ready for it. But Daryl nods, because it doesn't matter whether he's ready or not. She's waiting for him in that trunk and he can't leave her there.

He's lost so many people, until death became something exhausting rather than something he truly fears. This was different. His heart rages as he leaves that place. Losing her was a fear he'd already realized long before she was really gone. It didn't make him feel weary. It didn't stop him in his tracks so he could mourn. It ended him.

With others, he could tell himself they were at peace and he could believe it. That's what he'd always done. It hurt like a son of a bitch to lose people. It made him angry. It made him curse the world. But he was always the same, in the end. He could always tell himself that they were at peace.

He wants to tell himself that about Beth Greene.

But it would be a lie. He feels it more than ever, being back in the place where it happened.

She isn't at peace, and neither is he.

A Dustland Fairytale - The Killers