It's ironic, really, that Dale would die right after the whole moral upheaval. So now, to honor Dale's memory, we have to keep the morals.

I go to the funeral. It's my first time really outside, and of course it's depressing as all hell. Rick talks about all of those morals that Dale had, and how we have to prove that this group is not broken, in addition to talking about what a great man Dale was.

I don't think I realized before how much internal conflict there was with this group that I've fallen into. I've had no reason to encounter this conflict before, so why should I have known? But now that I do, it's evident in every dark look one person throws another, one slightly more emphasized word in a sentence. Everything is tense and tilting on edge.

I guess I'm lucky to be the sick girl.

T-Dog eventually explains to me how everything happened. Dale was on a walk to clear his head after the whole Randall fiasco, and a Dead-One snuck up on him. Everyone else was too late in getting to him.

The first shot was a Dead-One.

The second shot was Dale.

It's been decided that everyone is moving into the house. The room that used to belong to me now belongs to Andrea and Carol as well. I don't mind, though. It feels a lot less like a cave with two other people sleeping around me. Besides, I like Andrea. I don't know much about Carol other than she lost her daughter, but she still seems pretty depressed so I think I'll leave it alone for the time being.

People are in defense mode now. The tough members (basically all the men and Andrea) are out and about, setting up defenses and killing any stray Dead-Ones that wander through. It seems like there was a hole in the fence somewhere along the way that a bunch of them just gradually trickled in through.

The cattle are moved, food and weapons are stashed in the barn, the basement, a makeshift watchtower.

Randall is still alive. I don't know how that happened, if Rick just couldn't do it or if the Dale fiasco happened before they could, but he's still alive. The new plan is to cut him loose again.

Considering last time apparently ended with getting mobbed by a horde of Dead-Ones, I'm hoping they're more careful this time.

Sharing a room with Andrea doesn't end up being quite as nice as I expected, though. Apparently she and Dale were close. I didn't know. She's almost as depressed as Carol, but she seems to vent her feelings by shooting things instead of moping around. I kind of admire that.

Shane hasn't been allowed in the house, so apparently he's still sleeping outside. I don't know why he hasn't been allowed in, but given the remarks he gave during the meeting I imagine he isn't the most pleasant person to be around.

I eventually put on some real clothes. They belong to Beth, so they're too pastel for my taste and a bit too small, but they work and I feel like I'm being productive. Despite the heat, though, I'm still wearing long pants. Once the bandages were removed, my legs were covered in long, angry red scars that I'm not in any hurry to show off to anyone. There's a big one on my collarbone which is clear to everyone, and that's about as far as I want anyone to see. I suppose that's stupid, considering most people in the camp have already seen them, but modesty holds out even after the world's gone to hell in a hand basket.

I take a few walks outside. I'm accompanied by plenty of different people, but Carl is missing most of all. He won't play cards with me anymore even though I've actively tried to get him to play with me. He doesn't seem to be doing much of anything except moping around as much as Carol. I don't think that he and Dale were close, so maybe it's just the death touching so close to home.

Finally, a few days after Dale's death, Carl talks to me.

I'm sitting under a tree, reading a book that Maggie gave to me. Carl walks up and says "Dawson?"

I close my book and look up at him expectantly. He bites his lip and sits down. "If I tell you something, you won't talk about it, right?" I give him a 'duh' look. The only time I've talked since I got here was during the meeting.

He takes a deep breath and says "It's my fault that Dale's dead."

I sigh. I can't imagine why Carl would think that Dale's death is his fault, but I certainly understand survivor's guilt. I take his hand and pull on it, getting him to sit next to me. I put an arm around him and shake my head vehemently.

"It is, though," he mumbles against my shoulder. "The Walker that killed him… I saw it in the woods. It was stuck in the mud… and I was gonna kill it… but I chickened out…"

I sigh and rub Carl's back. "It's my fault," he mutters.

"It's not," I whisper. This is enough of a moment to talk. Carl needs the comfort. Maybe it's time I start talking, because frankly, I'm starting to annoy myself.

After a few moments, he pulls away from my hug. We sit in silence for a few moments and he picks some blades of grass out of the ground. Finally, he says "I stole Daryl's gun."

"Why?" I whisper, shocked. I don't know all that much about Daryl, but from what T-Dog's told me the man is a firecracker wrapped in a leather jacket. Not the type of guy that you want to steal from. Most especially a gun of all things.

Carl shrugs and picks at the grass some more. "I was gonna use it on that Walker."

But he didn't.

"Still not your fault," I mutter.

"It is."

"It isn't."

"You don't know anything," Carl mutters. He stands up and stalks off, leaving me quite effectively baffled.

Carl's mad at me now.

He was right that I wouldn't tell anyone. Sure, I've talked a bit now, but not enough that I'd go out of my way to tell on him. That's not why he's mad at me. He's mad at me because I didn't sympathize with him. Or agree with him. Honestly, I don't know exactly what he expected me to do, but in a world like this it's easy to forget what kids are like. Fiona died because I forgot that.

To be honest, I don't mind all that much that Carl's mad at me. It's just one less person trying to get me to socialize. So, a new day finds me under the same tree, reading the same book, and definitely not being upset that the stupid kid is mad at me. No, not upset at all. He can traipse around not talking to me all he wants—I am not upset. No, not one little bit. I don't care and I am not upset!

I might be a bit upset about it.

I bitterly turn the page of the novel before I realize I've barely taken in the words on the last page. I used to understand complex economics and see the beauty in classic literature—now I can't focus on a hundred page novel because some idiotic twelve-year-old is mad at me. Go figure.

I turn back the page and try to go over the words to no avail.

"Dawson!" calls a voice I've only heard a few times. I knit my eyebrows together and look up at Shane. He's only a few yards away from me now and still walking, all bald and sweaty and seriously big-eared. Despite the ears, he's somewhat handsome, but I'm not all too inclined to think so while he's making people mad all the time.

I don't bother closing my book; I just look up at him and give him my 'what?' look.

"You should go back to the house, Carl's lookin' for ya." Shane explains.

That would make sense, except Carl isn't looking for me, because Carl's mad at me. (Stupid kid.) And somehow, I don't see Shane as a messenger.

I shake my head. No, he's not.

"Jus'—would ya jus' go inside? I'm gettin' Randall and ya don' need to see that."

I purse my lips, and then frown. There's nothing hostile in the words, but I can tell he's irritated that I didn't listen to his first instructions. Maybe he's irritated I'm here at all. I'm starting to see why nobody seems to like him. But what do I care if he wants me to go inside? It's getting to that time of day where it's too hot to sit out here in my scar-covering clothes, and I probably would've gone inside soon anyway.

I close my book and stand up, lean against the tree while my vision clears, then shoot Shane an irritated look before starting back to the house.

I'm leaving because I want to, I think childishly.

I throw another look over my shoulder as I walk. I know that they're not cutting Randall loose until later today, but once again; what do I care? Maybe Shane wants to harass him or intimidate him before they release him. Maybe he's just getting him ready for the release. He wouldn't be stupid enough to kill the kid—everyone would know who did it and Hershel would likely kick him off the farm.

Prior to the end of the world, I would've asked Shane what he was doing, pestered him, and teased him until he got so mad he would've yelled at me.

These days it's just: What do I care?

Carl's nowhere to be found when I get to the house, which reinforces my idea that Shane really just didn't want me around. However, any suspicions I may have about the man are driven away when Beth and Jimmy break out Risk, which was my favorite game before the end of the world, and Patricia brings out a pitcher of lemonade, which is a treat I haven't had since then, either.

No, I really don't care whether or not Shane is punching some random guy while I can sip lemonade and conquer the entire continent of Asia.

I don't know how the peaceful day dissolved into what it is now.

It started after Risk with Beth and Jimmy.

Shane came storming up to the house, yelling about how Randall had gotten away with a gun and punched him in the face. His nose was bloody, and within a minute he had Rick, Glenn, and Daryl running into the woods with him.

I don't exactly understand how Randall was able to get away, but it's possible. My philosophy is 'There's always a way out.' There is. If Randall was clever enough, he could have escaped, and now he's running around with a gun, which can't be good for anyone.

Several hours pass, and it gets dark. Nobody's doing much of anything but wandering around and worrying. Eventually, Patricia gets me to go to sleep—

"Get up, now, Dawson, up!"

"Wha—"

"Up, now!"

Carol has a grip on my arm and is roughly pulling me out of bed. I hear lots of gunshots, some far off and some very close. "Carol, I don't—"

"There's a herd of Walkers coming, you need to put on your shoes right now, we're leaving." Carol explains quickly, tossing me my sneakers. She rushes to the window and looks out the window as I quickly tie my shoes with trembling hands. "We're gonna kill as many as we can, but we have to go, the house can't take a herd this big."

I nod as I tie the second knot. As soon as I'm done, Carol has my arm again and we're racing out. Lori, Patricia, and Beth are waiting on the porch and the latter two begin going as soon as they see us.

I get my first look at the herd.

This is bigger than the herd from Atlanta or the one that separated me from my cousins. This one fills up the entire field and spills out into the woods. I can't even begin to imagine how many Dead-Ones there are in this group. Definitely enough to tear down a house.

"Hershel! It's time to go!" Lori yells. I glance over and see Hershel firing off his shotgun with amazing accuracy. Lori yells again, but Hershel doesn't seem to hear and we start running across the yard. Carol lets go of my arm and I'm able to swerve away from a small group of Dead-Ones coming towards us, but I hear Patricia and Beth scream.

No, no, don't think about them.

I have to turn again to get away from another small group, and when I turn I realize that there's another group behind me. And a wall to my side—I'm boxed in.

Carol is still beside me, and she picks up a stick, but oh God this bad, and—

BOOM!

Oh, thank you Andrea!

The woman clears a path enough for us to run through, and we do just that. I don't stop to look back, and I don't think about what could happen to her for saving us. Just keep running.

Carol screams and waves her arms, and after a moment I see what she's waving at. Someone's on a motorcycle at the end of the driveway. I don't know who it is nor have I ever ridden a motorcycle, but they're my only hope right now.

As we get closer, I realize that it's Daryl, which doesn't make me any more confident about this situation, but he rides the bike to us, and Carol hops on without hesitation, so I suppose I should—

"Get on!" Daryl shouts over the roar of the bike.

I glance behind me—the Dead-Ones are a long way off. I look back and say "I've never—"

"Ain't got time fer this!" Daryl shouts, yanking me roughly to the bike and positioning me in front of him. He starts off before I even have a good grip, but he keeps hold of me and I'm able to stay steady.

I manage to get myself settled on the bike, but I feel uncomfortable sitting tucked into Daryl like this. I don't know the man at all, and I haven't been this close to a man since… well… ever. I don't count those three men that attacked me. But I just had a near-death experience, so I guess I don't have time to worry about how comfortable I am with the situation.

I lean back into Daryl's chest and exhale slowly. Carol likes Daryl. Daryl saved my life twice. Daryl is not going to do anything—especially not on a moving motorcycle running from our deaths.

So I need to chill out. I need to turn off my awareness and let myself think for a moment.

I think Patricia and Beth are dead. Andrea could be dead. I don't know what happened to Lori or Hershel. I didn't even see anyone else.

No. Stop thinking. Or think about Harry Potter, for God's sake.

I need to focus on the fact that right now, I'm alive. Daryl, Carol, and I are alive. I am not dead. Despite all the odds, I am still here.

I am still alive.