Hello everyone—Chapter 7 for you, today. So far, so good. If I keep writing this thing, then it probably won't be done before the end of the hiatus. I'm not thrilled by the prospect—I like things to be neatly finished before canon runs roughshod all over them. But I will do my best for you, either way.

I want to say something kind of serious, here: this story is fully plotted—I always have them mapped out before I start. I know exactly where it's going, and I'm really not going to change up its direction on you. You really can trust me not to mislead you. My authors notes will never suggest a direction I don't intend to take. I told you all this isn't a romance. And I mean it. There's not going to be any romance in this story. And I would never, ever write a romance between Carl and Beth, and I don't feel I've made a suggestion of one, here—in the first chapter, she was just very happy to see someone she loves and cares about, again. As I think anyone would be, after all she'd been through. It was an emotional, friendly hug. The suggestion I would lie about this... honestly, it bothers me. I just want to reassure you, and ask you to take me at my word, on this one.

That said, thank you—everyone—for reading. All of you. It really is a pleasure to share my work, and I appreciate you all so much. And here's chapter seven! Enjoy!


The Third Room

After the last day of school, nothing really changed, for Beth. Not at first. She hung around the house, did her chores, and waited to see if anything would happen.

A week later—Thursday afternoon—something did.

She was sitting at the piano bench. Thumbing around in an old hymnal, and playing some of the classics—to keep her mom company while she did some needlework on the sofa. And they sang the verses together—Beth was a soprano, and her mom was an alto. So two-part harmonies always went really well, for them.

And Beth got bored, sometimes, singing those hymns. They were so stiff and formal. The simple structure. The plodding chords. The old-fashioned lyrics. But Mom liked them a lot. Dad, too. So Beth did it to please them.

If she were on her own, someday, she'd sing something different.

They were halfway through Blessed Assurance when she noticed Shawn, pacing around on the porch outside. She could see his shadow passing the curtains, every so often, from the corner of her eye. He was checking on things, out there. Scanning the horizon. Had been doing that more and more, this past week. Their dad, too.

Nobody told Beth much of what was going on. Mom and Dad had been talking a lot, together—quietly, when they thought Beth wasn't around. And her dad made some trips into town with Otis—for reasons she didn't know or understand. And more than once, if they had the news on, and she walked into the room, they'd shut it off right away.

So Beth knew there was something they didn't want her to see. But she didn't know what it was—not until that afternoon. That was when Jimmy showed up in the front yard, covered head to toe in blood.

Shawn called them out—before they'd finished signing the last verse. Mom put down her cross-stitch and went straight for the door. And Beth followed along, after.

Sure enough, Jimmy was out there—splattered with red. It was on face. His hands. There was a clump of something on his shirt. Beth couldn't tell what it was. Meat, or guts… bits of skin. She'd never seen anything like it, before.

It seemed just like something out of a movie. The violent kind her parents didn't let her watch—not even now that she was sixteen. The kind she only saw at friends' sleepovers, or when her folks were out of town. Carrie or Saw, or… something.

She drifted towards the porch stairs. Mom was already there, with Dad at her side. When Beth joined them, and Mom reached out for her. Held her by the arms.

Dad was the first one to say anything. And he looked totally calm when he did it. His voice didn't betray any shock at all:

"What happened, son?"

It took Jimmy a second to answer him. His throat worked a moment. He took in a ragged breath.

"My mom, she…"

When he said that, Mom's hands tightened on Beth's arms.

It was like Jimmy couldn't breathe right. He seemed ok—he didn't seem hurt or anything. But it was like something was wrong with him, anyway. Something you couldn't see.

"My… my mom…"

He couldn't get it out. Stopped trying.

All at once, Beth's mom let go of her, and rushed off the porch. Mom was a slender woman, and Jimmy was pretty tall—but she just enveloped him. He crumpled into her, and she let him sink down onto the ground.

Mom had Jimmy's head cradled on her chest. Stroked his arms. Picked some bits of bloody hair out of his wristwatch. Long ones, with chunks of skin at the ends. She barely looked at them, when she did it. Just wiped them off, on the grass—like it was normal. Like she did it every day.

And Beth… Beth just stood there. There was a voice in her head saying she should go to Jimmy. Comfort him. He was her boyfriend, after all.

But somehow… suddenly… she didn't want to.

He wasn't the same. Nothing was the same. He didn't even seem like Jimmy, crying like that. She'd never seen him cry, before.

Later—when they started putting people in the barn—they asked Jimmy where his mother was. If they could find her, and take her in. And Jimmy told them not to bother. By the time he escaped their house, there wasn't much of her left.


The morning after the strip mall, Beth woke up a bit later than usual. She'd passed out cold the instant her head hit her pillow. Slept a long, deep, and dreamless sleep.

When she opened her eyes, she spent a bit of time watching the hazy sun making patterns on the office walls. Filtered stripes, in the shape of the drawn blinds. And when she got dressed, and opened her door, bright sunlight flooded in from the other side.

Maggie was right there, in the next room—like always. Sitting on the carpet, waiting for Beth to wake up. Her hair was messy—and her eyes looked tired.

She hadn't slept half as well as Beth did.

Beth let the door fall shut behind her, and her sister looked up with a little smile.

"Mornin'," she said.

Beth didn't say anything. Wordlessly reached out for Maggie's hand. Helped her up. Didn't let go, after.

And they walked down the hall, together, to the classroom where the others were eating breakfast. Beth could hear their voices—the clinking of spoons and things. A quiet laugh.

And sure enough, most of the them were in there, working on bowls of stale cereal. They had pitcher of powdered milk out on an activity table. A bag of fresh peaches, too.

Michonne got up, right away. Held out a cereal bowl, for Beth. One they'd set aside for her. Asked a question:

"Breakfast?"

Beth didn't answer, right away. Felt Maggie at her side. Looked at all those faces, looking back at her. Carol, holding Judith, with a half-smile on her face. Carl. Bob. Michonne, holding that bowl out in the open air—ready to take.

Beth let go of Maggie's hand, then. Stepped towards the table, and reached out for the bowl.

"Yeah," she said, "Ok."


That Monday, it happened.

Beth was in the woods, with Shawn. The sun had barely come up, and the air felt cool and misty—even though the sky was blue, and the sun was bright. Shawn had one of his long-sleeved flannels on, and before they left the house, Beth buttoned one of her cardigan sweaters over her t-shirt.

They'd already made it a couple miles out, by now—along the eastern edge of the property. Beth's boots were wet with morning dew.

She was gathering kindling for the fireplace, while Shawn looked around the perimeter. Made sure everything was secure—that the animals couldn't get out through a gap in the fence. It was their job since they were younger, and they did it every week or so. Beth liked it. It was nice to walk that familiar walk. Take in the familiar views, as they changed along with the seasons.

Beth was a little ways away from her brother, when it happened. She could barely see him through the underbrush—crouched down at the fence, and checking a gate. Making sure it latched strong and firm. That the hinges were smooth and clear of debris.

She left him behind. Wandered a bit deeper into the woods—carefully pushing her way between stands of briars. They pricked at her sweater, a bit—but she was careful. And they couldn't hurt her through her feet through cowboy boots. The whole time, she had her eyes on the ground—scanning the forest floor for kindling. She picked up dry sticks, here and there, and put them in a PBS tote bag.

Beth had a bit of loose birch bark in her hand when she heard it. A sound.

A moaning, low kind of thing.

Beth squinted. Searched the distance, through the trees. But there was nothing.

She thought it might be coming from a bit further down the ridge—off by the marshland that encircled the farm. She headed that way. One of the calves might've gotten loose, and ended up stuck in the mire. That happened, sometimes. Whenever one came up missing, Daddy would hunt for it until he found it. And he always got it out, safe and sound—like something out of a Gospel parable.

Closer to the marsh water, she saw the shape through the trees. When she got closer, she realized it wasn't a calf, after all.

It was Mrs. Phillips.

She was one of their neighbors—an elderly lady her mom got to know real well through the church, years and years before Beth was born. And as far as Beth was concerned, Mrs. Phillips was older than time. Ninety. Ninety-five. Beth didn't know. There was a point where you were just old. How old didn't really matter.

Beth never knew her when there was a Mr. Phillips—just that she kept a photograph of him on the piano in her front parlor—something taken during WWII. He was wearing his naval uniform. Looked about Shawn's age.

And now, Mrs. Phillips was waist-deep in the marsh water, a hundred yards into the woods by her daddy's east field. She seemed really stuck, in there—pinned in place by a fallen tree. Even her arms were caught.

And she looked really bad. Her housedress was torn open, and hung in tatters off her shoulders. The muddy strips were cleaving to her back. She was a tiny woman—always had been. You could see her bones working under the skin. The blue veins. Her bare breasts sagged low, deflated against her rib cage.

Beth got clumsy, then, somehow—dropped the tote bag on a cluster of dead leaves. Mrs. Phillips darted her head towards the sound. Snapped at the air. Groaned, and stared Beth straight in the face.

The old lady was infected.

Beth had never seen one of the sick people, before. Not in person. Only on tv, and only before her parents stopped letting her watch the news. They were far away things—on other side of the glass screen on the old Panasonic.

And somehow—even after what happened with Jimmy—it never occurred to her one would show up on the farm.

She turned around. Heard Mrs. Phillips wheezing at her back. Called to her brother, through the trees. Quiet, at first:

"Shawn…?"

Nothing. So she tried again—louder:

"Shawn!"

Moments later, he broke through the brush. Threw her a nervous glance:

"What's up?"

Beth pointed.

"Look."

And he looked. They both did. Mrs. Phillips struggled against the mud—threw her shoulders forward, trying to get free. It only worked her in deeper.

It made Beth uncomfortable, to look at her. She must've been freezing, soaked in the water like that, for so long. Her hair was wet—she usually had it in a neat, salon perm. The curls hid how thin it was. But now, it fell flat against her skull. Made her look like death.

Shawn stepped towards the edge of the water. Spoke, gently:

"Mrs. Phillips…? Ma'am?"

The old lady tried to pull her arms free. But she couldn't.

And Beth trailed behind her brother. Hiding a bit, at his back. She was scared, a little, and didn't know what to do.

Shawn, though. He was in full-on Eagle Scout mode. Was doing that thing her dad did with Jimmy—speaking calmly, like nothing was wrong:

"Are you ok? Ma'am—are you stuck?"

Beth leaned in, whispered in his ear, from behind.

"What do we do…?"

He patted Beth's shoulder with a reassuring hand:

"It's ok—it's ok. I'll go and get her."

He was unbuttoning his shirt, then. Handed it to her. It was warm from his body. Held that heat for a little while, before it faded away.

She remembered that detail really clearly, later.

He was making his way to the water's edge—turned to look at her:

"When we come out, you put that on her, ok? She'll need something warm and dry to wear."

And he leaned down. Pulled off his Chuck Taylors—hopped on one foot to do it, then the other. When he was done, he left them there on a rock, at the edge of the water—with his tube socks at their side.

"I'm comin' in, ok Ma'am? Then Beth and me—we're gonna take you back to our Dad. He'll see to you."

He started wading into the water, and Mrs. Phillips snarled at him in a way that made Beth nervous.

But it didn't faze Shawn. He seemed just fine. Spoke to her, gently:

"Dad'll fix you right up. Good as new."


It was probably July, by now. The days were long, and the nights were short. And the heat had that wet tinge that cleaved to your skin. The dank smell in the church was worse, now, than before. There was mold growing behind bookshelves, and in dark corners. Underneath things, where you couldn't see.

But Beth didn't mind. July was good. It meant thunderstorms, and it meant wildflowers. Back home, the farm fields would be bursting with color, by now.

She thought about that, while she worked on the dishes from breakfast. Had Judith on the kitchen floor, on a blanket, rattling some measuring spoons to herself.

She was babbling, and Beth babbled back. Sang her some songs—whatever came to mind. Changed the words, so they'd be about Judith.

"Judy-bird, Judy-bird, fly through my window, Judy-bird, Judy-bird, fly through my window …"

She'd told Michonne she didn't like nursery songs, once. And at the time, it was true. But somehow, they didn't seem so bad to her, anymore.

Beth looked out, past the curtains. Into the yard. And the uncut grass reminded her of home. It was riddled with chicory, and dandelions, and purple phlox. The blooms stirred in the wind, against the statue of Mary, out there by the fence.

Judy rattled her measuring spoons at Beth. When she turned, Judy was holding them up for her to see. So Beth crouched down, a moment:

"I like those, too," she said, "They make a nice sound, right?"

Beth was barely back to her dishes, when a noise outside broke the quiet. An industrial mower, revving up in the yard. She hadn't heard something like that since they'd cleared the prison yard for planting. The others were about to cut all of the green stuff out there down—to clear the yard, and make it useable. For planting, parking vehicles… whatever they needed.

The mower was louder than what she remembered, from before. A deep growl, that made the kitchen counter vibrate under her forearms. The decorative plates above the window shook, a bit. The two with that half-finished prayer on them.

It made Beth wonder about the two that were missing. Maybe they fell off the wall. Maybe they shattered.

She could hear voices, outside—Rick and Michonne and Glenn, shouting to each other over the mower. The rest were probably keeping watch, to make sure the noise didn't attract the wrong kind of attention.

Earlier in the morning, Beth sat out there, and watched the others get ready. Perched on the steps, and bounced Judith on her knee. And while Beth was there, she pulled some phlox up by the roots. It came up clean—soil and all—in a big clump.

And she brought it inside, with her. Had it on the windowsill, now, resting in a teacup.

She leaned against the counter, staring out at Mary, encircled by tall grass, and flowers. She was totally headless of the mower, on its way towards her little bower.

And someone spoke over Beth's shoulder:

"That's pretty."

She turned. Carl was standing in the doorway—looking at the flower on the sill. And there was that hat of his, hanging on his back from its string. The curve of the brim, in a circle at his back. Like a halo that slipped a little, and settled down onto his shoulders.

Beth smiled.

"It was in the yard," she said, "They're gonna be diggin' everything up out there… so it was just gonna get plowed under, you know?"

Carl patted his sister on the head, then grabbed a jug of water. And he turned to go. Somehow, Beth didn't want him to leave just yet. The feeling took her by surprise. So she kept talking:

"I just… I didn't want them to kill it."

"You should plant it someplace," Carl said, turning back into the room. Crouching down by his sister. Picking up the measuring spoons, and jiggling them around, for her:

"Maybe next to that acorn."


Beth was five years old, and screaming for her mother.

Mrs. Phillips' had her on her lap, at the piano in her front parlor. And antique Baldwin, with a lace shawl over the back. Some Hummel angels, faded silk roses, and her husband's portrait in a silver frame. The old lady had one arm circled around Beth's waist. Played out a string of notes with the other. No chords. Just the melody.

And Beth—she was bawling. Those hot, despairing tears you can't seem to cry when you're older. She hated it when Mrs. Phillips babysat for her. Hated it. Her house smelled funny—like stale perfume. And it was really, really quiet—there was nothing to do. No toys—just a bunch of little glass things on end tables you weren't supposed to touch.

Mrs. Phillips didn't even have a cat, anymore. Her Siamese was dead, now. And it never liked playing with Beth much, anyway.

But regardless of how much she screamed, the old lady didn't give up—bounced her a little on one knee, and kept on playing that piano. Trying to soothe her. After a while, she started singing—in her feeble, cracking voice:

"Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!
Heir of salvation, purchase of God,
Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood."

But nothing doing. Beth could remember how she felt, that day. She knew the old lady was trying to comfort her—but she wouldn't have it. She wanted to cry. Wanted to go home.

Eventually, Mrs. Phillips gave up on singing, and tried something else:

"I know, I know. Mama's gonna come real soon," she said, scooping Beth up in her arms. Carrying her across the living room. Patting her on the back.

And that old woman was barely five feet tall, and light as a sparrow. Must've been eighty years old, by then—at least. But she carried Beth like it was easy. Like she wasn't screaming into her blouse, and staining it with snot and tears.

"Mama's comin'. But for now, let's have some nice, cold milk, together. And ginger snaps."


Beth planted the phlox, then went in the yard to get some more. Carl helped her. Put a bunch of flowers on flats of cardboard, so she could bring them into the courtyard.

By evening, there was a whole bed of them at the east wall. She didn't have any tools, so she'd borrowed some kitchen stuff to do it. Dug the holes with a serving spoon. Carried water in by hand, in gallon jugs, to keep them wet.

She'd need to till the soil, before she did much more. There were a lot of rocks, in there. She'd ask Maggie about where they could get some rakes and shovels, so she could get more of that stuff in the ground.


"Mrs. Phillips?

Shawn was waist deep in the muck, and right next to Mrs. Phillips.

And he took the old lady in his arms. Bare chest to bare chest, with her head turned to the side. She kept trying to turn towards body—like she wanted to face him. Maybe to look at him, or something. Beth wasn't really sure.

She was weak, though—and she didn't have any purchase to do very much. Pinned under that tree branch, with her arms stuck in the mud, she was pretty helpless.

He pulled at her, gently. Moved the branch as best he could. And the moment he got it out of the way, and raised her arms out of the mire, she started clawing at his bare skin with weak hands. Beth could see the veins on them—standing out. The sinews working. Making the age spots stretch and bend.

And Shawn ignored it. Reached down further into the muck, to raise her out.

"Here we go… here we go."

And he lifted her—in his arms, like a bridegroom. Struggled against the mud, for a moment, then got her free.


Beth crouched in the middle of the courtyard, putting a circle of pencils in the ground. Yellow number twos—the kind you brought to elementary school. And she tied a long strand of dental floss around them—for a makeshift fence.

She wanted to keep people from stepping on that acorn. Wasn't sure what time of year they sprouted—or if she'd planted it right.

And Judy pawed at the mud, at Beth's side. Got her little sundress all dirty. She'd have to get Carol to help give her a bath, later.

Carol… earlier, she'd brought her a box full of gardening stuff—and a bunch of seeds. No vegetables. All flowers. When she showed them to Beth, Carol handed her a packet of columbine, off the top of the pile.

"Happy birthday," she said.

Beth took it. Smiled—a little shyly.

"It's not my birthday…"

Beth turned the packet it around in her fingers. Listened to the seeds rattle, inside.

And Carol turned to go. Leaned a hand on the doorframe, and looked back at Beth a moment:

"Well," she said, "I'm sure it's somebody's."


Shawn leaned over the kitchen sink. Held his arm under the faucet, and rinsed out the bite as best he could.

Beth watched him do it—hugging herself tight with her arms. The water was red, in the bottom of the basin. The drain was really slow, lately, so the water backed up in there. Got redder and redder, as he bled into the stream.

She bit her lip.

"Shawn…"

And he shrugged, a little. Like everything was fine.

"It's ok," he said, "She didn't mean to."

She peered over his shoulder, at his forearm. At the wound. It looked like a dog bite, but much, much smaller. Two crescent rings—a row of tooth impressions. Some of the teeth hadn't broken the skin all the way. Mrs. Phillips was old and weak, and some of her teeth were missing altogether.

But she had enough fight left in her to the do the job.

Beth shook it off. Tried to focus on Shawn.

"Does it… does it hurt?"

"A little, yeah," he said, turning off the faucet, and holding his arm out for Beth to clean.

She reached across the counter for the first aid kit. And as she fished around in the bandages and bottles and packets of things, he kept on talking—almost to himself:

"I just wish she didn't get away from us, like that… I still coulda taken her back here, you know? Somethin' must've distracted her while you were helping me up."

Beth didn't answer. Just unscrewed the little bottle of peroxide, and poured it on the wound. The stuff started foaming up, and Shawn winced:

"Man, that stings…"

She pressed the towel against his forearm, a moment. Then she put some gauze on there, and taped it over.

"Shawn, she seemed pretty sick, and—"

"—I'm not sick, Beth. I feel fine. Nothing's wrong, ok?"

He put his good hand on her shoulder. Moved in really close. His face was dead serious.

"Don't tell Dad. Definitely don't tell Mom. She'd really freak out."

He let go. Rolled down his sleeve. It was that same flannel shirt—the one he wanted Mrs. Phillips to wear, when he got her out of the water. The way things went down, Beth never had a chance to offer it to her.

She just looked at him. At his arm. It looked perfectly normal, now that the bite was covered up. But she knew it was there, and it spooked her.

He must've sensed it, because he reached out for her, then. Gave her a little, half-hug with is good arm.

"Trust me, Sis. We're alright. It's all gonna be alright."

He patted the side of Beth's cheek. Nudged her chin with his knuckle. Smiled at her.

The blood was still running down the drain, while he did it.


By late July, a wave of heavy storms started battering the town. There was flooding, in some areas. Fallen trees, that made it hard for them to drive anywhere.

The rain got so bad, after a while, that Daryl had to stop his wandering. He was in the church every day—but Beth barely saw him, all the same. They passed in the hallway, a few times. Every time that happened, it was like the air got sucked out of her lungs. She'd get away as fast as she could—like a some kind of skittish little creature. A mouse, or vole, or some other tiny thing that hid under stairways or in stone walls, or woodpiles.

But that afternoon, she wasn't worried about Daryl. She was worried about her plants. The worst storm yet was rolling through. It was dark like nighttime—except when the lightning hit, and lit everything brilliant and fast for an instant, before disappearing into darkness, again.

Beth crouched over some of the sprouts with an umbrella. Sheltered them. Didn't want them to get crushed by the hail. These were Zinnias, she thought. She'd planted the seeds, and the tiny leaves were already starting to peek out of the soil.

And she couldn't let them die. Not now. They'd only just started.

Over time, her boots sank into the wet earth, and the water pooled around them. Got in through the soles, and dampened her socks. Thunder broke across the sky and sent the air trembling.

But she ignored all that. Just dug at the earth—with her hands. Didn't have her trowel—and she wouldn't leave her sprouts to get anything. She made a little trench around the seedlings—trying to direct the water away.

While she did it, Daryl passed in the hallway. He stopped at one of the windows. Watched her, a little while, before drifting away.

Beth never noticed. Just kept working, in the rain.


Maggie clutched at Shawn's bare shoulders. Rolled him over on his side, on the bed. She barely got his head clear of the mattress when he threw up, again. He was running so hot he couldn't even tolerate bedsheets—and he was sweating hard, and he was delirious.

Maggie held a bowl up for him, and he gagged, hard. Wheezing, heaving spasms tremored through his back. Beth saw the muscles grinding under his skin, from her perch at the other side of the bed.

When he was done, Maggie tried to get him to sip at some water. But he choked on it, and she hit his back, trying to clear it:

"C'mon, Shawn. C'mon. You can do it."

When he settled, she lowered him down onto his pillow again. He gasped for air—gulped it in like a goldfish that jumped out of its bowl.

"Ok… ok," Maggie said, brushing back his sweaty hair, "It's ok."

He tried to say something to her, but it was confused. Just a jumble of sounds, really. He was delirious, and only made sense some of the time.

But now… it was like he knew what he wanted to tell them, but it didn't come out right.

"Shhh…" Maggie whispered. Leaned against him. Pressed her forehead in his hair. She clung at him for a long time, in the quiet. The only noise was his ragged, wheezing breath.

Then—suddenly—Shawn moved. Looked straight at Beth, and said the last thing she ever heard him say:

"Did you find Mrs. Phillips, yet? Is… is she ok?"


Sometime late in July, Beth finally decided to check out the church Sanctuary.

She'd been singing a lot, lately—while working on the flowers, and while looking after Judy. And it seemed like it'd be nice to practice on the piano, a bit. As far as she knew, nobody went in there—so it might be a nice place to work on some new music.

So she headed that way. Walked by the stairway to the bell tower—charred and black. Down a quiet, windowless hallway, dark and shaded.

She pushed the big doors open, and walked inside. Her boots rapped against the stone floor. Echoed in the quiet. The rain was hard on the roof, this morning. Ran down the stained glass windows in heavy streams.

Looking around, Beth realized the others were using the place a lot.

There maps. Dozens of them, up all over the altar at the front of the church. There was a big crucifix, and the Jesus on it had a really big one taped to both his hands. It hung down over his body.

Each one had writing all over it. Little diagrams, in rough handwriting.

Beth spun around. The pews, too… they were covered in boxes of weapons. Cases of ammunition. Some of the guns were pretty high-powered.

She didn't know where the others found that stuff. Nobody had told her it was there.

Beth was about to investigate the stuff a little more carefully when she heard footsteps in the hall outside. And she bolted—without thinking. Didn't want anyone to see her in here, somehow.

She ducked into the first door she saw—at the side wall. Turned out, it was a confessional. Light filtered through the screen, dividing the stall from the other side.

And she'd barely sunk down on the bench, in there, when the door on the other side opened. A shape stepped into it. Sank down onto the bench across from hers.

Daryl.

He sat there, for a while. The sound of his breath mingled with the falling rain. The screen turned his face into a silhouette, in the filtered light.

And he leaned his head in both hands. Let out a rough, hard sigh. And he looked tired, to her. Exhausted.

She stayed stock still until he got up. Paced the stone floor a bit, in the aisle, and walked away.


Mom and Dad took over caring for Shawn, in the night. The dark settled into the house. Nobody remembered to turn any lights on, downstairs. Just in Shawn's room. The third room, on the far side of the hall.

Beth and Maggie were relieved of duty hours beforehand—so they could try to get some sleep. But neither of them did it. Just sat in the hall, together, outside the bedroom door. Waiting. Every so often, they could hear their parents' voices—talking together quietly, on the other side.

Beth leaned her head against Maggie's shoulder, and Maggie petted her hair. After a while, she started drifting.

She was almost asleep, when a horrible noise broke the quiet. Mom. She was crying. Sobbing. A sound like pure, raw agony.

Beth had never heard anything like it her whole life. She'd remember it, later. How it echoed through the hall. It bounced off the ceiling. The ancient, hardwood floors. Reverberated like a chorus of women, wailing for their children.

And Dad. He opened the bedroom door, very slowly. Stepped outside, into the hall. Closed the door carefully—so it barely latched.

And he took out his handkerchief. Pressed it to his face.

Maggie's arm tightened around Beth. They both knew it.

Shawn was dead.


The sun came out, eventually. And Beth spent her time in the garden. She sat in the new grass, and knotted some of her dandelions together in a chain.

And she draped some over Judith. Made her necklaces. Carl and Maggie came out to sit with the two of them, while she did it.

"Judy likes yellow a lot," Carl asked, "Don't you think?"

"It's a good color to like," Maggie said, "It's happy."

Carl smiled.

"Happy suits her."

Beth was about to give Judith another chain, when she reached out to her. Tried to grab it. Cooed, and then made a little noise:

"Bef."

It didn't register, at first. Then she said it again:

"Bef."

Carl let out a surprised laugh, at that.

"Oh my God," he said, "Did she just…?"

But Judith hadn't started talking yet, and Beth felt uncertain. Shook her head.

"I dunno if—"

Judy pawed at Beth's knees, then. Looked up at her.

"Bef!"

Beth gave Judith the chain, and she pulled at the flowers.

"Somebody likes you," Maggie said.


When dawn rose that Wednesday, Dad went out in the yard, and started digging a grave for Shawn.

Jimmy helped him—wordlessly. Beth could tell he didn't have the first clue what to say to any of them. So he just helped, where he could.

When Beth pulled back the lace curtains, and looked out the window, the two of them had just started cutting into the sod. She could see them—way off in the shade of some oak trees, closer to the barn. Their familiar shapes. And she remembered how she'd wait at the bus stop, and see Jimmy walking towards her from far, far away.

And Beth didn't really understand why they were digging a grave themselves, like that. Why they didn't bring Shawn to the church. The cemetery. Why the funeral home didn't come and take him away. Or an ambulance.

She didn't get to think about it very long.A noise broke thequiet, in the house. Something falling over, upstairs.

Thud.

Then a shout. Their mom.

Maggie jumped up from where she was sitting. Went running headlong for the stairs.

"Mom?"

Beth followed—Maggie was almost at the top of the landing when Mom came out into the hall, holding one arm out. Her other hand was clasped over it, and their was blood seeping through her fingers.

She looked at the two of them with wet eyes:

"He's not dead."

Beth made it to the top landing. Tears were running down Mom's face, then. And she rushed forward, and embraced Maggie and Beth at once. Let out a sob, against them.

"I was so sure."

She pulled back, looked straight at Maggie:

"Go tell your father," she said, "Tell him to stop digging."

Maggie nodded, and rushed down the stairs, again. And Mom clung to Beth. Buried her face in her shoulder—laughing and crying, all at once.

All at once, the door at Mom's back started shaking. Like someone was throwing their weight against it. Beating it with their fists.

Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.

Beth tensed, and Mom just kept holding her.

"Thank God, Baby," she murmured, "Thank God."


Bob checked up on Beth regularly, all that summer. He told her he was going to try and find some books for her—first chance he got. Medical stuff. If they went on a run near a library, or a bookstore, he'd slip off alone, grab them, and bring them back.

He'd try to read up on natural childbirth—would try to find some real technical guides. Then they'd go over what he learned. Figure out how they'd do it, when the time came.

And one day, he came in with a brown bag.

"No books, sorry—but you'll like it."

She opened it. Read the label on the package, inside.

"Paperwhites…"

"They're bulbs."

She could tell. Little onion-y things with a papery skin.

"Found those in a shed, on the run this morning," Bob said, "Just keep 'em until winter. Somewhere cool and dry. Then you plant 'em, and they'll come up in the spring."

"Just like magic," she said.

He smiled.

"Just like nature," he said.


Soon enough, Beth's mom was in that third bedroom. Banging on the door, right along with her brother.

Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.

Beth found herself drawn there. Spent a lot of time in the hallway—sitting against the far wall, with her chin on her knees. The door was barricaded with the old china cabinet, and the two of them couldn't break through.

If they did, they might try to hurt her. Mom and Shawn. They might do that.

The doors on that cabinet locked with a little, brass key. They rattled with every blow on the other side of the bedroom door. Otis forgot a single teacup, in there, when he pushed the cabinet into place. Beth watched it jump, a little, every so often, when Mom or Shawn got a really good strike in.

Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.

The noise was so loud—especially up close like Beth was. It bounced off the hardwood floors. The beams in the ceilings. Echoed through the house. You couldn't get away from it, so Beth figured she wouldn't bother. She'd sit right here, and listen to the two of them. She'd sit, and wait, and hope.

It'd been a while now. Any day, they might start getting better.

So with all that noise in the hall—and in her head—Beth didn't hear Jimmy's footsteps on the stairs until he'd nearly reached the top. She didn't look up, but she knew it was him. She could see his shadow on the hardwood—tall and boyish. With Shawn in the third bedroom, nobody else in the house would cast one like that.

"C'mon Beth," he said.

And he lifted her up, off the ground. Gently. Like Shawn with Mrs. Phillips, at the marsh.

"Come downstairs with me, ok?"

Thud-thud-thud.

It just kept on coming. That sound. Louder—now that they heard voices in the hall. They never seemed to get tired. Never seemed to sleep.

Jimmy did his best to ignore it, though Beth could tell he was tense. He never looked at the cabinet, blocking the bedroom door. Made it a point to look anywhere but there.

"Don't listen like that," he said, "Try not to hear."

He was about to take her to the stairs—but she made him put her down, then. Didn't want to be carried around the house, when she could walk on her own.

Somehow, it didn't feel quite right.


One August morning, when Beth was digging in the courtyard garden, her shovel hit something that shattered against the blade.

She furrowed her brow. Knelt down, and brushed the dirt out of the way.

It was a plate—one with a gold rim, and flowers on it. And there was writing. She laid out the pieces on the ground.

"Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners."

Behind that, Beth found a little bundle of cloth. Soiled with dirt, and half eaten away. She pulled the edge aside, carefully.

Inside it was a severed hand.

She brushed some more of the dirt away. And there was no doubt about it—it was a tiny, delicate little hand. A toddler's hand. It'd been there a long time. Some parts of it were just bone, and bits of leathery skin clung to others. Grey and colorless, and stained with soil.

Beth looked at it, and it told her a story. That was the only thing someone managed to save, from the body. So they'd buried it here, under that plate, before moving on.

And there was another plate, beneath that little bundle. She could see a hint of the gold rim. A painted lily, on a fragment of porcelain. And she didn't have to take it out, to know what it said:

"Now until the hour of our death."

And it struck her—the toy truck. The one she found when she first came out here. This was where that matchbox truck was, when she first laid eyes on it. This precise spot—right over the grave. It wasn't abandoned, here, after all.

It was a tombstone.

She reached out. Touched the little fingertips—curled up like withered claws.

No one would touch them ever again.

Then she laid the plate down in place, very gently. Made sure the pieces lined up right.

Beth covered it all with the soil, and let it be.


Thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud.

Mom and Shawn were still beating on the door. Beth was at the piano, that morning, trying hard to play over the sound. Maggie and Dad were on the sofa, behind her, listening.

And when Beth sat down, the first thing she wanted to play were the old hymns. Her mom's favorites—she could probably hear from upstairs, and Beth kind of hoped she'd recognize them. That they'd make her feel a little better.

"This is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long…"

Thud-thud-thud.

Beth tried to ignore it. Just kept playing. But it was useless. The third room had taken over the entire house. It was all Beth thought about. All her Dad thought about. Maggie.

"This is my st—"

Thud-thud-thud.

She heard Maggie gasp, at her back—stifling back a sob. Sensed their father, shifting in place—the sofa creaked, a little, as he did it. And Beth knew he was leaning over to hold her sister. Calm her down.

And Beth took a breath. Started singing, again:

"… this is my story, this is my song,
Praising my Savior all the day long."


One August morning, Beth woke up early. Figured she'd help Carol with breakfast. Tugged her jeans on.

For the first time, they wouldn't zip up all the way.

So she went down the hall. Borrowed one of Glenn's buttondowns, and wore it loose over her shirt. Figured it'd hide anything anyone might notice, for the meantime.


By the end of the week, they moved Mom and Shawn out of that bedroom—and Otis and Patricia moved in. The other farms were overrun, they said. It wasn't safe out there.

The only safe place was right here, at home.

Otis helped Jimmy and Dad take the two of them to the barn. Maggie pulled Beth into her bedroom, when they did it. Held her tight—like she might bolt out into the hall at any moment.

So Beth hadn't seen Mom and Shawn once, this whole time.

She didn't like that. Wanted to see her mother. Her brother. So that night, she took the Coleman lantern from the utility shed, and made her way to the barn.

She climbed up in the hayloft. It was a favorite spot, when she was a kid. It was a fun place to read. To be alone, and think.

She held her lantern out into the darkness.

"Mom…?"

Nothing, at first.

"Mom…?"

Then a snarl. A ragged breath. A shape, moving in the dark, down below. And another.

She caught a flash of her mom's face. Her hair, piled up on her head in that loose bun she liked to wear. Maggie pinned it up that way, when Mom went totally comatose. When they thought she might've died.

And Beth wanted her to react. Wanted some recognition, in that face. The harsh light bounced off her mother's pale skin. Her blue lips. And she clawed at the air. Tried to reach Beth.

An instant later, Shawn shoved her out of the way, and Mom disappeared into the darkness.

Beth choked on a lump in her throat.

"Mommy…?"

She wished she hadn't come up here. She didn't want to see their faces like that—half-human. Angry. Harshly lit against the night darkness.

And Beth… she didn't know if they'd get better. Or how long it'd take. Their whole lives were changing, and there was nothing she could do about it. She couldn't even understand it.

Everything was falling apart. Everything.


By the beginning of September, the courtyard had run wild. There were stands of goldenrod. Asthers. Columbine, crawling up the stone walls. After a while, Beth didn't bother with keeping things in flower beds. Just let them grow where they wanted to grow.

She liked that. Didn't want to make the place feel rigid. Didn't want rows of things, all parceled out in their own spaces. Nature wasn't like that. Nature was messy. It couldn't be controlled. Your ideas of what it should or shouldn't do… they didn't really matter.

And that was right. It suited the place. The rambling moss, coating the stone. The arched windows. A little, hidden space, full of color. If you looked at the church from the outside, you'd never guess it was there.

She remembered what it was like before—when she first got to this place. Empty and dead. It wasn't like that, now.

With the flowers all around, it was beautiful.