SO happy to be updating (even though this chapter is less action-y than anticipated. I've already thought of one scene to make up for it next time).

This chapter is dedicated to sinfulesoteric, totalgeek479 and Amanda. Enjoy!

I do not own The Walking Dead

"Preschool starts soon. Is Patrick excited?" The man raising him had to wonder if his boss was only asking questions to kill time. He answered anyway.

"It's another thing to keep him busy. So, naturally."

"You think he's ready?"

"Why wouldn't he be?" At that moment, the office felt stuffy.

The answer was blunt. "We all know he was slow to make the charts."

Patrick had been born more than two months premature. Being born early to the world meant opening his gifts later.

"He'll catch up." His father dismissed. Though he was mapping out all the extra appointments he had to set up in his head. The two would be headed to one soon after he got off of work.

Patrick had been under the care of a babysitter for the past few hours. His father kept thinking the day would come where he would get behind with paying her, given every other expense. Luckily, that day never came.

"How's he been?" The last time Patrick had spoken to his father was that morning. Not that much conversation was expected out of the four-year-old, but sometimes it stopped altogether.

"Quiet." Came the reply. "I think he knows you're itching to get out of here."

"I just need to find a cheaper place." The man justified. "I've been holding onto this one too long."

"It get why. It was supposed to be her place, too."

For a moment there, he was the quiet one. "He hardly asks about her anymore. Aren't kids supposed to be curious about that kinda stuff?"

The response was spoken under a sigh. "It's not the life he knows. I know you don't wanna hear this, but his biggest connection to his mother is you. No matter how many stories you tell, I don't think he'll ever feel close to her."

Their hushed tones might be appreciated if it wasn't for the sad words spoken. Not that all of them were processed. The child lying next to the two adults on the couch pressed his ear to the cushion and kept his mouth and eyes shut.


Those eyes hardly seemed the same without black frames around them. Patrick sat up as Carl followed behind the toy car. He only took a few steps before he noticed the look on the older boy's face. He seemed annoyed, but Carl doubted that had anything to do with having to put off sleep. It had more to do with how much of of a challenge it was for Patrick to focus without wearing glasses. Or so he thought.

Patrick quietly cleared the grogginess out of his throat. "Did you run out of reading material?" The question was casually phrased, but he felt he was being harsh to the younger boy.

If he noticed, he didn't clue him into that. "For now."

Apparently, no one else had the luxury of a little library. Either that, or Carl hadn't really read. "Do you actually…" Patrick almost said 'comprehend', but that would make it sound like he thought Carl was stupid. So, instead, he continued with: "remember what you're reading, or do your eyes just scan the pages?"

Even out of focus, Patrick knew a glare when he saw one. It was all Carl offered in answer, because at that point he knew the other was angry. He hadn't come to argue. Their silent streak had been broken long before then, and Carl was the one to break it to begin with. He thought that was apology enough.

Patrick only had the chance to tell one of his stories so far, but it was heavier than he probably realized. Still, Carl wanted to hear what ever else he had to share. Even just for the sake of hearing.

"It's good, if you still have an escape." Patrick said finally, changing his tune. They both knew there was no real escape. That's what made conversing complicated.

Still, they were set in their thinking. They were survivors, but that wasn't the only story they had. Patrick motioned for Carl to sit. They were in the same spots as last time, because Patrick didn't want the guilt that came with keeping the comfort of the bed he'd been sitting on.

He picked up his glasses-because they weren't a far reach away-and looked them over. The sight sparked a story. "I could tell you about the day I got these." He offered, putting them on.

Carl nodded. He knew firsthand that even the simplest material things could hold sentimental value. What he couldn't decide was if those items meant more if they showed a glimmer of who the owner was before they were forced to change.

The waiting room in the optometrist's office was so crowded it could've sent Patrick running. Had he not been holding tight to his father's hand.

The two sat and waited. The man thumbed through a magazine and offered for his son to read over his shoulder. The little boy had no interest in that. It only led to headaches. (Even his earliest memory came with the feeling of feigning detachment.) He'd sat there swinging his feet just slightly and staring at the lines on his palms.

"The first thing I really remember is jumping when I heard my name." He was simply startled, but that was a recurring theme in his life. Being afraid of harmless things.

Both his father and the person who called him laughed in response. A hand was left outstretched in case he wanted to take it, but at this point he'd calmed down. He stayed by his father's side and they entered the room where he would take his eye exam.

"Did you know right away?" Carl asked. Patrick gave a vigorous nod. He was much younger then, but the clues were everywhere. The clues that told him his eyes were bad. At that age, that's the only way he saw it.

"My dad wanted to teach me how to read before I started school. And it worked. I was a better student than I thought I was. The hardest part about reading for me was differentiating the letters." Patrick knew the difference, he just couldn't tell what it was. "It wasn't until I got older and looked through my dad's logbooks that I figured out he caught onto my less-than-perfect vision a lot quicker than I did." His eyes were laughing, but his ears still rang with the sound of his father's voice behind words written in logbooks long lost. "Before that day, there were all these notes about… contraptions I had hooked up to me as a baby. And the solution they used to make my pupils dilate…" His sentence was only halfway over, but it trailed off on an upbeat. He pantomimed the action, opening his hand. "Dad said it made me look like a cartoon character."

Carl gave something of a nod in response. He could see that. "Were you happy about it?" He guessed not. From what he heard, kids typically dreaded getting things like that. It wasn't considered a fashion statement until more recently. "Or was it… as annoying as getting... braces?" Same goes for those.

He was answered with hushed laughter.

"What?" Carl didn't see what was funny about that. His only hint was the smile that had settled on Patrick's face. At first, it could hardly be called a smile. Within seconds, it was unmistakably toothy. And there was the punchline. The younger boy said it out loud just to make sure. "You had braces, too?"

"That's a story for another day." Patrick replied. "We can go through all my medical procedures and… afflictions one at a time." There was an audible edge emphasizing the word 'afflictions'." One Patrick thought he'd laughed off. The feeling resurfaced quickly, and he thought it better to explain it than let Carl think an innocent question was to blame for the attitude. "I should've been happy." The volume of his voice had stayed the same, but his tone took a dark turn. "I needed this. I knew I needed it." Even then. "But I was happy to put it off. Pretend it wasn't happening." If he'd had his way, he would've stayed asleep. "I did that a lot, but…" Patrick's glance moved from a confused Carl to the prison walls. He imagined himself standing outside them. At the fences, facing the monsters on the other side. "this… can't be ignored."

What Carl couldn't ignore was the anger Patrick directed at himself. He'd been upset about something he couldn't change. Something others might see as insignificant. The worst part was as much as he regretted acting that way, that couldn't be changed either. When Carl spoke next, he paraphrased the four-year-old version of the boy sitting in front of him. "Your eyes are bad." There was nothing tacked onto that first sentence, but his tone carried words that brushed that off: So, what? "You're not bad."

"You say that like you're sure of it."

Carl wasn't sure. Not totally. Not after what he'd seen. But that's what he wanted to believe. "You're sitting here telling me about why the rims around your eyes mean so much to you, right?" That's really all the were. Yet that description didn't even come close.

Patrick blinked, and there was a pause before he thought of something to say. "Even the worst people have things they cherish."

"C'mon." One mumble was motivation enough for the older boy to cut them both some slack.

He stopped fighting himself, and went on with the story. "I was seeing letters that… don't exist in any alphabet I've come across. It was so frustrating I wanted to cry." After the first story he'd told, admitting what he did next was easy. "I wanted to cry a lot back then. I wanna cry a lot now." He said this as a joke, but Carl had seen serious proof. "I was able to be fitted that same day. They looked to my dad for direction on style, but he wanted to leave that up to me, since-as you've heard-I didn't allow myself a lot of freedom. And I must've seen this coming because-" Patrick cut himself short, remembering something else. He got up and took the palm-sized photo album from his backpack, pulling one of the first pictures out of its plastic sleeve. "I brought this with me that day."

He passed the picture over. The first thing Carl noticed about it was that it looked older than its actual age. It was black and white, but yellowing. A corner was ripped and part of it looked like something had begun to eat away at it. He could still make out the faces in the picture. Without a doubt, it was Patrick's parents. (Sitting on the porch outside their house.) He mostly looked like his father. Except he had a few of his mother's facial features. Most notably, the eyes. They stuck out more on her because her hair was so light. Probably blonde, Carl guessed. Those eyes of hers were bright and smiling, through the black frames that helped them see.

A silent laugh escaped Carl's lips. "I didn't think she wore glasses."

"Yeah," Patrick agreed. "neither did I. She hated those. That's the only picture I have of her in them. But I thought they were nice."

Patrick's father had stood before him in awe. "I wondered what happened to that."

"I'm sorry, Dad. I had it stuck on my chalkboard." That's how the corner got ripped.

"You don't have to be sorry. It's a great… tribute."

"That's how he saw it." After an awful eight year break, and a terrible loss, Patrick's father had made it his mission to find the best part of every situation he found himself in. "I just…" Patrick couldn't find the words to describe that particular moment.

Carl found them for him. "Wanted to feel like you knew her."

Patrick knew that detail about her. He'd uncovered that on his own. He'd made that connection. That had to count for something.

"That was the biggest part of it," He'd give him that. "but it still feels sorta selfish. As I got older, it became more about adding something to my personality. Having this… air of sophistication. Hoping people thought I was smart." As the years went by, the style of the frames changed. Now they only matched his mother's in color.

"I don't believe you." Patrick had expected Carl to be upset. That wasn't right. What he didn't realize was why he thought it was wrong. "It's not about how it makes you look."

With that, the older boy was lost. That could be seen in his eyes before it was heard in his words. "Then what's it about?"

Something Carl identified with strongly. "That's how you keep her with you."


The air wasn't exactly fresh, but just having the chance to be outside the next morning was refreshing for Patrick. By Viri's request, he still kept his distance from the fence. He surveyed the groups once again, the gears in his head turning. Fueled by the ideas about where he could contribute to their efforts. He couldn't wait to stop thinking and start doing.

Simon approached him with a small plastic pail of chalk. At least, that's how it appeared at first. When the man got closer, he realized the receptacle he carried wasn't a bucket without a handle. It was a container once used to pack food to go, missing the top.

"It's like Hanukkah all over again." Simon said as he handed the cup over to Patrick.

Eyebrows dancing, he reluctantly reached for the gift. "You're the one who celebrated Hanukkah."

"Yeah, well, I chose to practice the faith of my parents." Adoptive or not. He had the rule that blood didn't make a family long before the world ripped all but one of his biological family away. When he said this, Simon saw Patrick's face drop. He backpedaled, trying to fix that. "I swear, I wasn't trying to mock you."

Patrick nodded. He knew that. The man had missed his point completely. "And I wasn't trying to have a conversation about religion. I'm saying if it's like Hanukkah all over again, then I should be giving you presents."

The way Simon saw it, there was no room for guilt in that clarifying tone. To try and lighten the mood, he jokingly yanked the chalk from the boy's grasp. This sparked a smile, which was something he could work with. "Don't feel bad that it took me this long to try and buy your friendship."

"You don't have to do that." Patrick said. It would only make him feel worse.

"I have to do something." Simon countered. That's why when this conversation came to a close, he would join some of the other adults in fashioning rope into a makeshift bridle and devising a plan for safely trapping pigs. "So do you. I'm just trying to fill your time."

Patrick wasn't sure the man knew how much of a relief that was to hear. Something to keep his mind off of how busy he wasn't. "Thank you."

Simon nodded as a way to say 'Don't mention it.' "One thing I noticed yesterday is how long kids' attention can be kept by something they haven't had in awhile."

"Really?" Patrick asked. "What gave you that idea?" As if he didn't know. It was odd to hear him be sarcastic. He wasn't all that good at it.

"I saw you." Simon said. Then, in a mumble, he added: "I also saw that Rick's kid snatched up would could've totally been my Hanukkah gift." The two shared a laugh, and Simon went on explaining his thinking. "You should be the one to give the chalk to the other kids. Since we know you're so good at sharing. You could be their unofficial… den father or something."

The likelihood of that didn't seem to strong for Patrick. His lip curled up to hide behind his teeth before he spoke next. "I think I was lucky enough to get Carl to talk to me."

Simon wasn't backing down from his stance. "From what I've seen, luck's not something you run short on. And you're more popular than you think. Hell, even I like you."

"See? That's what I mean: Sheer luck."

Simon's eyebrows lowered. "Sounds more like a complete lack of confidence to me." It was infuriating how much Patrick brought himself down. "If I'm wrong, you can rub it in my face later. Go keep the kids busy."

"Will do." Patrick promised. This time, it was a promise he would make good on as soon as possible. He was done with putting things off.


Some of the chalk had ground up into powder at the bottom of the cup. The colors mixed as the pieces clanked together. The three children Patrick had given the chalk to had silently decided on using it sparingly. Most of the pieces remained untouched. Twenty minutes went by, and only a few drawings covered the walls and ground outside.

One of the girls under Patrick's care had asked if he wanted to join in on the drawing. (He kept a close eye, but a respectable distance. That was how he operated. It was plain for the adults to see, which left them without qualms about leaving him in charge.) The question didn't surprise him. The girl who phrased it thought his answer would be 'no'. She had to check, just in case she thought wrong. Just like last time.

"No thanks, Mika."

"Why not?" She didn't exactly sound disappointed. Just curious. The other children paid no mind, because they were busy collaborating on an art project.

Patrick had a job to do, simple as it was. The children weren't allowed outside the gates, and they didn't seem to mind that. Only three of them had gone along with Patrick's idea. Mika's sister, Lizzie, was off somewhere. With Carol, he guessed. Looking after Mika, Luke and Molly didn't feel like much of a hassle. They certainly didn't make things difficult on purpose. Still, the teen couldn't afford distractions.

Something else contributed to his reluctance to join in on the fun. "I'm not really good at drawing."

Mika titled her head just slightly in confusion. "But I've seen how you write. It's kind of like drawing."

"Oh, the calligraphy." He said as if he hadn't even realized. If he was honest with himself, he never really looked at that as an art when he did it. It was just a way to keep calm.

She laughed lightly, the word she knew but had forgotten now etched in her mind. "Yeah, it's nice."

"Thank you."

"Maybe you should just write your name." Mika suggested.

That was something he hadn't had a reason to do in a while. "Sure," he decided. "but where should I put it?"

"In your cell." She said this as if it was obvious. She didn't stumble through the last word like Viri had. "So everybody knows that's where you belong." That's not how Patrick felt. He figured that could change if he listened to her idea. If he listened to instructions. If he listened to the inspirations his racing mind spouted out about what to do and who to talk to. If he did that, he could make this work.


Not all the adults helped build pens to house animals that still belonged to the wild. Not all of them believed it could work. The ones who did looked to the Greenes for direction. Hershel knew the most about the process. Keeping pigs and horses had been part of his livelihood. And, though not to the same extent, it'd been part of his daughters' livelihoods, too.

The structures were all man-made. Planks of wood held together by ropes and wire, reinforced with pieces of metal fencing. It was all they had at the moment, but it looked promising. As Patrick made his way inside, he was reminded of how he felt walking up to the prison. In the days before, he may not have looked at the place twice. At least, not without a rush of emotions hitting him at once, before he pushed them all down and went on his way.

The prison was shelter. He could bet that wild as they were, the animals out there would appreciate a place like this. For them, the transition wouldn't be so tough.

Up until the past few days, he had never seen himself as a wild animal. That's how long it took to register. He'd always tried to be somewhat civilized, but he'd forgotten how to act around people. People he hadn't known before. Especially people who meant him no harm. There were times when he'd shut down. So, every time he took it slow, he worried he was headed down that path again.

Seeing the work the adults were putting in, he didn't worry. He was inspired.


A single, now slightly used piece of chalk sat atop Patrick's stack of books, which was now in the box at the foot of his bed. While patterns ran through his mind, he worked through a plan with his hands. He had picked through table scraps-which were a rare sight at this point-to find as many seeds as he possibly could. He tasked himself to remove them from whatever fruits and vegetables were leftover.

It was an idea he came up with on his own since joining the group at the prison that made him feel useful. More seeds, more plants, more food. Less hunger.

That meant something.

Patrick wanted everything to be as clean as possible before he brought it outside. He couldn't very well do that while the seeds still had a hunk of food attached.

The first step in this process was to make sure the knife he used was sterilized. Simply washing and wiping it clean didn't feel like enough. He had it blade down in a can of boiled water. Absentmindedly, he grabbed for the handle too early, and the heat coming off of it burned part of his palm. He winced and opened his grip. Luckily, the knife dropped back into the can without knocking it over.

"You okay?" For a second, he'd forgotten he was on display. Patrick looked up to see Carl, who was just passing through. On the way to a job that Patrick didn't know the details of. Still, he had a feeling that none of the members of this group did anything that could be classified as busywork.

"Fine." He meant it. He'd felt worse. The shock of it was more than the actual pain. It was rare for Patrick to something without thinking-or overthinking-first. "Just happy to be helping out."

"Yeah," Carl could bet. The older boy seemed like that kind of person. "next time don't hurt yourself trying to help us, alright?"

There was a pause before Patrick replied, though his answer came to mind immediately. "Sometimes it comes to that."

Carl had seen that for himself. He'd lived it, in some cases. His family put themselves in danger for the sake of doing good. For the sake of protecting people.

He meant what he'd said as a joke. Though he hoped Patrick would be careful. He wasn't expecting such a serious-and relatable-response. He didn't know how to follow it. Instead, he asked: "Who gave you that job, anyway?" He'd noticed the pattern over the past few days. For the most part, Patrick did what he was told.

The next words were paired up with a prideful smile. "I did."

"And boiling the knife?" The younger boy had a pretty good idea what that was about. (The way he phrased the question was strange, but Patrick knew what he meant.) It wasn't the smartest idea to seed fruit with the same knife used to take down walkers. Though, Carl wasn't sure Patrick had ever done that.

He caught onto his thoughts. More than he admitted, in that moment. "This'll be our food. Not theirs." Patrick was looking to help everyone survive longer, and that wasn't going to happen if he was responsible for spreading the infection.

After a nod, Carl's eyes settled on the signature on the wall. His response to this doubled as recognition for Patrick coming up with jobs for himself. "Cool." He didn't say so, but he seemed impressed that Patrick had managed to keep his hand so steady while writing.

"Thank you." That was the result of a lot of practice, he explained. "I used to have this little chalkboard hanging on my door." He watched Carl's eyebrows furrow hearing this. The chalkboard he pictured when Patrick told him the story about getting his glasses seemed bigger, to be able to hold the picture of his parents in one corner. That chalkboard seemed bigger because it was. Patrick picked up on Carl's confusion, he just didn't acknowledge it. "I would write these quotes and messages on there periodically."

"With how much you can talk, I'm surprised it all fit." Carl had a point there. With anything, whether it be making conversation or taking on work, Patrick was slow to start. He needed encouragement. Once he got started, he didn't want to stop.

"If I ran out of room, I'd just write on the door."

That was surprising. Patrick seemed to neat for that. Carl would've asked about it more, if he didn't have work to do. Instead, he just said: "Thanks."

As Carl was leaving, Patrick gave a non-verbal reply. Rather than shrug his shoulders, as a way to say it was no trouble, he let his expression do the talking.

Conversation had allowed the water to cool a bit, even if it was in a metal can. Patrick waited a little while longer, then got to work. Knife in hand, he carved out each seed he couldn't get to just by using his fingers. Then he placed them in his one empty eyeglass case. He would use that to carry them all outside, not bothered by how mixed up they would get along the way. He could distinguish them by sight. He got up and left his cell, the case softly rattling as he walked.


Once the seeds were separated, they were planted in rows. Patrick had helped with some of the planting. So far, all the tasks he took on himself seemed easy. People appreciated the effort, though. This helped remind him how much it mattered.

Occasionally, Simon would look over to see how Patrick was doing. (He did the same with Ira, who was happy to have his post at the fence.) "If they're impressed by this, they should see what that kid can do with a pipe wrench." He chuckled at his own statement-wondering whatever happened to that pipe wrench-while Viri gave him an odd look.

"I thought you wanted him to quit that."

"No. He can't quit it." Simon knew that was impossible. "I just want him to ease up a little."

"I think he's done a good job of that so far. Especially if he's finding time to write again."

Writing was almost all he did in between jobs. Being in a place like this, he always had some thoughts that only pages got to listen to. He went to pen an entry after helping with planting. He soon found that Beth had the same idea. She was lying on her bed, writing away.

He almost said something, but didn't want to break her concentration and make her lose her place. She sensed him standing there, though. She sent him a smile, and closed her journal. This told him she was curious in what he had to say.

"You write, too?"

Though she was smiling, she shook her head like she was disappointed. "Not like you do." She'd seen his calligraphy.

"I don't think that adds anything to the quality of my stories." Not that she knew what his stories sounded like. Besides, he didn't write that way when he made entries.

"They're still worth tellin'." She said to him, lazily flipping back through her own writing. A stray page fell to the floor. He went to pick it up for her. It didn't match the others. It had been torn from a composition book. "That one's not mine," She told him as she reached for it. "I'm just savin' it." As little of a story as there was to see on that page, she saw it as something worth saving.

He didn't ask why. He didn't seem welcome to. It was folded to the point where it served as a second bookmark. Still, he wondered what was on there. Mostly, he wondered whose it was. He didn't bother asking because he felt like he'd be bothering Beth by doing so.

"Well, I won't… keep you." He had his own writing to get back to anyway. Though he struggled through his sentence a bit, he didn't sound sad. He would see her soon.

She knew that, so her smiled stayed. "See ya."

The more Patrick wrote, the less it became about the day passing by. Soon his reflection ended, and he made a list of things to do later. He knew he could keep at that for a good, long time. He just didn't have the patience.


"Do you remember how it was?" Viri asked as Patrick scrubbed away at his fingernails. He hadn't asked for gardening gloves when he helped with the planting, so he was wearing his work. He seemed ashamed of that-since he scrubbed so hard his fingertips looked like raw meat-even though getting dirty meant he'd done well. He had nothing to be embarrassed about as far as his former leader was concerned. She'd seen him a lot less clean.

In fact, the first time she saw him after the end, his arms were covered in dirt past the elbow.

His mouth was closed, so it stifled a sigh, but he had to open it to answer her. "Mostly experimental." He couldn't help chuckling. Not at his own joke, but the memory behind it. "And it was fun." He admitted as he made sure he hadn't missed a spot. In the back of his mind, he knew he probably should've stopped scrubbing minutes ago. Viri seemed less worried about how hygienic he was, and more surprised that he'd used the word 'fun' to describe something he'd allowed himself to do. He had a feeling she would be. "By then I knew how to have fun." One of his eyebrows bounced a bit, as if that somehow validated the statement. "It was good, most of the time." He said this with a smile so genuine it was as if their world was back to the way they remembered it. His smile didn't fade, not completely, but half of it hid after a beat. "But… I don't think that had anything to do with me."

Since the scrubbing stopped-and she was relieved not to see any blood-Viri switched her focus to Patrick's eyes. "It's not gonna do us-" her eyes shifted slightly as she thought to include the rest of the group. The one that took her and her darlings in. "or them any good if all you do is doubt yourself." She talked with her hands, one of which chopped through the air to drive her point.

Patrick nodded, but he wasn't set on helping with this particular task just yet. He wished he could take it as an instruction rather than a suggestion, but a loud thought was holding him back. He voiced it, "What if I'm not what's missing?" Her look of determination dissolved at these words. Viri knew where his mind was. Though, suddenly, his thoughts moved from the past to the present. "She doesn't need my help."

"She has more mouths to feed now." Viri pointed out.

What he said next threatened to throw her off track again. "It wasn't about the food before."

"I know that." What was missing couldn't be brought back. "I saw what you did today." She was done trying to argue, for now, and decided to encourage instead. Which was what helped him the most. "Imagine how it's gonna feel when you get to prepare what you planted." She let that sink in for a second, then said: "Imagine how proud-"

"Okay." He hadn't meant to cut her off. When someone said 'imagine', he couldn't help doing just that. Having the thought in his head wasn't enough, though. He wanted to help. He had to help. He just got discouraged. It was hard to stay like that with the look she gave him.

"So, you're gonna be a sous chef again." She said with a smile.

He laughed. "So long as I'm wanted." His one condition carried the doubt that was so difficult for him to drive out of his head.

Viri had no doubt whatsoever. "It'll take some time, but they'll love you, too."

With those words, he was off to help Carol with cooking.


He hadn't meant to weasel his way into the group's good graces, but that was what taking on the job felt like. Given the circumstances, the others were bound to send smiles in the direction of the ones who served them food. Or, at least, an acknowledging nod. He also enjoyed the amused laughs he got after acting on the overwhelming urge to shout "Chow time!"

It went well. Better than he expected, but that was usually the case. Afterward, everyone was resting up. They weren't quite ready for sleep, but most of the day's work was behind them.

Simon aided his brother in walking down the stairs, and Viri waited for them at the bottom. "You ever get tired of that?" He asked her, about midway.

"What?" She asked, hands on her hips. She knew he couldn't be talking about spotting. That was instinct. The kind he could identify with.

"Offering Patrick jobs he doesn't feel up to." Simon explained.

She shook her head as the other two reached the landing. "I push until I don't have to anymore. I knew he can handle this."

"He's the one who forgets." Ira added. Knowing full well he could get like that, too.

"Where's he off to now?" Simon found it odd that he didn't know. He usually had eyes on everyone in his group. Being here, it seemed he was in need of a lot more eyes.

"Another job." Viri informed. "Dish duty with Beth and Zach."

Ira's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't seem right. The ones who cook shouldn't have to clean."

She shrugged. "He volunteered." No pushing required.

"Of course he did." Simon scoffed. "He may not think he's good for much, but he likes to keep a full plate." Otherwise, he grew anxious.


Patrick hoped he was actually moving things along, instead of just taking up space. It didn't help that he was in the middle, where Zach most likely wanted to be. Sure, he had his priorities. But he was too friendly to make it all about him and Beth.

She had her arms going in all directions, handling plates the boys had just washed. Her job was to dry them.

Patrick saw that this system sped up the process, once he got past the doubt that was weighing him down. He wished that was something that could be washed off, along with his reluctance. He really was happy to help. It just took him awhile to remember why.

He liked feeling productive. Now that he'd assisted in cooking, he had a job to go back to. A regular gig. It put his mind at ease, which was saying something.

"So..." Zach began rather randomly. The three had been talking as they worked, but this was the first of his questions that hid behind a verbal ellipsis. He was waiting for Patrick to look over at him before he continued. Beth smiled to herself. She knew what was coming. "did you have a job before this?"

The look Patrick gave in response held the echo of a question he'd posed to Carl. ...before all this? It was obvious that's what Zach meant. So, Patrick told him: "I had two."

He said this casually. His audience of two didn't exactly seem impressed. More like shocked. "You're barely Beth's age, right?"

"I didn't have both jobs at the same time." Patrick clarified. Though that was already clear.

"That's what I mean," Zach said. For a second, his words dissolved into disgruntled grunts. Then they formed again. "That's crazy."

Patrick shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. The others didn't know the full story. They didn't know how long he held the jobs down for. "I could just have terrible work ethic."

They both laughed. Even though they barely knew him, they knew that wasn't true.

"Are you gonna tell him what you did, or have him guess?" Beth gave Patrick the first option to try to save him the trouble of the second.

He was intrigued. "You can guess?" Personally, he'd never liked guessing games. Too much pressure.

"I can try."

"It might take awhile." This sparked another laugh.

"He doesn't mind." Beth told Patrick, reaching for the last of the plates.

Patrick must've been too focused on the work-and conversation-to notice what he did then.

The scar on her wrist. He could almost feel the slice, seeing it clearly for the first time. His eyes had wandered, but his mind was stuck. It wasn't that he wanted to know about it. That was up to her.

For him, the mark served as a reminder of conversations he had yet to get to. (Though, the first memory he recounted to Carl could fit under this category.)

Only a few of Patrick's own scars were visible, but they all had stories behind them...

Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! It'd be cool to have your opinions on things:

1. What kinds of things do you wanna know about Patrick? Especially as a child, since most of my ideas happen when he's preteen-teen. If you have ideas of your own and not just questions, feel free to share those.

2. How should I incorporate the adults? The focus is on Patrick, but I feel like the adults at the prison have had about three lines and they've all been Rick's.

3. Do you mind that most people in the flashbacks don't have given names?

4. Lastly, Patrick has common ground with a handful of people at the prison. Some of which I thought up before episodes that showcase that premiered. The circumstances are different, but I just wanna make sure that's okay.

Let me know if you have any ideas about this or anything I didn't cover in my questions. Also, if there are any spelling/grammar/phrasing mistakes. And if there's anything you want me to elaborate on. I'll update ASAP! =]