Maly wakes with the sun.

She does as she always does, keeping her eye closed as she listens to the world around her. Her pulse is steady and constant in her body, a beat that thrums through her as the birds chatter in the trees. Robins and chickadees trill and chatter; the breeze rustles through leaves. Nothing is there to warn her of any danger.

She inhales deeply, smells the spicy scent of pines mixed with the musk of her own clothes and perspiration. The bag that rests beneath her head stinks faintly of something that doesn't have a name. An umami, almost fungi, and almost meat, brought on by all the times she stuffed kills inside and the fluids of the dead that rubbed off her clothes and onto it, mingling with the odor of sweat and dirt and dog.

Opening her eyes, she notes the bluish gray light of early morning dawn just melting into gold, and shifts in her hammock to crane her head above its nylon walls. Around her the foliage blocks most her view, but she brushes it aside until she can scan the forest floor. Her eyes pick through young trees, vines, brambles, and branches, but find nothing more than an occasional errant slumbering mutt.

No threats.

She gets to work.

By the time the sun is three fingers above the horizon, she's already moved through the motions that have kept her alive this long, checking the fish trap and the remaining snares for breakfast and gathering water and wood for boiling. In the world before, she had different chores to take care of on a daily basis, and they could be ignored if she so chose. Here and now, if she does not commit to her gathering she will die in a manner of days, likely less.

The slick, slippery bodies of the minnows in her hands are hard to clean as she walks, silver scales sloughing off onto her fingers and knife like smelly glitter. Though their bodies only span a few inches at most, there were a dozen or more trapped by the funnel mouth she formed from the stakes. There may have been more had a watersnake not happened upon them, but Maly happened upon it and the circle of life went on. Shad or serpent, she will eat.

Working slowly, she presses the edge of her knife into their soft bellies, slitting between hair-fine bones until tiny tubes and earth-toned organs spill over the edges of her nails. Her steps are steady as she scrapes them out, attention partially on the job of gutting and partially on her surroundings. She is aware, always aware, of the world around her. She must be, even when her destination is set.

Slowly the church comes into view, and she sees a flash through the shutters to know that a watcher is still on duty in these early hours. It's not much, hardly a shifting shadow against the scratched and pitted screens that block most her view, but it is enough to know.

Maly keeps that fact in the back of her mind as she seats herself in the shaded area from before, a Dakota pit dug into the earth already. She cocks her head at it as Meatsack snuffles at its edges, head low and nose drawing short bursts. The mangy dog eyes her warily, muzzle painted with filth and flecked with bits of red from whatever it ate the night before.

She shoos it away, already laying down her pack and stowing her catch. She'll clean the snake later, she supposes as she sets to make a feather stick to get the cooking fire started.

Making a fire is a tenant of survival and this world, and making one hot enough to cook on used to be an exercise in frustrating trial and error. By now it is rote, her body moving through the motions without much thought. Start with tinder -birch bark, wood shavings, dry trash scraps- and then small twigs. Work up in size and thickness, making sure the wood is not rotted, moist, or green. Pines burn smoky and quick, hardwoods for longer and hotter.

Boil the water in old tin cans, a little at a time. Skewer the shad on sharpened stakes of young green wood that isn't pine -which makes any meal taste of acidic sap- and leave said sticks standing upright in the dirt for cooking later.

She watches those fish as she pulls the limp, jiggling body of the snake in her hands. The dogs inch closer, just as hungry as she is, and half the work she does is to kick them away while she works the smooth, scaly skin off the pink flesh of the snake. After a careful beheading, she digs her short nails into the seam of dermis and meat, workng a flap free until she can pull it down like sock from a foot.

By the time the first two cans of water have boiled and the bony flesh is bared, the church doors open. Maly watches warily as more than one person begins to emerge, carefully tending her meal as they eye her back. The teenage boy and his father seem to be setting to work with Michonne, the woman with the sniper rifle on guard and the man with the beanie stretching.

Carefully, she pours cooled water into her bottle as they set to what looks like fortifying the church. Her grimy hands set her meat over the mouth of the pit to cook, and she sips her drink slowly as more emerge.

She notes a newcomer walking about, his odd gait indicating trouble walking, but his grim, tired face gives no hint of new pain. An old injury on a young boy, healed enough for him to become used to its presence and adapt. Distantly, she ponders where he came from before Squirrel Killer emerges, worn but determined, and supposes the missing members came back plus one.

Yet she does not see the woman who is dangerous water. Nor does she note Red or the man with the mullet who spoke of vague fantasies. Also missing are the Korean and the group that found the silencers, and the woman with long hair and a cap.

It has been only a few days since she met them. She wonders apathetically if she watches long enough if they will all disappear.

Maly knows it would matter little either way.

Still, she watches them board windows as the shad roasts, blinking sweat from her eyes. Meatsack approaches her, head low and gaze fixed on the people working, and she barely pays the mangy thing any mind until it comes a little too close to the boney snake meat to be doing anything innocent. A nudge from her booted foot provokes a growl, and she huffs before swiping at its muzzle with a closed fist to send it dancing back.

In a move that's part testing, part playful, and part serious, it lunges and snaps at her. She jerks out of the range of its teeth and readies her hand to grab it by the scruff, wary of the other dogs joining in around them, but before she can grab it a shout jolts her attention.

"Hey!"

She lurches, unused to abrupt sound. Meatsack presses the advantage, nimble quick as is manages to catch a sleeve in its teeth and she reflexively lashes out to punch it in the side of its head. It yelps as the blow connects, skittering away, and Maly stares at it as it scampers with its tail between its legs.

Thudding footsteps sound from the direction of the church, and when she turns to face it she finds three figures closing fast. A knee jerk reaction inside her has her wanting to follow Meatsack and flee, but she quells it down easily, blinking as they approach.

"Did it get you?"

Maly doesn't have time to respond before the teenage boy is stepping a little too close for comfort, his father and Michonne following behind. She stretches back and away from the entourage, feeling a little crowded by their presence. The two adults take note and still at the motion, and after a second the teen seems to sense it happening, glancing to his father to check before taking a step back himself.

There's a pause as Maly watches them look her over, eyes scraping over her jacket. A quick glance tells her that there are a few small punctures around the sleeve, but not anything more.

"No blood," the teen states as if they all could not see that for themselves.

"It was not trying for blood," Maly replies after a beat, shaping each syllable with care. If Meatsack wanted blood, it would have to be trying harder than that.

"Not trying for blood?" Michonne asks.

Maly stares impassively at her. She just stated that; it bore no repeating.

Rick himself simply evaluates the situation, his eyes glancing around from Maly's campfire to where Meatsack slunk away. She sees him working it out in his head, pieces slotting together and options being considered.

"That a regular behavior?" he asks eventually.

Maly inclines her chin in the smallest of nods.

"And you haven't considered killing it?"

She tilts her head ever so slightly to the side, the fabric of her mother's krama brushing against her neck. Meatsack's death has crossed her mind more than once, but not for the same reasons she believes Rick is thinking of.

Words roll through her head, and she sorts them out until she finds the best ones for her.

"It can do more living than dead."

The boy goes quiet at her statement, and Rick levels her a look she can't interpret before glancing at Michonne. The two of them hold a silent conversation with their eyes while Maly gazes back, wondering if her meaning was unclear and mildly wary as she bites off the rest of the minnow to eat. She chews the musky meat as she mulls over another way to say the same exact thing.

"Its life has more use than its death for now," she tries.

They glance over quietly, but this, at least, they seem to understand.

Maly tosses her empty kebab into the pit fire and grabs another, having said all that needed to be said, same as ever.