"Alright, everybody listen up," Shane says the next morning, and I look up at him, alert even though the sun's barely up. All the other kids look like they'd rather be sleeping, but not me, the early riser. I like this time of day. Best time to get things started.

The entire group – minus Jim, I'm not sure if he's even considered part of the group anymore – is gathered at the center of the camp one last time. The vehicles are loaded and we're about to leave for the CDC. Shane's giving us his final talk – "verbal preparation," my mother would say, that's what she always does – did – with her clients before going into the courtroom. Give them the lowdown of what to expect and what they would do.

"Those of you with CBs," Shane's saying from his place beside Rick, both hands casually holding his shotgun to his waist as he surveys us all, "we're going to be on channel 40, but let's keep the chatter down, okay? Now, you have a problem, don't have a CB, can't get a signal, or anything at all, you're gonna hit your horn one time. That'll stop the caravan."

I glance up at my dad and catch him rubbing his eyes. I know he didn't sleep much last night. He sees me looking and roughly tousles my already tangled hair.

"Any questions?" Shane asks.

"We're, uh . . ." begins Morales. He sounds nervous, but he meets Shane's eyes. "We're not going."

Shane just stares at him. Rick's mouth opens a bit. They're shocked.

And I'm shocked . . . My own mouth gapes, in fact, just like Rick's, and I close it as soon as I catch myself. But what is Morales thinking?

I see Eliza tuck her head into her mother's chest as Mrs. Morales softly explains, "We have family in Birmingham. We want to be with our people."

Birmingham? Alabama, yes, Alabama, I remember now. I don't know exactly how far away Birmingham is, but it's far. And going it alone? With just Morales being able to handle a gun, as far as I know?

God bless Shane. I'm silent, my tongue's dry, but he says, "Go on your own, you won't have anyone to watch your back."

"We'll take the chance," Morales replies. "I've gotta do what's best for my family."

I feel my face wrinkle up, my hands ball into fists. How is this what's best for Louis and Eliza? Taking them away from the group, from the power in numbers? Then I remember that just last night I was asking my dad why we shouldn't leave, and l realize I'm a – what's it called? – a hypocrite, and then I realize that I just don't like the idea of Louis and Eliza not being here, because when all's said and done, they're alright, and I –

Stop. I bite my knuckle, bite back the uncomfortable feelings blowing up inside of me like a balloon, trying to fill my chest, working on pressing into my throat.

Rick asks Morales if he's sure. Morales looks at his wife. Yes, they've talked about it. They're sure.

My heel digs angrily into the ground, saying everything my voice won't.

"Alright," Rick says in a way that tells me he doesn't think Morales is doing the right thing, either, and for a second I forget that I don't like Rick. He and Shane bend over the gun bag at their feet and, after a few seconds of muttering, choose out a handgun and a box of bullets. Both are handed to Morales.

"Box is half full," Shane says solemnly. Above me, Dad makes a quiet spitting noise, and he takes a few steps away and then back. He's frustrated, but I don't know why, so I just look at the ground, chewing the skin off my finger.

"Thank you all," says Mrs. Morales. "For everything . . ."

From the corner of my eye, I see Lori slide down from her place beside Carl on the hood of Carol's Cherokee. I tilt my head, just a little, to get a better look at Carl, and I see his eyes are wet. Again. Lori, meanwhile, goes to Mrs. Morales and hugs her close, then kisses Louis on the head, then Eliza. Shane and Rick shake Morales's hand. I meet Louis's eyes, pretty much by accident, and after an uncomfortable moment I just swallow and give him a nod, the way grownups do to one another. He gives me the same. Eliza runs to tearfully hug Sophia, and I watch her give her that doll that I scorned, and as Eliza begins to turn around I turn as well, turn away, and press the side of my face into Dad's shirt, avoiding eye contact, avoiding a goodbye. No tears. No tears. Dad smoothes his hand over my head.

More murmurs. Sniffling. "Channel 40," Rick repeats. "If you change your minds."

And then footsteps, and words, always so many words, and finally Shane calls, "Let's go! Let's move out!"

"C'mon," Dad says, nudging me, and I pull away from him and we walk to his truck, sitting at the edge of camp – what used to be camp. Merle's motorcycle is loaded in back. I stare at it for a moment before walking around to the passenger's side and climbing into the truck, this good old truck. I run my hands over the worn out seat, breathe in the familiar and somehow nice scent of dirt, sweat, and cigarettes.

Dad starts the engine and I roll down my window. I lean out too far and Dad wordlessly pulls me back by my shirt. I lean out again, just less, and watch as everyone starts to move. We leave the campsite in this order: The vehicle belonging to the Morales family, which takes a right turn where the gravel road meets the asphalt one (everyone else takes a left); Dale's RV, with Glenn at shotgun and Jacqui and sick, feverish, walker-to-be Jim in back; Carol's Cherokee – which Rick is driving – with Lori and Carl and Sophia and Carol herself; T-Dog's church van, carrying himself and Andrea, poor Andrea; my dad's truck; Shane's jeep, with Shane alone.

One more time I remember the fish fry and think, this is all that's left. This is all that's left.

I look behind us. That cool car Glenn brought back glints in the light of dawn, and this glint is the last thing I see before the bumpy road takes my dad's truck too far away, and the survivor's camp is – as I predicted before, though under different circumstances – just another memory.

. . . . .

I'm hungry and I wish I ate more of that fish yesterday. There was no food left this morning, and everyone seemed surprised, as if no one had been keeping an eye on the supply, no one expected us to actually, truly run out of food. Even the squirrels my dad brought back had somehow disappeared, lost somewhere between him going after Merle and the fish fry and the burials (Dad was not happy when he heard about this loss). It feels like there's a mean creature in my stomach, a little monster trying to claw its way out because I won't give it its allowance. But I don't say anything to Dad about it. Nothing he can do right now. I just have to hang tight.

Before long, my mind turns to more serious things, things that more or less distract me from my empty belly. In my head, I go over several points, thinking and thinking about them – at school, we called this "brainstorming" – and finally, at least twenty minutes after we leave the camp, I feel like I've figured a thing or two out, and now I need to have a talk with my dad. So I break the silence.

"Killing Jim would kind of be like when you shot Buck, right?" I say, talking loudly, because both of our windows are down. "After he got hit by the car?"

Buck was my dog, a German shepherd Dad got me – strictly to stay at his place, Mom made that clear – when I was five. Last year he got ran over, and Dad knows animals and so he knew there was nothing anyone could to do to save him, and so he got his gun and put Buck down. Shot to the head, quick and painless.

Dad spits out the window when I ask this. "Buck wouldn'ta got up after he died and started tryin' to rip you apart."

"I know, but I mean . . ." I glance over at him, at my dad, separated from me by only a little space and his crossbow, riding in between us. "I just mean Jim's definitely gonna die, right?"

"What, you think I'd try to kill a healthy man?"

He snaps that. I hate it when he snaps at me. It makes me turn away now, sinking a bit in my seat. "I's just askin'."

There's a pause, then Dad is rolling his window up, and things get quieter inside the cab once he has. I hear him better when he talks again, and this time his voice isn't as sharp, either. "He's definitely gonna die."

I nod out my window, watching the dry ground in front of the shabby house we're passing. We speed by the place, but I have time to see that the front door's been left open. Or broken through.

I wanted to hear Dad say that, that Jim was surely dead, wanted to be completely positive that I understood where he was coming from, even though I already knew what was going to happen to Jim. He would definitely die, no matter what. Like Buck. And . . .

"Like Mom."

I don't know why I say this, because my dad and I don't really talk about my mom these days. But it slips out, this little thought that's been hanging around inside my head, growing and strengthening and irritating me like a splinter ever since I first saw Jim's bite and understood what it meant.

Dad doesn't say anything.

I roll up my own window before I turn to him again. His eyes are on the road. He has one arm on the wheel and one arm propped against the window, and the fingers of that arm are pressed against his lips. He's thinking.

I take a deep breath before I speak. "I got a question, but I'm afraid you'll get mad."

He glances at me, a tired glance, but not a mean one. "Good Lord, girl, you'd think all I ever do is yell at ya."

I smile, but I'm still worried.

"Gonna ask or what?"

I pop my fingers against my knee. He's not saying he won't get mad, but I knew better than to hope he would promise that, anyway. Guess I'll just have to take the risk. Beside, it ain't like he gets mad at me all that much. "Why didn't you . . ."

I can't make "kill" slip from my mouth, not this time.

"Why didn't you . . . put Mom down?"

And I don't like that, either, making Mom sound like an injured animal. It's out there now, though.

I know my dad really well, but even for me, he's hard to read sometimes. Now's one of those times. His eyes squint, maybe, just a little, but other than that his expression doesn't change. "'Cause she wanted to do it herself. You know that."

I do . . . And I think back to it, to that night, to the little pistol patiently waiting on my mom's kitchen table, the last companion she'd ever have. I flinch, but still make myself ask, "Jim doesn't want to do it himself?"

"Guess not." Dad rolls his window back down, just like that, and the wind attacks my face and hair, whipping it back and making it roll and twist and tangle, tangle, tangle. That harsh noise of air through a car window fills our little space, and even though I could still hear my dad and he could still hear me if we spoke loud enough, I know he's telling me he doesn't want to talk about it anymore. And that makes me kind of mad, if I'm being honest, because she was my mom, he wasn't even married to her when she died, hadn't been for years, and if I'm okay with talking, shouldn't he be, too?

But that's not fair and I know it. I don't know why it's not fair, but that little voice inside of me that Mom always called my conscience tells me so, and it won't leave me alone if I don't listen, I know that. I lean back in my seat, cross my arms, and go back to thinking about being hungry. It's the easiest thing to worry about right now.