For hours she still didn't sleep. He had said the word eulogy. What kind of psycho had her? What kind of man tells a living girl that he's getting ready to write her eulogy? She shivered, wet and stubborn, throughout the night. When he came back after the sun had risen he found her only mildly damp but still cold. She could see him now, with whispy white hair combed across his head. He asked her the same question again. But this time she didn't demand to be let go.

"Are you -" she hesitated, bolstering herself. "Are you the one who prepared those people?"

"What?" he returned. "Who put make-up on them. And made them nice-looking. Was it you?"

"Ah, you've seen my work?" She nodded. "It's kind of... beautiful," she said. She had decided in the night, as she shivered and tried not to cry, that she would try to get to know the man who held her. Though remembering the word she'd pressed upon Daryl made her hate herself. It wasn't beautiful, she knew now. It was deranged.

"Beautiful?" he repeated.

"Well, yeah! I mean." She shifted to her feet, gingerly. "You care, you know. Most people don't anymore. They can't focus on what people were when they were alive. But you care. You take the time to do something about it. That's beautiful! I think that's beautiful."

"I'm glad you think so," he said. His eyes hadn't lit up the way she hoped, but he was looking at her eyes, now. Instead of just her face. She smiled at him. She didn't know if she could be charming or not. But she had to try something.

"Do you have others? Anyone here?" she asked, her eyes darting hopefully toward the stairs. She focused on avoiding the sight of the corpse. She wondered why he'd left it there. A warning? A regret?

"I do." He hesitated a moment. Glancing fearfully at the steps.

"Could I - " Here was an intentional hitch. Let him think she was afraid! "Could I see them?" Standing was annoying her ankle, though. She'd been able to ignore it as she sat in her trance. But now, with blood flow and pressure, it was beginning to object painfully. He didn't notice how she carefully angled the foot, however. He was just thinking.

"Well," he said. "What's your name?" She knew he would ask. What could be done? Should she give a fake name? Was there any chance he would advertise her funeral - that was his plan, right? A eulogy had to have a funeral. Could there be harm in giving him the truth?

"I'm Beth." He smiled. His teeth were whiter than they should have been, though not all in a smooth line. And though she smiled back, fear curled painfully in her gut.

"Ah, Beth. I'm Mr. Macon."

"It's nice to meet you," she returned. He was thinking. That's all she knew. "I don't have to see them," she said, wondering if she had pushed too much too soon. "I just like what you do, you know. I'm sorry."

"No, no. Beth, I'm sorry for my lack of consideration. Let me get you some food." He scurried away, stomping up the stairs this time. Excited. She knew what he thought, now. That he had a new pet. She looked down at the couch cushion. It was still a bit moist. But she didn't want to sit. She wanted out. She wanted to at least be able to see the daylight, instead of this musty filtered version. She heard him on the stairs again, and fixed a smile back onto her face. "You can come upstairs," he said. Her heart soared. "But you're not allowed to leave. The doors are bolted and I have the only key. And, I'll only let you come upstairs, if you agree to stay."

"Of course I'll stay," she promised immediately. "Where else would I go?" She thought of Daryl. Maybe if she could just see the road she could leave a sign for him. He could track. How do you track a car, though? Could he even have followed them? She refused to focus on the possibility of him being lost to her. She could only think of him, somewhere out there, watching for her. As Mr. Macon fussed with the wires that were her prison, she leaned against the wall. Only when he began to lead her upstairs did he notice her ankle.

"You're injured," he said.

"Only a little," she returned. She still didn't know how to handle him. He liked flattery. But whether he preferred her scared or strong she couldn't tell.

"I'll look at it for you. What happened?" She didn't want to tell him it happened in an animal trap. She already blamed him for that, anyway. He probably set the trap himself.

"I got it stuck a couple of days ago. A rock and a hard place, you know." It objected painfully as they reached the landing, and she squinted against the sparkling house. It was all white, with most of the windows boarded up - but still, the top pane was mostly visible, and allowed direct sunlight to come in.

"If you take a seat I'll look at it." She perched on one of the kitchen chairs, and he knelt before her. She allowed herself to think of Daryl again, how he'd wrapped her leg the first time. And carted her around the house. She would have smiled, it she wasn't looking down at the balding head of Mr. Macon. Of this mad man. She winced a bit as he eased her shoe off, and she saw how swollen her ankle was, now. Bruised purple and brown. No wonder it was hurting.

"I'll be right back." He straightened. "Don't move," he ordered. He touched his jacket pocket before stepping from the room. So that's where the key is, she acknowledged. She looked around, craning her neck to try to peer through the panels on the window. She could see the indication of greenery but that didn't help her any. She would have to see outside soon - if she had any hope of escaping. When he returned he carried a roll of heavy gauze and a photo album. "This," he began, gently handing her the thick book, "is all the pictures of the people I've helped." She opened the first page and found an old-looking photograph. It was a woman with silver hair, laying serenely in a coffin. Her cheeks were rosy, but her skin drooped. The next photo was a child, dusted carefully in an effort to preserve his youth. Beth nearly cried. Mr. Macon knelt again, wrapping her foot.

"These are beautiful," she declared. That word could be the key. Beautiful.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked. She continued to peruse before stopping on a page near the center of the book. It was a man with gray hair and tanned skin. A farmer, she felt certain. A man of honor.

"This one," she said, turning the book for him.

"Ah. Henry. He was a good man. Left behind some children who loved him dearly." She didn't catch herself in time. Her emotions flowed into her face as intensely as they flooded her stomach. Her dad was gone. And suddenly she missed her sister all the more. She thought of how Maggie would be feeling. Maggie still had Glenn, though. Or at least Beth hoped it. "Are you okay?" Mr. Macon asked suddenly. She jolted, her cornflower eyes focusing on him again. She nodded, glancing away. "You've lost people," he said knowingly. She nearly rolled her eyes. Of course she'd lost people. She merely nodded, however. "So have I." He took the book from her, turning pages. "This is Maribel. She was my wife." What promised to be a stout woman was captured in the photograph. Though the craftsmanship was delicate, it was clear that the woman had died from a trauma, rather than disease or natural causes. "She was bitten," he said mournfully. "And she knew what it would do to her. She tried to run from here, but I found her." He touched the photograph, at her ear. "I had to stop her," he said. "And I had to lay her to rest."

"I'm sure she would have appreciated it." She took the opportunity to lay her hand on his, and smile into his dull eyes. "I'm sure she was thankful." He nodded. "And she looks beautiful, here. So calm and at peace." He looked down at her hand as she withdrew it.

"Well, Miss Beth. Would you like a bath?" He stood suddenly. "I don't have running water, of course. But in the back room here there's a pump from the well. It won't be warm, but it will be clean enough." She thought of how thankful she would be for the luxury of clean skin, but nearly declined because of who was offering. "I won't really take no for an answer," he added. "If you want to sleep on a bed, you'd better clean up. I have some clothes that will probably fit you."

"Alright," she agreed. "It's been a while since I've felt clean." Maybe it wouldn't be too bad, she thought. Maybe she could get out right now in this "back room". And if not, she'd clean up a little and then take down the man as soon as possible. She wished she could come up with a good plan. She just wished she were stronger. He helped her up, and led her down a short hall and through a wooden door. It was a mud room, she realized. That had once just been walled by mesh screens. It was now paneled with big sheets of wood, and in one spot a door had been nailed into place. There was no exit she could have escaped through, that wouldn't have required a lot of noise and a lot of strength. But he left her, after showing her how to work the pump, and mumbled something about finding clothes for her. That was she first thing she washed. Her grimy jeans and now-grimy shirt. The bra Carol had helped her alter, though it was nearly useless now. Even her ugly socks. She rubbed the dirt and blood out as much as possible, and then stretched them under the water. The meager chore was oddly relaxing, and allowed her body to remember its exhaustion. There was a tap on the door.

"Are you done?" he asked.

"Not yet," she replied, praying he didn't try to open the door.

"I have some clothes here that might fit you," he said. "I'll just leave them here in the hall. I'll be in the kitchen, fixing a bit of food for us." She still wasn't positive that they were completely alone, but she was beginning to hope he didn't have anyone else. It would be easier for her, she knew. If there was no one left hurting when he was gone. She thought hard as she washed herself, fighting off shivers in the cool water. It splashed lamely on the cement, but dripped down toward the edge of the plot. As she rinsed through her hair, finally seeing the blonde it was meant to be, she looked at herself. Even in the current state of things she'd been sheltered. But now, her body seemed tougher. Leaner and stronger than she would have imagined just a few years ago. She couldn't help but think, however, that it wasn't strong enough. She'd been taken. She'd been forced to leave Daryl behind. She worried for him as much as she worried for herself.
She crouched, and used one of her socks to scrub at her skin. She wrapped her hair up - longer now than it had ever been - into a self-sustaining bun. Then she edged toward the door. He'd brought her a towel, and a dress. As she rough-dried herself, she eyed the dress. It was a gaudy red, but she didn't entirely understand it. It fit a little big, but covered her well enough. But why on Earth would she want to wear a dress with walkers everywhere. She couldn't make a much better decision, however. Her clothes were wet now. She scoffed at herself. What an idiot. She buttoned the dress at the back of the neck, and left the curious scarf-like appendages to hang against the fabric that covered her chest. What an odd dress. She walked to the boarded up windows then, and peered through whatever cracks there were. Still, all she could see were trees. She could only pray that the front of the house faced a road. One she could soon follow to Daryl. Surrendering her perusal of the outside, she walked from the dim room into the kitchen. She had re-wrapped her own ankle, but the bandage was sliding down a bit. Mr. Macon was at the counter, spooning peanut-butter and old cereal into a bowl. She hesitated by the wall.
"Oh, no, no," Mr. Macon muttered, as he placed the bowls on the table. "You don't appreciate the dress, yet." He reached up - and though she flinched he didn't hesitate, merely tied the dress's accent into a frothy bow. He linger, however, and allowed the back of his knuckled to brush her cheek. She stood stock still and looked away. One more second, she thought, one more second and you'll be on the ground struggling for your life. It was a dangerous type of fear she felt now. Feminine. She didn't like it, and worse, it wasn't the kind of fear she was used to.