Back in Oliver's head again.


Back in Carl's cell, I find my machete and my beanie.

"Yeah," he says, sulking, "surprise."

I clip the machete to my belt, then pull my beanie on. It makes today feel better. Bad, but better. Carl is packing, tossing things into an orange duffel bag from under his bed. I see the hat Michonne must've been talking about. It's big and brown and brilliant.

"Thank you," I tell him, and he stops packing for a second and just watches me. "What?" I ask.

He points at my beanie. "Missed it."

"Me, too," I say.

Footsteps are coming. I turn and watch Rick stop in the cell doorway. He leans on the bars, rubbing his neck and shifting his weight on his heels. Carl is back to packing and sulking: "Hand me what's in there." "This?" "No, that. Not that." "Okay, okay."

"Hey..." Rick says over us. "It's for your own good."

"Dad, we're fine. We shouldn't be locked away with a bunch of kids."

"I need you in there," Rick insists. "Both of you. Keepin' an eye on Judith. On everybody else. Makin' sure they're safe." I watch his forehead fold a thousand times over.

Carl holsters his gun. Rick shuffles his feet.

"If anybody gets sick you let me know," he says.

"What if they've already turned when I find them?" Carl asks, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder.

I look at the floor, sore.

"You don't fire it," Rick warns, "unless you absolutely need to."

"But you know I might need to, right?"

They watch each other.

Finally, Rick says, "G'on."


We don't talk for the walk to the office blocks. Carl keeps his duffel on his shoulder and I keep my hands in my pockets. I think I hate having my hands in my pockets. Sometimes pockets feel more like pant-handcuffs.

"I didn't mean to upset you," Carl says finally, "earlier, talking to my dad."

"You didn't," I say.

Carl sighs and holds the office block doors open for me. "I don't want to have to do that – put anyone down if they turn. I will, if I have to. I just wanted you to know that."

"That's okay," I say.

"Really," he insists. "I don't like killing them."

"I know," I say, meaning it.

He nods, looking tired. "Okay."

"C'mon, man, let's go find a room."


Glenn, Doctor S, and Sasha have all come down with the sickness, too. Maggie told us. She looked scared, but she didn't say so. Judith's being kept in quarantine down the hall with Beth. They can't come out. Carl is scared, too, but he doesn't say so either.

The office blocks suck.

A lot of kids and elders have already moved in during the day. Carl and I choose an office together. It's dusty and smells like rot, and our beds are only two sleeping bags and a pillow on the floor—Carl gets the pillow because I'm allergic to the feathers. I keep my inhaler close while we patrol the halls, and we wind up in the same part of the building where we sat at the door looking out to the neglected parking lot, listening to music that day. I'd like to do that again soon.

Before long, we catch Hershel heading along the corridor, heading for the door. We head after him.

"Where're you going?" Carl calls out.

Hershel stops and turns to us, sighing. "I'm down here away from ya'll 'cause you kids are supposes to stay away from me."

"We've been walkin' the halls," Carl says. "My dad told us to look out for everyone."

"Well, you should keep your distance."

Carl stops walking and points.

"You're walkin' towards the exit..."

"I need to go out there."

"The cell blocks?"

"To the woods."

"So you're sneakin' out?" Carl asks, and I think we both realise at the same time that Hershel was who moved the key that day.

"Don't need anyone worryin' about me," Hershel insists. "And I damn sure don't want some kid tellin' me I can't go."

At this point, Carl looks at me, as if he's expecting me to chime in for back-up, but I don't, and Carl looks like he wants to suddenly punch him. I step back so he can't, and he looks back at Hershel. "I can't just let you go out into the woods by yourself," he says, a little deflated.

"'Let' me?"

"I can't stop you, but I'd have to tell my dad."

"Well, go ahead then." Hershel waves him away. "I'll be out there by the time you find him." He's leaving. Carl walks after him. I don't.

"Hershel..."

He turns to him, losing patience, and under two, bushy, white eyebrows, his pale blue eyes narrow.

"If you have to go," Carl goes on, "then I have to go with you."

"Carl..."

"I have to."


Hershel waits for Carl to come back with his things, and while he waits, he musters enough humour to laugh.

"That boy is more stubborn than I am old."

"He pretty stubborn," I mumble.

Hershel looks at me and laughs, his white beard bobbing back and forth under his hidden chin. "Well, I'm pretty old."

I stutter. That wasn't what I was meant by that. Hershel doesn't seem to mind. He grins at me, then then he just watches me, his eyes all bunched up and sympathetic.

"Son, I'm sorr—"

"You're sorry," I say before he can, "I know."

Hershel smiles tightly.

I get this miserable rock in my throat. "He... He stole my chocolate," I explain. "The son of a bitch stole my chocolate."

We both laugh. Except I'm also crying. Hershel puts his hand on my back and waits for me to stop. I wipe my face on my sleeves—my sleeves are permanently damp now. Finally, I calm down again.

"Oliver, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you stayed here and kept an eye on everyone."

I nod. I didn't want to go anyway.

He pats my shoulder and calls me a "Good boy."

Carl returns. He's wearing his hat. I trip over my own feet.

"Let's go," he says.

I blink and blush and step aside awkwardly. As Carl passes me, he tips his hat. I stuff my pockets with my hands.

"Err, be careful out there," I say, "you know, err... don't fall over."

Carl narrows his eyes. I have no idea why.

"Right," Hershel says, "we'll try not to fall over."


To take my mind off the hat, I take a break from patrols and ride a spinny chair through the empty corridors. Then Lizzie rounds the corner, coughing into her elbow. I stumble to a stop and stand up.

"Lizzie—"

"I told Mika to stay away," she says quickly. "I don't want her to get sick, too."

"It's okay," I say because I don't know what else to say. "It... It's okay."

"Don't come too close!"

I stand back. "Okay. Okay."

Lizzie coughs. "It's A block, right? Where the sick people are?"

Death row, I think, and nod. "Carol's keeping watch over there. Find her. She'll know what to do."

Lizzie nods. She looks scared. As she leaves, I stand there, staring, and then I head to my office and try to think of something else. It doesn't work very well. Not while I climb on the desk and sit on my hands. Not while I stare at the ceiling and count to four over and over. Not until Carl comes back.

I must look upset, because he asks, "What's wrong?"

"Lizzie got sick?" I tell the ceiling. "I saw her a while ago."

"Yeah, Mika just told me." He looks anxious. "You—You didn't touch her, did you?"

I shake my head.

Carl climbs up onto the desk and takes a seat next to me, feet up on the chair, glaring into his knees. I sit up, propping my legs up, too, so our legs tangle all the way down to the ankle.

Carl sighs. "I'm glad you're okay."

I watch him.

"You know," I say, "worrying about me isn't going to make me love you any more than I already do."

He shuts his eyes, whispers... "Jesus."

Yeah, I think. Jesus...

He knocks our knees and takes my hand. I guess I know why, but it's not going to be me who says it first.

"How'd it go with Hershel?" I ask instead.

"Good, actually," he says. "He got his elderberry and I didn't shoot two walkers."

I frown. "Because not shooting two walkers is such a great accomplishment?"

"I was gonna shoot them," Carl explains. "But Hershel said I didn't have to, so... I didn't."

I watch him. Carl watches the floor. We're still holding hands. Still feeling that hurricane. My eyes trail up to that hat — I reach out and touch it. Carl looks at me.

"Like it?"

"Yeah," I reply, "pretty pretty."

Carl laughs and shoves me. I shove him back, and then we're wrestling. I tackle him to the floor and hold him in a chest-lock, but Carl is stubborn and competitive and currently going through a growth-spurt, and a sudden burst of energy has me collapsing to the ground and with him rolling over to pin me down. I grab at his shoulders. He grabs my hands. We're laughing and grunting and his hat falls to the side. I give up fighting, so Carl sits up. He looks at me. I don't know what I look like — probably tired, lying here trapped between his knees. He just grins and puts his hat back on. I put my hands on his hips. And then we're not smiling anymore. We're just looking at each other, breathing.

"You're, uh... you're sitting on me," I say.

"Yeah."

I glance up at his hat.

"Michonne said it was your dad's," I say so I don't say anything else.

"Yeah," he answers, "gave it to me when I got shot."

I've seen the scar on his chest.

"He calls it a club," he adds.

"Club?"

"Getting shot," Carl says. "He got shot before all this. He was in a coma for almost two months before he found us."

I look at the ceiling. "Must seem like a nightmare to him."

"Yeah. Think the fact I had a seizure mighta convinced him to give it to me, too."

"You had a seizure? Jesus. Why?"

"You know," he says, smirking now, "worrying about me isn't going make me love you any more than I already do."

He mimicked my accent, which is something between a D.C. Virginian accent and a North Dakota one, and sometimes my mom's Italian accent comes in and my 'erm's sound like 'err's or my 'oh's shorten to 'o's or I'll even roll my 'r's a little if I talk too fast.

My chest fills up with air and my body catches fire. I think of how liking Carl is like liking chocolate pudding, most of the time, even though there's pizza and ice cream sundaes and brownies and marshmallows too, and even though I like all of those, too, and even though I probably shouldn't like the chocolate so much and should probably pick something else and stick to that instead, I'm just really really good with the chocolate.

Carl isn't chocolate pudding.
My point still stands.

"Blood loss."

My thoughts cut off.

I look at him.

"I had the seizure from blood loss," Carl explains. "Unfortunately, a pretty common side-effect from getting shot is a whole bunch of blood loss."

I wince a little. "Do you remember it?"

"What?" Carl asks. "Getting shot? Or the seizure?"

"Both?"

"I remember just before I got shot. The deer... and I think I woke up after and told my mom and dad about it, but, nothing else."

I just nod up at him.

"It's getting late," he says, climbing off me. "We should probably get some food before it's all gone."

Later, while I'm passing out curled up in my sleeping bag, Carl mumbles something to me that I don't quite catch. "Huh?" I mumble.

"Nothing," he says. "It doesn't matter."

I want to know, and I want to tell him that I want to know, but I'm falling and falling and falling away into sleep.


Notes

As always,
Happy reading.