"They're grown-up talkin'."

Owen's whispering, but so are the trees on either side of this asphalt road, as well as the dead leaves covering it. So, I almost pretend that I didn't hear him, but change my mind. Maybe because I'm trying to get him to stay. Maybe because I want to chase him off.

I shift my newly-filled water jug from my right hand to my left. "Grown-up talkin', huh?"

"Mm-hmm . . ." Owen, weighted down with two full jugs of water, eyes my Dad and Carol – ten paces ahead of us – with a sparkle in his eye. Well, not a sparkle. But there's some amusement there. Or something. "Keepin' close enough to us that we're all still together, so if a corpse or two or ten happens to stumble out at us, we can take care of 'em as a group. But they're talkin' low, leanin' close to each other when they say somethin' . . ." His next step brings him closer to me, and he stage-whispers, "They have something on their minds that concerns neither of us. Something personal. More than likely something they think we're too young to hear about." He falls back away from me, eyebrows up, shoulders half-shrugged. "Maybe sex."

"Oh my – stop talking."

"What?" He gestures with one of his arms, sloshing the contents of the jug attached to it. "He's a man, she's a woman, options are limited, tension is high, blood is always, always pumping –"

"How much blood is gonna be pumping to your balls after I jam my knee into them?"

"Whoa-ho! Look who picked up a thing or two from our old pals. I think you might have just quoted Harley directly."

"No I . . ." But I probably did. Harley. The guy who knocked me out without a second thought after we spent weeks on the road together. Still, that betrayal didn't feel nearly as painful as how Carol just treated me down at the stream. No, Harley was nothing – Carol is Carol. "Just shut up," I mutter to Owen.

Dad and Carol walk on. They are leaning in close to each other. They are talking low. Owen's right. Grown-up talking. At least she'll talk to someone.

That makes me more angry than happy, and that's bad.

Owen sucks in some air through his teeth and then lets it all out in a dramatic rush. "Sorry."

I'll give him this – he's not afraid to apologize when he feels it's necessary. There's something I like about that.

"You just get so quiet sometimes," he says.

I give the jug back to my right hand. We're going up a hill, finding our way back to the trail that leads to the church. I don't mind the walk. I don't mind lugging around the water, either. Physical stuff like this, it helps me think. It's one of the reasons I miss the prison – it had my hay bale with my spray-paint target, waiting for me every morning, as steady as the sun. Best way I've ever found to clear my head.

Owen asks, "Somethin' happen?"

To get me so quiet, he means. God . . . I could tell him no, that it's just me. Wouldn't be a lie. I do just go quiet sometimes, like he said.

But . . .

At the stream, getting water, I told Carol, just between us, that I'd missed her. That it had been rough, not having her around for so long, because she's been there – been there for me – ever since the turn –

And that's when she said my jug was full enough and to go keep an eye on Owen.

No warm response, no hug, no pat on the back. No smile. Barely any eye contact.

So I just walked away and kept an eye on Owen. And pulled out the film I keep inside of me that sometimes helps to cushion me from reality. It worked a little. Enough that I kind of went numb, which is better than feeling bad any day.

But it's hard to keep the film over me for long. It's starting to wear off now.

I've forgiven her for Karen and David. I haven't even brought it up. But we're back together – doesn't that mean something to her? Something special, I mean?

The film, the film, it's peeling away.

I need to distract myself and I need to not answer Owen, because anything that happens between me and Carol – or doesn't happen – that's between me and Carol.

"What'd my dad say to you to get you to come?" I blurt. It's a good a question as any.

"What makes you think I needed convincing?"

"It's not that you needed convincing. It's that you like to argue."

He grins. The leaves scratch over the street as we kick them, as the breeze stirs them. "He told me that if I'm gonna be part of y'all's group, I gotta pull my own weight. I told him I'm not sure I wanna be part of y'all's group, and he said that until I am sure, I'm part of the group whether I like it or not. So I best get off my ass and move . . . I'm kinda startin' to like your dad."

I don't say anything. Dad and Carol are still grown-up talking. I want to catch up, but I doubt they would like that. They're friends. They were apart for a long time. Maybe they need to make things good between them.

Although I'm friends with Carol and she and I were apart for a long time and I tried to make things good between us but –

"Things still tense between you two?"

How does he know about –

Dad. He means Dad.

Send my jug to my left hand. "We're fine."

"Hm. So, that's a yes."

Ignore him. Let him think what he wants.

You can't ignore him. Any more than you can ignore Carol or Dad or Rick or LC – shit, there's a lot of shit to deal with.

"You gonna tell him about any of it?"

Stop talking, Owen.

"What happened while you guys were separated? With Len . . . with Rick?"

"None of that matters now." We've reached the top of the hill, but there's another one up ahead, steeper. "Len's dead. And Rick and I are good."

"The night Len died, you told me you weren't sure your dad looked for you. Talk to him about that? Or how about Romeo, you sharin' and carin' with him?"

"Why're you talkin' to me about this crap? Why do you even care?"

"Because secrets build up, kiddo. Wouldn't want you to –"

"Wouldn't want me to what?" I whip my head towards him. "Who are you to talk about keeping secrets?"

He doesn't break pace. He looks at me the way he used to look at his brother when Tyler was pleading for something. Like for him not to throw his new basketball on the roof.

"Why were you in juvie, Owen?" The question comes out easy, and I'm like him – I don't break pace. Just a nice walk on a crisp fall day, oh, by the way – why were you in prison?

"Why do you even care?" he tosses back.

We start up the new hill, and now it's my turn to drift closer to him. I drop my voice to that same whisper he used before, and I say – I hiss – "Because I brought a criminal into my group, and I would like to know exactly what that means." I never take my eyes off him. I could trip, but I don't, and it's the right call to make, staring him down like this. That's what it would take with me. My mother was always very firm about this – make eye contact. Eye contact.

With Owen, it works.

"It means I was a thirteen-year-old kid who thought he was a badass and wasn't."

We walk in silence, but I keep on staring at the side of his head. Not eye contact, but close enough.

"I stole a car," he finally says, as flat as can be. "Took it for a joyride. Happy?"

No, I'm not.

"You told me that you've done worse things than what you did to get into juvie."

His arms fly out. The jugs swing in his hands. "Welcome to the apocalypse – where everything's trying to kill you and moral values are a luxury!"

I'm on a roll. Not one I like. My heart rate's up and my palms are sweaty, I have to switch the jug back to my right hand again and almost drop it. "We've all done something, that's what Rick told Gabriel." I said that too fast. Slow down, Sydney, easy. "It's true. So what did you do that makes you think you're any worse than the rest of us?"

His jaw's gone tight. He's grinding his teeth, I think. And he's looking straight ahead, but I don't think he's thinking about Dad and Carol anymore, or grown-up talk. Except, I think what we're doing here is grown-up talk.

"Owen," I say right as we get on semi-flat ground again, and that's when he opens his mouth. But the words that come out aren't for me.

"Does it work?" he calls, and I look ahead and see a car. Dark green-blue, covered in dirt, parked or dead on the side of the road. And Carol's slamming the trunk right as we get up to it. Well, as Owen gets up to it. He picks up speed and reaches her well before I do. Dad's standing off a bit. I step up next to him.

"Well enough," Carol answers, and she looks Owen over before turning to Dad. "We'll leave it here as backup, in case things go south at the church." She bends to the ground and picks up both her water jugs. I'm the only one carrying just one. Could've carried another. Dad said no.

He nudges me now, Dad. "You good?"

I use my free hand to wipe the cold sweat from my forehead. "You don't have to ask me that every five minutes."

Silence.

"Sorry," I say.

He sighs – it's always been a special skill of mine, making him sigh like that, and it's nice to know that some things never change. "Let's just get back. Go on."

So I go on. No more grown-up talk separating Dad and Carol from me and Owen this time around. No, we walk single-file all the way back to the church. Single-file and quiet. It's not the comfortable kind of quiet. It's more the exhausted kind. Mental? Physical? More than likely both. I know that's what it is for just me, alone.

A lot of things are worse than stealing a car – if Owen's even telling the truth about that, and I'm not sure he is – but there aren't a lot of things worse than the things Owen knows we've done. I told him about me killing the Governor, about – Rick. I told him about LC. Told him we've killed people, all of us.

So what has he done? What could he possibly have done to make him believe that he's worse?

And brat? I know bad. You ain't it.

Are you, Owen?

It could just be in his head. He might be the same as all of us – just another good person who got in a bad situation and now has guilt riding him all day every day, because the better the person the guiltier they feel over the bad stuff they do. The really bad stuff that they have to do.

Or he might be completely different from my group. From me . . . because I'm not bad. I'm not.

I think about that kid who threw my best friend's new basketball onto the roof. I think about how he walked away, stone-cold, while Tyler screamed after him. I never got that Owen. I don't get this one, either.

But I can't just let him be and hope for the best.

. . . . .

Back at the church, Dad's the first one through the door. "Gift of life!" he calls into the sanctuary, but just as I'm coming in after him, Carl's there. His expression stops me cold.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey . . ."

He clamps onto my hand as Carol and Owen pass us by. I don't really pay attention to any of them, because there's something really, really off with Carl, something that makes my stomach flip over, and I scan for Judith – "What's wrong?" – and I hear her then, crying from one of the little rooms. "Is Judith okay? Have the others gotten back, what –?"

"Everyone's fine," he promises, but he swallows and looks out the door. "Just . . . come with me. I need to show you something."

"What?"

"Just come, okay?"

I leave my water jug by the door and follow him out of the church and around it, counterclockwise. I want to take my bow from my shoulder, load up, but Carl doesn't have his gun out, and he didn't bring anyone out here but me, so this can't be an immediate threat. But it could still be a threat. Must be.

Just before we reach the corner of the church, where we could take a left and come up on the back of the place, see the cemetery and the bus and Abraham and his people – I can hear Rosita snapping at someone right now – Carl stops. He turns to me. He gives me a very solemn look.

Then he crouches down, moves aside some weeds, and stands back up with a small bunch of yellow flowers. And a grin.

Every muscle in me goes limp and then tightens right back up. I shove him as he begins to laugh. "You asshole!"

"C'mon, I had you!"

"Yeah, you did! I thought something was really wrong!"

"I'm sorry . . ." He takes a deep breath, trying to bite back his smile. He's not doing a very good job. "I'm sorry." He holds the flowers out. "I just wanted to surprise you."

"I . . ." I grimace. He scared me, and I want to be pissed off. But he's standing here with flowers, looking so damn cute in that stupid hat.

He wiggles the flowers. Lets his smile loose.

I snatch the bouquet and shake my head. "These are really pretty. I hate you. But they're really pretty." I sniff the flowers. They smell sweet but sharp – just like fall. Perfect fall flowers.

"You don't hate me."

"Uh-huh. You disgust me. I'm never going to forgive you."

"Never?"

"Never. Never, never, nev – what are you doing, you think that's going to help you?"

He's put his arms on either side of my head, and I'm against the wall, and his forehead is touching mine.

"Stop it." I don't move. "I'm mad at you."

"No, you're not."

"Don't tell me how I feel, you jerk."

"Tell me not to kiss you, and I won't."

"Mmm . . ."

"Just say not to kiss you. If you're so mad at me –" He reaches down and pokes at my ribs, making me jump, "just say not to kiss you."

I shove his hand away. "Do not start that," I say with all the seriousness I can muster.

"Start what?" His other hand moves down to my ribcage, fingers going at it, and a giggle escapes me even as I try to squirm away.

"Stop it!" I lose the bouquet somewhere in my escape attempt. Lose my bow, too, even feel my quiver slip off my back, hear the arrows clatter out. I'm laughing and angry and in love now, but I still have to try to keep my voice low so the others – and the walkers – won't hear as I promise, "Now I'm definitely not letting you kiss me!"

"Alright, fine." He wraps his arms around my waist and falls to the ground, bringing me with him.

"Carl Grimes, I swear –"

"What? What're you gonna do?"

I nip one of his arms.

"Ow!" He loosens his grip, just enough for me to break free, flip onto my back, and scoot about a yard away from him.

"Ha!" I lean back on my elbows as he rubs his arm. I let my head hang as far to the side as it can go and widen my eyes. "Am I too much to handle, Grimes?"

He cocks his head at me, and then leaps. Mr. Competitive.

Next thing I know, he's straddling my waist, he's tickling my ribs, and I can't get up.

He's pinned me here.

I stop trying to fight him. I put my arms above my head, surrender. Air's hard to find. But it's just Carl. Stay calm, it's just –

"Carl, get off."

His fingers keep dancing over my ribs, but I barely feel them. All I feel is his weight pressing down on me, trapping me under him. "Why? Am I too much to handle?"

"Get off." Completely can't breathe now. Carl's grinning but it's not, it's not my Carl's grin, it's not my Carl, it's –

"I said Get off!" I snap my upper body up, like I'm a mousetrap, and ram my shoulder into Carl's chest, and then he's gone, and I don't know if it was because of what I said or because I'm just that strong, but he's off of me, that's all that matters, and my lungs fight again for air and I scramble away from my boyfriend and look, look at anything, and what I eventually settle on looking at is the flowers. The pretty flowers he picked for me.

I'm gasping.

"Syd?"

Carl's keeping his distance, but he's still on the ground, too. On his knees, leaning forward, but not close enough to touch me. I don't look right at him. Not yet.

"Did I hurt you?" He sounds broken, too.

Breathe. Where am I? I'm outside of a church. I'm with my family. Dad's inside, Carl's out here. I'm safe. I'm safe.

You little bitch, you little bitch . . .

I'm safe. Safe.

But I'm shaking so hard.

"Sydney, I – I was just messing around, I'm sorry – do you want – should I go get your dad?"

Safe.

You little bitch.

"I'm okay . . ." I draw my legs into me, drop my head back, see the beautiful sky. "I'm okay . . ."

Wind blowing through the trees, dead leaves spiraling down, white clouds swirling above me. God uses the clouds to paint, Sydney, my Nana once told me.

I'm okay. I'm safe. Clouds, Carl, Dad. Bow. Arrows.

I look at Carl. He's terrified. He's not a teenager wanting to make out with his girlfriend. He's the scared little boy from the swamp. "I'm sorry . . ." he says one more time. "I didn't mean . . ."

I swallow. It hurts, my throat's gone so dry, and God, stop shaking, Sydney. "You didn't do anything wrong," I say. "It's okay."

"Syd . . ." He doesn't understand. I could get him to understand in a single sentence, one simple fast story, but I don't say it, so he just goes on not understanding. Goes on being confused and upset. "I would never . . . I would never . . .hurt you. In any way. If that's what you were thinking . . ."

"I wasn't. I know you wouldn't." I take one more long, deep breath. I lift my hands to cup my face, then rake them through my hair, pull out my ponytail. I fluff all of my hair out, and it makes a nice shield for me. Completely useless, but comforting. Like hiding under covers from a monster in your room, back when monsters were all in your head and you sort of knew it but weren't totally sure. "I just . . . I don't like being, um . . . I don't like feeling – trapped. Like that. Anything like – that."

Anything like feeling helpless. Weak. At someone else's mercy. Violated.

"I know you don't. That was –" He heaves a sigh. "So stupid of me. I'm sorry."

"You don't – you don't have to be sorry." Smiles are easy to force. It's just shaping your face, like it's a puppet, not a part of you.

Pretty clouds, God making art. Pretty flowers from my boyfriend. That boyfriend's eyes, full of concern.

I'm loved. I'm okay. I'm safe.

"I really do like the flowers. And I'm really not mad at you, you know I'm not. And I really want you to kiss me now, okay?"

He stares, uncertain.

I hold out my hand, do my best to keep it steady. He takes it. He walks on his knees over to me, and it's me that kisses him, lightly. Then I tuck my head into his neck. He puts his arms around me, and I tense, but I inhale him, exhale him, inhale him again, and calm down. It's Carl. He's completely my Carl. And I'm safe. This is reality, this is now, and now is safe.

I stay there, curled into him, calm, until I hear him murmur, "Oh, no." And I pull away, immediately.

"What?" I'm not shaking anymore. Where's my bow? Close to the flowers, along with my quiver and my spilled arrows. I check Carl again, and his eyes are on the wall behind me, and then just on me. His flinch tells me he didn't think through saying anything, but it's too late. I twist around and search the wall.

It takes me a bit. The painted-white siding has seen better days, it has a thousand different chips and scars and splinters, so what's gotten Carl on edge hides from me at first. But not for too long.

On a panel that would be about eye-level for Carl if he stood, there's a simple carving. Writing on the wall.

YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS.

A message of fire, but it makes me cold.