Chapter 11


"Clear?"

"Clear."

Anna bit the index finger of her leather gloves, yanking it off in a swift movement while reaching into the back pocket of her jeans for the map. He came up behind her, glancing around once more in case a walker was trying to sneak up on them. The small street was deserted.

"Old River Road…" she drawled thoughtfully, squinting at the web of thin lines. "It's…hmm."

After several minutes of contemplative silence, Daryl snapped, "Take your goddamn time."

But when he reached for the map, she ducked out of his swipe with ease and asked, curiously, "Why is every fucking road in this state called Old Mountain Road or Old River Road? Are there also roads called Young Fjord or something?"

"The fuck's a fjord?"

Ignoring the question, she made a triumphant sound and said, "Here we go. Old River Road." She furrowed her brow. "Where'd we park again?"

"Lake Everett." When he pointed at the map this time, she didn't step away. "We've probably gone…four miles, west. If we stay on this river—" he dragged a dirty finger over the blue line that ran parallel to their road. "—we're bound to see plenty of game."

"If they're not all frozen solid," she muttered, quickly slipping her glove back onto her hand, to minimize the amount of time that her bare skin was exposed to the frigid air.

It had become much colder in the last week. In fact, the morning before, when they went out to patrol the perimeter after the first night in their new base, the trees dripped icy beads and the edges of the lake froze into floating sheets. Cassie, Carl, and Beth spent the entire morning poking holes through the ice with sticks and sending off chunks of it towards the center of the lake. And after they finished their morning chores, Glenn and T-Dog came over to join in the fun.

In an idiotic attempt to make the kids laugh, T-Dog pretended to step on the ice, complete with exaggerated arm flailing and appropriate 'woah-ing'.

"Uh," Glenn warned quickly, throwing out his hand to stop him. "What are you—"

"Chill out," he replied and Cassie's eye roll was so exaggerated that Daryl was pretty sure it could've been seen from space. "I'm not gonna actually step on—"

Unfortunately, T-Dog didn't realize that the banks were very muddy. When he turned to talk to Glenn, his foot slipped, and he made a sound that could best be described as Rosie O'Donnell being kicked by a donkey before plunging face first into the lake.

On the plus side, he did manage to amuse the kids, which had been his initial intention.

"T-That's some c-c-cold water," he stuttered good-naturedly as Carol and Beth fussed over him inside, wrapping him in blankets and bringing him hot tea. Carl and Glenn were crimson from trying to suppress their laughter as Cassie stood on a chair and recited the entry for hypothermia out of an encyclopedia.

In not so many words, Daryl was glad to be getting away for a few days, even if the weather was miserable. Later that same day, Rick had told him that the resort was secure enough that he could take a multiple day hunting trip. He'd jumped on the opportunity immediately, though Anna's presence did dampen his spirits.

"We should split up to cover more ground," Anna's voice brought him back to the present; the wet, miserable present.

Daryl was hesitant, but didn't protest. If he could reduce the number of hours with Anna, then he would. Besides, he hunted better alone. "How 'bout you go southeast and I'll go southwest?"

"Fine." She pulled up her sleeve to press a few buttons on her watch and said, "We'll meet back here in four hours, that good?"

He'd borrowed Maggie's new watch before they left that morning and it was too short to fit on his wrist, so he had it stuffed into his pocket. He pulled it out and fumbled with the buttons. Wordlessly, Anna took it, started the stopwatch, and handed it back.

She was oddly docile today. Her eyes were unfocused, like she was dreaming with eyes wide open. It was a bit alarming; so much so that Daryl questioned the wisdom of their plan. He wasn't sure if she should be wandering around by herself.

He frowned at her. "You alright?"

This was the wrong question to ask. "I'm fine," she snapped and her words hung as cold as the cloud of her breath. "I just don't want to spend any more time with you than I have to."

He rolled his eyes and silently admitted that she was an expert at deflection. Whatever, he thought, as long as she doesn't get me killed because of her problems. He took out his knife and cut into a nearby tree.

"'X' marks the spot," he said, tapping the mark on the tree with his knuckle. "Four hours," he repeated.

She nodded. "Four hours," she replied and, without another word, she was gone.

Daryl wasn't sure if he wanted it to be the last time he ever saw Anna. He contemplated the dark thought for only a moment before he set off on his own.

He had been hunting in this part of Georgia only once. He'd grown up in the mountains, so he never saw the merit of driving a few hours for a hunt. As he began tracking a set of fresh deer tracks, he regretted not coming out here more often.

Not because he thought it was beautiful, though, because it wasn't. Winter was beginning to creep into the mountains; as a result, the trees were no longer lush and green. While it was easier for Daryl to find squirrels on bare branches, he did find the landscape a bit disheartening. At least in the summertime, something was alive. Now the trees were as dead as the people.

But in the first half an hour he spent with his eyes glued to the forest floor, he managed to kill two squirrels and one plump pigeon. As he removed his bolt from the bird's head, he found himself grinning, for the first time in a long time.

His excitement about his successful hunt was only surpassed by the revelation that he was alone. Sure, somewhere Anna was skulking around with her own bow, but she was miles away. It'd been a long time since he'd felt this alone and he'd forgotten how calming it really was. Sometimes, he could convince himself that he didn't mind being around others 24/7, but as he strutted around now, his only company a few frozen walkers, he remembered that this was what he truly enjoyed.

No T-Dog trying to get him to join in pointless conversations, no kids getting into his stuff—because damn it, he knew Carl had stolen his gun; he just hadn't caught him with it yet—no talking, no drama. Just him and the forest.

He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the sound of running water right beneath his feet, under the bridge he found himself on. He took a moment to glance over the railing. The water was deep and he knew that falling in would be a bad idea. He shook his head, thinking of T-Dog and how hard he'd shivered after they fished him out of the lake, and continued on, off the road again and into the trees. He stayed close to the river, just close enough that he could hear it playing in his periphery.

By the end of the first hour, the fog had lifted enough so he could see a hundred feet in front of him. The muscles in his shoulders relaxed as he gained more visibility. He could see the walkers collapsed against trees, unable to move in the frigid cold. When he approached them to put his blade through their heads, their eyes watched him and their arms stayed frozen to their sides.

Winter wasn't looking so bad now. He wiped his knife clean of gore against the dead man's ripped-up jeans before continuing on. When they had to worry about getting eaten as well as food and shelter, survival seemed impossible. But if they only had to focus on two of those things, then maybe they had a chance.

He thought he spotted something out of the corner of his eye, unmoving in the mist. He abandoned some muddied tracks, pinning his red handkerchief to a tree so that he wouldn't lose his place, and crept away from the river to investigate.

A hunting cabin, no bigger than the one they found a month before, when Anna and Cassie had first joined them. In fact, Daryl had to remind himself that it was not the same place—they were in a completely different county, for Christ's sake— because the similarities were so numerous.

Of course, hunting cabins were a dime a dozen in Georgia, especially in the mountains. And hunters weren't exactly known for their interior decorating, either. When he pressed the front door open with his boot, his crossbow nocked and loaded, he was unsurprised to find nearly the same layout as every other fucking hunting cabin he'd ever seen ever.

He whistled lowly, half in awe and half in warning. A walker turned around at the sound, lurching forward with bloody nails. He easily dispatched it.

"Nice place, hoss," he sneered at the corpse, his eyes appraising the clearly discounted floral curtains and the mounted deer head over the fireplace.

The dead man had nothing to say in his defense, so Daryl took the cabin for his own. As he dragged the body of the previous owner out into the woods, he scanned the small clearing. There was a pecan tree devoid of nuts and leaves and an outhouse, but nothing else. He spent a couple of minutes checking around the area for more walkers and found none.

"Good place to hole up, if I gotta," he informed a nearby squirrel. It blinked and nibbled on a pecan. He shot it.

Once he deemed the place safe for shelter, he went back to the deer tracks, stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket, and marked the location of the cabin on his mental map. He would bring it up with Anna when they met back across the river in a few hours; it'd be a better place to set up base than Lake Everett, that was for sure. Everett was only a couple miles from the nearest town, so any big game would've learned to stay away from it.

The deer he was tracking was a buck—a big one by the looks of it. He crouched down, running his fingers across the hoof. Dirt clung to his finger when he pulled it away. Damp. It drizzled early that morning, only for a few minutes. He put the buck a few hours ahead of him.

He winced. It wouldn't be enough time to take it down, hang it up out of reach. Daryl sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, forgetting the dirt on his fingers and then not caring when it trickled down the back of his shirt. They had running water back at Lake Harrison, so he cared even less than he usually did about his hygiene.

He had gone about a mile south when there was a snap! He jumped to his feet, pulling his crossbow up to his eye so fast that he almost smacked himself in the face with it.

Maybe he'd lucked out with his buck. It could've doubled back up north. He didn't know why it would, but then he wasn't a deer. He laid his finger over the trigger, slowly exhaling and stepping forward. After the first twig snap, there wasn't another sound. Daryl didn't lower his bow. He took another tentative step forward.

Suddenly, someone was in front of him, an arrow nocked in their bow, pointing straight at his head. It was Anna.

"Woah, woah—Jesus," he exclaimed, nearly throwing his crossbow at her in a fit of rage. "What the fuck? The hell are you doin' over here?"

"What are you talking about?" she snapped back, lowering her bow. "You're in my area."

"No," he said slowly. "We agreed; I go west, you go east."

"I am east."

He stared at her for a long time, but she didn't seem to see the problem. He would've like to scream at her, but they could've been surrounded by a herd in this mist. Instead, he tried a different tactic. "You cross the river to get here?" She nodded as he pulled out the map, jabbing his finger at roughly where they started. "You gotta go west to cross the river. You're in the wrong place, girl."

Anna took his map, turning away from him to analyze it. He couldn't see her face, but he hoped she had some decency to look ashamed for fucking up so badly, and then blaming him for it.

She did. When she turned around to pass the map back to him, she murmured, "Sorry."

As surprising as it was to hear it, her apology was not enough. "Nah, it was my fault. Shoulda made sure you knew east from west, 'cause apparently you need a little help on that front!"

She closed her eyes and sighed, but said nothing in defense of herself. For some reason, this only frustrated him more. "You ain't got nothin' to say?"

"What do you want me to say?" she asked calmly.

"You tell me!" he said. "But so far, you've been all talk and no action. Hell, you know what? No action would be better than gettin' lost in the woods!"

When it was clear she really had nothing to say, he snarled, "Fuckin' crazy bitch," and walked away from her. He hoped she take the hint and leave him alone, though there was a part of him that was itching for a good fight.

So he was equal parts surprised and thrilled when she spoke up, softly, dangerously. "Excuse me?"

Here we go. Daryl tried not to smile as he turned back to her. "I said, 'Fuckin'. Crazy. Bitch.'" He spat each word harshly, enjoying her flinch much more than a good man should have.

But no matter what Carol said, Daryl wasn't a good man.

Her face went eerily blank. It was an expression he only ever saw on Rick's face. "Don't call me that," she said quietly.

"Don't call you a bitch? Or don't call you crazy?"

"Don't," she gritted her teeth and he was taken aback by the amount of bare-faced anger he saw now. No less pleased, but still taken aback. "Don't call me crazy. You can say anything you want about me, but don't call me crazy."

He quirked a brow. Nothing seemed to phase Anna—by contrast, he had vivid memories of Andrea getting very uppity with him when he would mutter 'bitch' under his breath—but Anna had never objected to the word. No, Anna didn't get offended easily at all. It was infuriating to be angry with someone who simply couldn't care less.

Of all the repulsive words he'd called her, she took offense to the most inoffensive.

Whatever, he thought and diverted the topic back to why she didn't seem to be able to function like a normal human being. "The fuck's up with you anyhow?" he asked, filing his curiosity away for later, when he had time to meditate on it.

The anger left her face as she laughed, though it was still a scathing sound. "I'm extremely drunk," she declared.

He shook his head. "Nah, you're sleep-deprived. When was the last time you slept?"

"Last night," she replied immediately.

"Liar." He gestured under his eyes and sneered, "Try wearin' sunglasses; covers up the dark circles."

She was no longer listening. As she began to walk away, she called over her shoulder, "I'll remember that next time."

And they were all the way back to flippant dismissals. He contemplated calling her insane just to get a reaction. Instead, he made an annoyed sound in his throat and half-jogged after her. "I ain't done yet," he snarled, grabbing hold of her elbow and jerking her back around.

"Oh, Daryl," she purred. "I love when you get all assertive like that."

"No," he snapped. He was sick of letting her pull that stunt. He jabbed his index finger at her. "Don't try that shit with me, 'cause it ain't gonna work. How stupid do you think I am?"

"Spectacularly." She was not so tired that she couldn't insult him with a cheeky smirk, one that would've made Cassie proud. "Almost inspiringly."

"You shouldn't've even come out here," he seethed, ignoring her insults. "I don't give half a shit about if you're gettin' enough sleep, but you're supposed to be watching my back! I ain't gonna die 'cause you're tired."

"No, you're gonna die because you're stupid," she shot back. "You really don't need my help with that."

"Why didn't you take those pills Hershel gave you?" he asked suddenly. She opened and closed her mouth. No one else had noticed it, but Daryl had seen Hershel two nights ago, a bottle of Xanax in his hand. It didn't take a genius to know that when she tearfully excused herself to use the bathroom, she'd flushed the pills. "You ain't sleepin'; everybody knows it."

"No, they don't."

He rolled his eyes and amended, "Everybody with eyes knows it." That excluded Lori, T-Dog, and, surprisingly, Glenn. "You're gonna get yourself killed. Or someone else killed."

His ominous tone had no effect on her. "You sound like Hershel."

"I'll take that as a compliment." It was actually the nicest thing she'd ever said to him, though that was really saying nothing at all.

"Yes, I also like to be compared to Old McDonald."

"Listen, bitch," he snarled. Every word out of her mouth was either a lie or an insult and he'd had enough. He didn't understand how she could be so insufferable to him and then turn around and be downright indulgent to Cassie, but she could. And damn it if he wasn't going to make her stop. "I've had it up to fuckin' here with your shit—"

"Alright, I'm sorry," she said, holding up her hands in surrender, one awkwardly holding her bow and the other touting an arrow. "I know I tend to mouth off, but it's because I don't really know how to talk to people. Being sarcastic is the only way I can communicate."

For a second, he was amazed. She was genuine, by the look on her face. The corners of her mouth pointed down and she bit her lip. It was an expression he'd seen before, ripped straight from Cassie's sly little face.

The kid learned from the best. The lying, conniving best.

He snapped out of his moment of sympathy. "Is every word out of your mouth a goddamn lie?"

The outrage on her face was short-lived. She shrugged lazily. "I dunno, but you're getting better at this. Soon enough, you'll tell me."

As she turned her back on him, he mimed strangling her. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as he imagined the real thing being, but damn if it didn't release some of his pure hatred into the cold air.

"Are we hunting or what, Dixon?"

"We were," he snapped, running to catch up with her. The sound of the river grew louder and the dirt became muddier. "Until you fucked up and went the complete wrong way."

Instead of mouthing off again, she hopped up onto a packed dirt ledge above the rushing water. She peered at the freezing water and narrowed her eyes. If she was even remotely in her right mind, she would've recognized the recklessness of this.

"D'you think we could catch fish?" she asked absently. He glanced around nervously. He was the only one paying any attention to their surroundings. He was suddenly very aware of how he'd left her alone to hunt while she was clearly exhausted and confused.

And yet he'd known she wasn't right when they split up. Was he so sick that some part of him wanted to see her dead?

"D'you know how to fish?" he asked her sarcastically, because anyone who knew the least bit about fishing knew that this was neither the time nor the place to catch any substantial fish.

"It's not that hard, is it? You just throw a line in, wait seventy hours until something bites?"

"So, you don't." He was starting to get nervous by how far she was leaning over the water. "You're gonna fall in if you don't step back."

"I can swim," she said distantly. "Don't worry about me, dear."

Her condescension was too much to bear. He was only human; he could only take so much in such a compressed space of time. "Fine," he said, spitting into the mud and whirled around to stalk back into the brush. "You can fuckin' die; no one's gonna give a shit, you know."

As he went, he thought he heard her mumble something under her breath, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Because Daryl may not have been a good man, but at least he was an honest one.

Damn it. He rubbed his forehead and sighed. He tried to be good. For Carol and Carl and definitely for Rick, who was good even when he thought he was cruel. Good people didn't abandon their group, no matter how shitty they were. Rick had gone back for a shithead like Merle, who was essentially Anna on crystal meth.

When he glanced over his shoulder to order her over, feeling surprisingly charitable for doing so, he caught sight of the walker creeping up behind her.

"Anna!" he shouted, but his warning came too late. She whipped around just in time to see the lumbering corpse lunge at her, lipless mouth wide open, rheumy eyes fixed on the junction of her neck and her shoulder. She jerked back, throwing her gloved hands up to catch it by the neck.

Unfortunately, the ground beneath her feet was slippery and she tumbled backwards, off of the ledge and into the rushing water, the walker still clutching onto her arms. He blinked and she was gone. He stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot in complete shock before it hit him.

"Shit," he exclaimed to no one, and took off down the bank, keeping parallel to where she was flailing downstream. "Hold on!" he shouted to her, though she wouldn't hear anything but water.

She said she could swim, but it didn't really matter, he realized quickly. The water was too deep and too quick for even a strong swimmer to fight against. Besides that, it was freezing. She'd be lucky to be moving, frankly.

The walker that surprised her into the water had been swept away quickly, at least. It wasn't fighting to grab hold of the riverbed or roots as they flew by. Anna desperately reached out as she passed, but never caught hold for long.

Jumping in after her was about the stupidest thing he could imagine doing, but as the rapids showed no sign of relenting, he started to become desperate. But if he jumped in after her, there was no reason that he wouldn't get swept up as well. Daryl kept running.

Finally, five minutes after she'd fallen into the river, he stumbled on a section of calm water. Anna hadn't floated through yet. He threw his bow onto the bank before thrashing through the shallow water, positioning himself to catch her. In just a few seconds in the shin-deep water, he felt the cold seep into his bones. When he caught her, she'd be cold at best, hypothermic at worst.

His worst fears were confirmed when she washed right into the net of his arms. "You're alright, I gotcha," he murmured in her ear as he tried to prop her up with extreme difficulty. She was shivering so hard that—for one brief, terrifying moment— he thought she was having a seizure.

After several failed attempts of walking her back to the bank—her knees kept buckling under her—he hitched one arm under her wet jeans and the other around her back and lifted her up in his arms. With all of her clothes soaked through, she probably weighed twice as much as usual.

On the muddy bank, he tried to set her down again. But she was not having it; she sank to her knees, trembling violently and reaching around him, towards the river. "M-m-m—"

"Shut up," he said as softly as he could. She might've shaken her head at him, but he couldn't tell. Her entire body shook. "C'mon, I know a place, alright?" He thought of the cabin he'd found and was glad that he could remember where it was. "We gotta warm you up."

"M-m-m-m—"

"Can you walk?" He knew the answer to that; still, he hoped she could try to pull it together so he didn't have to carry her a mile back to the cabin.

"B-b-b—"

"Put your arm over my shoulder," he ordered, doing it for her and standing shakily, trying his best to ignore how violently she shook against him. Is that normal? He didn't fucking know. He tried to remember what Cassie had read out of the encyclopedia, but he'd only been half listening.

When T had fallen into the lake, he hadn't shaken nearly so much. Of course, he was in the water for a few seconds at most. He only knew one thing.

She needed to warm up, now.

He hung his crossbow across his chest and hoisted her up onto his back in a haphazard piggyback. He grunted as her soaked clothes began to seep into his jacket. Her head knocked against his when he adjusted his grip on her legs.

"Hey." There was no answer. He squeezed her arm around his neck. "Don't fall asleep."

She blinked and it was easy to convince himself that his shivering was from the cold, not from the feel of her eyelashes against his neck.

It took him a lot longer to get back to the cabin than it had taken to meet leave it, partly because of the weight on his back and partly because he was growing cold himself. By the time he spotted the cabin, he was nearly as soaked through as she was, in an uncomfortable combination of sweat and river water. He almost dropped her as he stumbled through the door, kicking it shut behind him, before he propped her up against the wall.

"Shit," he hissed through gritted teeth, breathing hot air into his cupped hands to warm up. Anna said nothing. When he glanced at her, he realized she'd passed out again. "Shit."

Crouching down in wet jeans was one of the most uncomfortable sensations, he soon realized. But he had to do it so he could grab her chin and shake her shoulder with a cold hand.

"Wake up." As usual, she disobeyed him. He put his hand against her pulse, sighing in relief when he felt it pumping weakly. At least she was alive.

He slapped her across the face and this time, she groaned. "What?"

"You alive?"

She nodded.

She was in bad shape. He knew this because if she'd been at all like herself, she would've rolled her eyes at his stupid question. Instead, she frowned and began shivering again. She mumbled, "D-Daryl."

"I gotta start a fire, alright?" He didn't know why he was telling her. Maybe he was reminding himself. Even his head felt cold by now.

She grabbed his sleeve before he could stand up. "M-my b-bow," she whispered, sniffling. "I l-lost my b-b-bow an-and all m-my arrows."

He hadn't even noticed. He'd been pretty distracted by the general iciness and water in every crevice of his clothing, though, so he forgave himself quickly.

"We'll worry 'bout that later, okay?"

Anna shook her head and tightened her pathetic grip. "If we l-look now, we-we'll have a better ch-chance of finding it."

Are you kidding me? He almost laughed. Her priorities were so damn skewed. At least something about her was holding steady. "We need to warm up. I ain't goin' out there again 'til my clothes are dry and you can't even move. So don't worry about your damn bow."

She made a whining sound and convulsed again. "C-Cold," she muttered through blue lips.

"Yeah, I know," he said distractedly, glancing around for things to keep her warm.

There was already a cord of wood sitting beside the fireplace. At least he didn't have to chop it up, he was relieved for that. He found a few one dollar bills in the dresser that he used to start the fire with a Bic lighter. It took some time for the flames to begin licking at the wood—he suspected that the fireplace had been damp from the rain—but it was soon roaring.

Now came the uncomfortable part.

Anna could not stay in those wet clothes. Frankly, he couldn't stay in his either. He knew he should have removed her clothes first, before lighting a fire, but he'd been putting it off. There was a bed that he could lay her on and a few minutes of scrounging around found thick blankets in the closet. As he stood dripping on the dusty wooden floor, he asked her, hopefully, "Can you undress yourself?"

When she didn't answer, he turned to look at her. She was unconscious again. Damn it. He checked her pulse in case she'd bitten it. If that was the case, then at least he wouldn't have to strip her.

Still beating. Damn it. He couldn't put it off any longer.

She wore an absurd amount of layers, he quickly discovered. It was like playing with Russian nesting dolls; her black raincoat was first, a thick army green coat was next, then a button-down plaid shirt followed by a thin white shirt. He was actually surprised when he found her skin underneath a tight black shirt. Surprised and embarrassed.

His face was so cold that blushing actually felt nice. Still, he averted his eyes away from her naked torso and silently decided that he didn't give a shit if her bra and panties were soaked—he was leaving those on.

Removing her lower layers was much harder and required more creative swearing, but half an hour later she was tucked under four layers of blankets, shivering in her sleep. He wished Hershel was here to tell him what to do. Was it normal to pass out if you were cold? Or was it just because she was exhausted?

He waved his hand over her eyes to make sure she was actually asleep before he removed his own clothes. The cold air prickled at his skin as he laid his vest on the floor in front of the fire. He grabbed one of the blankets off of Anna's motionless body, draped it across his bare shoulders, and pulled up a chair before the fire. He watched her breathe out of the corner of his eye, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. He really didn't want her to die, he realized.

He was glad for discovering it, even if it was after telling her no one would care if that happened. Daryl winced at the memory. She hadn't really reacted to his harsh words, but he still regretted saying it. Good men didn't say shit like that.

Even in his recent state, he doubted Rick would've said what Daryl had.

He tried to convince himself that if he'd really wanted to be harsh, he would've called her crazy again. Hell, he was practically merciful for restraining himself, considering the way she'd reacted the first time. What had she associated the word with that made her so sensitive to it?

There'd been a strange incident when they left Jasper that he thought of then, for whatever reason.

She turned her head towards the town, curiosity in her gaze. It took him a moment to realize that she wasn't right behind him. He whistled softly to grab her attention again. Her head remained perfectly still, though the veins in her neck jutted out in their tension.

"What're you doin'?" he asked.

She held up a hand to him. "Didn't you hear that?" she said, gazing through the tree line. He followed her gaze and found nothing but trees.

"It's nothin'," he reassured her. That wasn't true; whatever she'd heard was probably a walker or maybe a squirrel. He clarified, "Nothin' more'n we can handle. C'mon, we gotta go."

"I heard something," she snapped coldly, meeting his stare with eyes huge.

"I didn't hear anythin'," he replied, just as icily. And for whatever reason, the anger dropped from her face and revealed a flash of utter terror in her eyes. It was there so briefly that he might have imagined it, before she was stoic again.

Oh. That's why she'd been so terrified back at Jasper when he told her that he heard nothing.

She was afraid that what she'd heard was in her head. She was afraid she was going insane.

It was an oddly specific fear. Glenn was afraid of insects—Daryl had learned this fairly quickly when he started hyperventilating after spotting a juicy bug crawling up his pant leg—and they were all afraid of walkers, but those were rational fears. They were grounded in reality.

What was her reality that she was afraid for her sanity?

He tightened his grip on the coverlet and looked at the girl under the covers. She was so small, barely taller than Cassie and even shorter than Carl. It was easy to think of her as a child, especially when she was lying there, pale and small. And when they underestimated her like that, it was too easy to forget that she had never a word about herself.

When she woke up, he was going to get answers. They'd gone too long without them.


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