The night, awful as it is, blurs by.

First, outside, there's talking and tears, and then Dad carries me into the back room of the RV. I hear lots of footsteps, the floor creaking, a door closing. I ask where Merle is, Dad says we won't talk about it now, and he puts me onto the bed. I curl up in it and he leaves. There's someone else here – two people, Sophia and Eliza, we're all crammed together on too small of a bed, tangled up in too small of a blanket, and it's too hot for a blanket but we all pull for it anyway as the hours pass. I don't feel like I sleep, but then the dark's gone so fast that I think I must have after all, and it's then, right when the sunlight begins to fall into this little room and I wake up or come out of a daze or whatever, when the sounds begin.

There's talking and grunting. Some shouting. Heavy things being moved . . . dragged. But the noise that stands out the most is the chopping-wood sound that I know – and it makes me feel sick to know – has nothing to do with wood.

I sit up carefully, because Sophia and Eliza are still sleeping beside me. There's another bed across the room, I forgot about that. Carl and Louis lie there. I can't see Louis, his back is to me, but Carl's face is swollen. There are tearstains on his cheeks. Immediately I reach up with both hands and rub my own face, hard, hopefully removing any remaining signs of crying. Then I look out the window above this bed. The blinds are down, but there's an opening at the bottom big enough to see out of, and I stare through it at the sad world.

I can't see too much from here, but what I see is enough. There's a fire not far from this window, a little to the right, but it's not a campfire . . . Underneath the flames are twisted, blackened shapes, shapes that are all-too familiar and terribly out of place.

Bodies. Bodies, bodies, so many bodies.

Not just in the fire, either. No, as I turn my head, I see that there are still bodies on the ground, bodies of geeks and bodies of people. I see the bloody carcass of what used to be that man Ricky and I swallow. And there, right there, almost out of my line of vision, I see Andrea leaning over torn-up Amy, just like she was last night. Has she moved at all?

Amy. Amy's dead. Amy was nice, she was so nice . . .

I try to focus on the living now, but that doesn't help, because all they're doing is dealing with the dead. Moving corpses. Prodding the fire. Taking care of the bodies still strewn about . . . meaning nailing them in the head. The brain, the dead have to be hit in the brain. Our dead, the people who were attacked, bitten, eaten. They have to be hit in the brain before we do anything else, so they don't come back as walkers.

That's the sound I was hearing earlier, the worst sound. And it's why my dad, over by the main campfire, has a pickaxe over his shoulder. Even from here, I can tell the pickaxe is bloody.

Dad, he's talking to Rick. Lori and Shane are there, too. Dad's pointing – at Amy and Andrea. Amy, her head looks fine. I figure that's the problem. Andrea must not have let them . . .

I lean my head down and press my mouth into my arm. A sob tries to work its way out of me, but no, no way. I cried last night and that was enough. I'm tough, Dad's always told me that. I can't go around crying all the time . . .

"We don't burn them!"

I press my forehead to the warm window again, fast. I feel the other girls stir beside me.

That was Glenn, yelling. I spy him over by the pile of burning corpses, and my dad's in front of him, with Morales, and they're dragging a body over to the fire.

I make myself look closer at it, that fire. Most of the bodies are already scorched beyond recognition, but some have been added recently enough that I can still make out that they're geeks. Not people. None of them are people.

I listen hard, because Glenn's talking lower now. "We bury them. Understand?" He points. "Our people go in that row over there."

Someone sits up beside me. Eliza. I make room for her, and we watch our dads – mine looking sour about it – haul the dead man across the ground, coming close enough to our window for us almost to touch their heads, and just when the two are out of sight, at the other end of the RV, I hear Dad yell, "Reap what you sow!"

Eliza's dad tells him to shut up. I think I hear the body drop.

"Y'all left my brother for dead!" Dad walks back into view, across the campsite, right in the middle of everything. I watch with a knot in my chest as he points around at the bodies, at the gore, at the fire. "You had this comin'!"

His tone and his words and his face all come together to hit me hard. I try to suppress a wince, but can't completely, and I hear Eliza gasp beside me and have to pretend I don't.

But Dad . . . Dad's right. These people, they did leave Merle. My uncle. They just left him.

Reap what you sow.

Wait, so is Merle dead?

Movement from behind me, shifting and the sounds of cloth on cloth, and then, as if on cue, Sophia's upright and Carl's on the bed and at my side, with Louis peeking out just beside him. Sophia lies back down after a few seconds. She nestles her head into her arms. I watch her back heave soundlessly, but I don't say anything. I wouldn't know where to start. Carl, though, Carl puts his hand on her back, and Eliza reaches back to stroke Sophia's hair.

"A walker got him! A walker bit Jim!"

I twist my head back around, fast enough to almost hurt. Jim's standing in the center of camp. The other grownups, they're circling around him, all spaced a ways away. Jacqui, Jacqui's the one who spoke, and she's moving back from Jim, but he's not doing anything, he's just standing there, looking this way and that, palms showing.

But he's bitten?

Dread weighs me down as I watch the man, looking around at all of these people, who move around him like he's . . . like he's a walker. Jim. Jim, who was so nice yesterday about my dad . . .

And it's him, it's my dad, who speaks next. "Show it to us!" he says, harshly, moving closer to Jim, his pickaxe propped on his shoulder. "Show it to us!"

I don't make a decision to leave the bed, I really think I don't. My legs just move, and then I'm at the front of the RV, and down the stairs, and in the doorway, and there the sun blares cruelly onto my already overheated face, and my feet have enough good sense to stop there, at least. Carl is beside me a second later, and together, we squint and observe with open mouths as Jim picks up a shovel and braces it in front of him like a weapon. But he doesn't look fierce, even like that. He looks scared, like a trapped animal that bares its teeth in a last-ditch effort . . .

Everybody's talking. Loudly. Shane's telling Jim to put down the shovel, just like yesterday, and my dad's saying to grab him, grab Jim . . . and then T-Dog does. He comes up behind Jim and yanks his arms around his back, knocking away the shovel, and then Dad's dropped the pickaxe and moved to Jim, and he pulls up his shirt, and then I see it, I see the bite, red and glaring and right there, right on his stomach, and Jim's going to die, he's going to die.

Dad backs off and so does T-Dog. Things get quiet, everyone gets quiet, except for Jim himself. Jim, he says, "I'm okay," and his hands lower. His voice is soft and strange, his eyes darting around from one face to the next underneath his dirty ball cap. "I'm okay, I'm okay . . ."

But he's not.

Then, "Hey!"

My eyes go to Dad, who's turned and seen me. He's coming this way, pointing at the door. "Get back inside right now! Right now!"

And I do, of course, I dart up the stairs and to the back room again, into the shade and the slightly cooler air, but my heart is pounding and it doesn't feel like it wants to slow down. I rest on the bed and stare at the floor, ignoring the looks from Eliza and Louis and trying not to listen to the uneven breathing of Sophia. In my mind, I see the bite. And I see Jim's face.

Carl's on the bed across from me. I look at him once, but not for long. A minute passes before all of us – except Sophia – end up at the window again. Mom would have said all of this, all of what's happening outside, is like a car wreck – terrible, and nothing you should want to look at, but you just can't help it.

Our parents and the others have gathered in a circle at the center of camp. I don't know where Jim is. Us kids, we wait and watch and nothing interesting happens for a while, just the grownups speaking, Rick seeming more enthusiastic than the others, and I finally find my eyes slipping over to Amy and Andrea, still in the same spot. Just as I do that, though, there's a blur to my right, and I look, and Dad's charging at something, that pickaxe high over his head.

"Somebody needs to have some balls to take care of this damn problem!"

Eliza whimpers, and I bounce past her and over to the window on the other wall, the one at the very end of the RV. Carl and Louis beat me there, scrambling onto a table to get high enough to peer down through the dirty glass. I pull myself up beside them and make room for myself, and I look, and it's Jim sitting there.

Jim. Dad charged at Jim.

But he's stopped. No, Rick's stopped him. Rick – Rick has a gun to Dad's head.

My body feels like stone. No, ice. In spite of the Georgia heat, my body has managed to turn to ice.

I watch as Rick and Shane surround my dad, with Shane in between Dad and Jim, and Dad scowls, but Rick lowers the gun, and then my dad slams the pickaxe into the ground and stalks away. I let out a breath, and my throat quivers and makes it sound weird.

Shane walks off, too. Rick reaches down and pulls Jim up, and then they're all gone, and there's nothing to see from here anymore. But us in the RV, we still don't move.

Silence for a moment. Then Carl says, "Your dad was gonna kill him. He was gonna kill Jim."

My fingers tighten around the windowsill. I turn my head slowly. My eyes narrow at this kid, and my voice doesn't sound like me when I say, "And your dad had a gun to my dad's head."

. . . . .

An hour passes before anything else grabs our attention. The RV is hot and quiet and boring and suffocating when the gunshot rings out. And then to the window we go yet again.

Amy's been shot. Her head . . . she's been shot.

Andrea has a gun. Andrea has the gun, I think. And she just keeps leaning over her sister's dead body, her sister's really, truly dead body, and she cries.

. . . . .

And so we bury them. All of the dead, all of our dead, who were alive just hours ago and eating fish and having a good night. We do it up in the field where Jim dug the holes, only now Shane and Rick have dug more and made them all deeper. The bodies are wrapped in canvas, old sleeping bags, torn bits of tent, just a lot of "it'll do" material we don't need anymore. I watch as the graves are filled, one by one, some corpses lowered and some kind of plopped. Dad helps with a few. I know some of their names, these people who are rolled up and hidden from the world forever, put in the ground and covered with dirt, like seeds that won't grow. Ed Peletier is laid in his hole by Rick and Shane – though Shane doing it seems wrong to me – and I hear Carol's little high-pitched sobs. I don't hear anything from Sophia, but I've already learned she's a quiet crier.

Dad and I are standing off to the side from everybody else during Ed's turn. His hand is on my shoulder, and he doesn't pat, the way Mom might have, he just rests it there and sometimes strokes his thumb back and forth. The weight of his hand is the most calming thing I've felt all day, and I lean against him as Shane and Rick let Sophia's dead father tumble into the earth with a thud.

The last body is Amy, and Andrea won't let any of the men carry her to her grave. She does it herself. Dale stays by her and watches, looking worried and constantly moving his hands down to the body, but Andrea tells him she can do it, she can do it, and she drags the bundle that's really her sister across the ground and it falls roughly into the grave.

I don't cry. And when it's all over, I ride back down the hill with Dad in his truck, which they used to carry the bodies up. I look back into the empty bed, fresh blood drying on the grimy surface, and I ask Dad what's going to happen now, where we're going, because I know we can't stay here.

He says he's not sure yet.

I ask if we're staying with the others.

"Looks like it. For now, anyway."

I really want to ask about Merle next. Dad hasn't told me anything about what happened, and I almost can't take it, I need to know if my uncle's dead. And if he's not, I need to know why he isn't here. I can tell Dad doesn't want to talk about it right now, and so I bite my tongue, but I can't do that for long and I know it.

Back at the campsite, things look so empty. So messy and wrong. There's still blood in places on the ground, unnatural black splotches standing out against the dirt. Someone tossed a sheet over the pile of burned geeks, and the mound is over at the edge of camp, but it's so big and glaring that it's hard to ignore, hard to not think about what's under it. All of us – us few remaining survivors – we're close to one campfire, the big one Morales stacked the rocks around. Some fish is being passed around, left over from last night. Dad has me take some, and I nibble at it, but I'm just not hungry. The stuff was delicious last night, I can remember thinking that, but now the taste of it sparks fear and sadness. I toss my piece away when Dad's not looking.

Eventually, I walk over to the RV. I don't look at the spot where Amy lay. After a few minutes of searching, I find my knife, hiding behind one of the back tires. I rub it off on my jeans and slip it back into its sheath before I go back to the fire and sit down in a very uncomfortable chair made of plastic. I don't look at Carl, which is hard, because he's directly across from me. I just stare at the flames and let my mind do what it wants.

I thought maybe Carl and I could be friends, but I was wrong. Carl is Rick's son. Rick left my uncle. Rick pointed a gun at my dad. If we're staying with this group, Dad must have a good reason, a really good reason, but that doesn't mean I have to trust Rick. Or like Rick. Or Carl. I was wrong before, and it was stupid of me – I can't be friends with a kid whose dad treats my family like that. Like they're disposable, like it wouldn't matter to lose them.

Time passes, and nobody does anything, really, they just talk. No laundry or cooking. I understand. Stuff like that doesn't seem to have a point now. This camp, and all of its spilled blood, its breached walls, its walker-infested territory . . . all as good as history. What are we waiting for, then? What's the plan, the next move? Where are we going? I search the faces, and I don't see Rick or Shane. Or Dale, come to think of it, but he wouldn't be the one to have the plan.

Dad paces around behind me. He's carrying a gun, a shotgun, and that comforts me. Makes me feel safer. Dad's the best shot I know.

I wish for a book. I wish for my friend Tyler, and I wish for Mom, too. And Merle.

It's close to evening when Rick, Shane, and Dale finally show up, emerging from the woods with guns in their hands. They must have been out searching around, checking for walkers, and for the first time, it hits me that we'll be staying here again tonight. Something inside of me sinks low, into an empty place. I look over my shoulder as my dad comes forward to hear what the other men have to say.

Shane kneels down beside the fire, and the murmured conversation dies completely. He begins by saying that he's been thinking about Rick's plan, and Dad didn't tell me Rick had a plan, but I don't interrupt. Shane says he's known Rick for a long time and he trusts his instincts. He says he thinks the most important thing is for us all to stay together.

Power in numbers. I've heard that somewhere.

I look around at us all. Me, Dad, Shane, Rick, Carl, Lori, Andrea, the Morales family, Dale, Glenn, Carol, Sophia, Jacqui. Jim's in the RV, but he won't be around much longer.

There might be power in numbers, but our numbers aren't much anymore.

Shane says that those of us who agree, agree about staying together, we leave first thing in the morning. I glance up at Dad and he gives me a nod, so I know that, yes, we're leaving with them. He hasn't changed his mind about staying with this group.

And on the edge of my mind, nagging and gnawing like a dog: But what about Merle?

. . . . .

"And Rick thinks there might be a cure for Jim there? At the CDC?"

"Yeah," Dad answers, and he says it so shortly that I know he doesn't think there's any hope in it. But we're still going, and I don't understand, and I hate not understanding, and I think about Dad charging at Jim today but don't bring that up. My dad, he knows what he's doing, I got to believe that.

It's night again and we're in our tent. I like our tent. It's one we've used for years, and lately sometimes, when I can't sleep, I pretend I'm just out hunting with my dad on one of his weekends. Back before the walkers.

Tonight, though, I doubt I'll be able to do that. Even though Merle always had his own tent, it still seems like something's missing from Dad's and mine. Maybe it has something to do with the quiet of the camp outside. The lack of coughing, or snoring, or tents being zipped and unzipped. The lack of people. It's eerie, Mrs. Gladson – my teacher last year – would say if she were here. She loved doing vocabulary words, loved bringing them up in all subjects, not just reading.

But she's dead now, I'm sure. One way or another. I curl deeper into my sleeping bag and look up at my dad, sitting beside me, and not for the first time today, I feel very glad that he's here, with me, and he's fine, he's not dead in any sense of the word.

Dad presses the edges of the bag in around me, and even just by the dim light of the little electronic lamp in the center of our tent, I can see how tired he is. Then I think that he probably hasn't really slept in two or three days, and I feel bad about what I'm about to ask him, but I can't help it anymore. I need to know.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"What . . ." And I can't, I can't. "What if more geeks come tonight?"

He squeezes the slippery material of the sleeping bag tighter in around my shoulders, his hands careful. I feel the stuff warm up against my shirt. "We got people on top of the RV, keepin' watch." Dad gestures over at his sleeping bag. His crossbow and his shotgun sit right by his pillow. "And you got me right here. Nothin's gonna get at you, Syd."

One thing I love about my dad is how he has this way of changing his voice up, from scary to normal to gentle, and that last one's my favorite. That's the one he's using now. He saves it mostly for me, I think.

I wasn't going to ask about the geeks, though, not really. That's just what came out because I got nervous. But I'm not chicken, and I have to try again, so as Dad starts to move over to his side of the tent I say, "Dad, you haven't told me about Uncle Merle."

He stops and looks at me, and his face has turned strange, but I don't think he's mad. Not at me, anyway. I widen my eyes, like a puppy, just in case. I remember Dad and Shane talking yesterday and I reuse Dad's own words, stealing the same even tone: "He dead?"

Dad rubs a hand over his eyes. "Nah, he ain't dead."

Relief. Followed by anxiety. "Then where is he? What happened?"

My dad looks at the sealed flap leading to outside. That makes me sigh. I sit up. "Dad?" I prod, because I need to know. I deserve to know. He's blood, Merle is, and I got to find out what the hell happened to him.

I don't say that to Dad, of course. But he gets it, I think, and he tells me the story.

. . . . .

I'm lying back down by the time he's done. I've pressed my mouth into the sleeping bag and I'm watching the lamp shine away in the background. When I shut my eyes, I can still see the outline of it against the black.

And I see a hand. A bloody, abandoned hand.

My stomach hurts and I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter. I feel Dad's hand on my shoulder. "Hey, now," he murmurs. "C'mon, I wouldn'ta told you if I thought you couldn't handle it. Be my tough girl."

And so I inhale and nod, and I'm not crying, I'm not. I look up at Dad and blink until his shadowy shape is perfectly clear, and I peel apart my lips. "So why didn't he come back? If he took the van, why didn't he just come back here?"

"'Cause he don't want nothin' to do with Rick now. Or any of 'em."

"But what about us?"

Dad's quiet for a minute. "I don't know, Little Bit. I don't know exactly what he's thinkin'. You know your uncle. He ain't really all there sometimes."

He's trying to joke a little with that last bit, but I don't laugh. It's not funny. Merle didn't come back here. Dad and I are here, and we're his family, but Merle didn't come back here.

My next question is surprising, even to me. "But why're we stayin', Dad?"

"What?"

"Why're we stayin' with them?" I repeat, my voice keeping to a whisper but my words sounding mad. "They left Merle there. They made him . . . They made him cut off his hand." That's hard to say, but I say it anyway, and it sounds fine, I just can't let myself picture it, as much as I can help it. "Why're we staying here?"

"'Cause it's safer here, Sydney," Dad says, and his voice is starting to lose that gentle tone, so I know my time to press him is running out. "Tell me somethin' – you feel safer now, here, with these people all around us all the time, or out on our own, like we were before? Just you, me, and Merle?"

I stare at him. "You said we were safe back then," I eventually answer, and my voice is small.

"Yeah, and we were," he says. "You were, I was there, you wouldn'ta gotten hurt. But here, here's even better."

He doesn't explain why, but I know my time to ask questions is gone, so I just look back at the lamp, and my eyes hurt, and I mutter, "Power in numbers."

He snorts. "Yeah." After a moment, he rests his hand on my shoulder again. I look at him as he says, seriously, "Hey. We're gonna be just fine. You hear me?"

"Yeah."

"Alright." He moves his hand in a circle on my back one time before moving away. "Go to sleep."

And so I close my eyes and roll over, and before long I hear the lamp switch off. But it takes me awhile to fall asleep, and I think it does for Dad, too, because at one point a half-hour later when something snaps outside of our tent and I sit straight up, looking around and feeling for my knife, Dad says through the darkness, "Shh, baby girl, you're fine. It ain't nothin'. Go to sleep."

And so I lie back down, but I swear I can hear him gripping his crossbow from here.