The alternative route would take them at least six more hours of travel before they reach Hilltop. A way back home through secondary roads that would help them to avoid large and small cities, and hopefully, a new meeting with the saviors. Having in mind those extra hours, the two of them had agreed to make a stop to rest and hide, during the night. That way they also would ensure no one was following them.

A couple of hours before sunset, when the shadows become larger and the light changes to an orange tone, they spotted a small and lonely farm, located on top of a hill. They had to divert from the road they were following, but they thought this could be a good place to hunker down for the night hours.

The farm had a wooden fence surrounding the whole area. They parked the car between the home, a narrow house, with two floors and a small porch at the entrance, and the barn. Then they got out to take a look around. They walked carefully among the neglected grass that had grown out of control. They knew they should be careful, because sometimes it was hard to guess what might be hidden under that green blanket.

"Look at that," Daryl said, suddenly.

The archer had pointed at a bulge, a few meters away from them, half hidden in the grass. The persistent buzz of flies flitting all around it, and the intense smell, made it clear that it was a corpse. The two men approached it cautiously, and discovered the remains of bones and rotten and dried meat, of a horse. They had barely time to feel sorry for the poor animal, as they soon heard the sharp cries of walkers. There were three, and came out from behind the barn. Paul stepped forward, ready to finish them off, but Daryl grabbed his arm to stop him.

"Let me do it," he said, without looking away from the three beings approaching them with slow and awkward steps.

Paul looked at the archer, ready to protest, but he immediately understood what he was trying to do. He guessed that Daryl's mind was put in the inevitable incoming war, which was, otherwise, completely understandable, and it was obvious to him that the archer was aware that he still was not in the best physical conditions to fight. He needed to feel the confidence he'd had weeks ago. He needed to feel useful, again. Paul was no fool, he knew Daryl was a very important value for them in this struggle, but he also knew it was necessary for the archer to understand that, despite the injuries, he still was the same person as he was before. So Paul stepped back, letting the other man do the job, and kill walkers.

Daryl took a deep breath and pulled out the knife he had picked up in Alexandria, holding it with his right hand. Paul watched him closely, and he couldn't help but draw one of his own knives, just in case, he told himself. The archer watched the three walkers, two men and a woman, for a few seconds. Then he placed his left hand on his injured shoulder, as if he needed to make sure everything was in place, and pressed his other hand around the knife's handle even harder. From where he stood, Paul could see how his knuckles turned white by the pressure he was exerting. Daryl then raised his arm slightly, and closed his eyes. He was hesitating, the scout could tell he wasn't sure, and the walkers were getting closer to him, with their piercing howls rending the air with more intensity with each passing second. Paul wanted to approach him and help him, but he knew it was better to let him take control of the situation.

The archer opened his eyes again and stepped back, like he hadn't realized the walkers were just a few feet from where he was standing. He sighed deeply, and finally changed the knife to the other hand, and brandished it over their heads, ending their lives.

Paul watched Daryl from a distance, the archer stood motionless, looking the three bodies with concern. Despite having been able to kill them without much difficulty, his breathing had quickened, and his muscles had tensed.

"Does it hurt you?" Paul asked.

Daryl shook his head, "No, no," he said in his hoarse voice,"just afraid the pain might flare up again, and seize up like it did back in the rice factory."

"You'll get better, Daryl" Paul said gently, approaching him. "I'm sure that as soon as we get back to Hilltop, Harlan will remove the stitches, and Alex can help you with your rehabilitation."

The archer let out a slight laugh. "No fuckin' way, he's not getting near me; that man hates me."

Paul smiled slightly, "let's take look at the barn."

Daryl turned to face him, then nodded. Then the two walked over the sliding entrance doors of the barn, each standing at both ends, with their weapons ready to defend themselves if necessary. Paul nodded to the archer, and then hit the red wooden doors. They waited, as they had done on so many occasions, waiting for that familiar sound, but there was only silence. They both looked at each other, and the scout made a gesture with his head again, indicating that it was the moment to open the doors. Each grabbed one of the handles, and slid the tall blades sideways. The intense stench coming from inside, hit them like an invisible punch, a mixture of musty smell, cattle, feces and death.

"Fuck!" Paul quickly covered his face with the bandana hanging from his neck.

What they saw when they came in was heartbreaking. The livestock dead in their pens. Goats, cows and horses, consumed by hunger, were now lying as desiccated mummies. Paul took a deep breath through the cloth covering his face, and thought about the fear and bewilderment those poor animals may have suffered, as they waited, unknowingly, a inevitable death.

"You're good?"

Paul didn't realize he had been standing in the middle of the barn, looking around, sadness in his eyes. "Yeah—guess this is a good place to hide the car," he said, and then went outside.

After hiding the 4x4, they went to check the house. First they knocked the door, just like they had done in the barn, and after waiting and not hearing anything, they entered. There was not much to see there, though. Right in front of the entrance was a stairway leading upstairs, and at first sight they could see three rooms on the ground floor, to the right was the kitchen, in front of it and to the left, was the living room, in the hallway was a bathroom, and at the back was another door leading to what they thought may be the basement.

"Take a look around here, I'll look upstairs," Paul said.

The scout left Daryl to inspect the ground floor, and headed upstairs. The first thing he found was the bathroom; it was not very big but had enough space for a good-sized bath. He cast an eye to the medicine cabinet, hidden behind the mirror, and found some medicine bottles, razors and worn toothbrushes. When he left the bathroom, went straight to the room to the left. It looked like it had belonged to a girl, the walls were covered with pink striped wallpaper, and over the flowered bedspread, there were a few stacked dolls. He walked past a small desk and looked at the books. Then he went to the small cabinet beside the window, and opened it. All her clothes were there, dresses, shirts and pants. He deduced that the girl would have been around ten or eleven years old, and wished that her absence just meant that she had managed to escape and take shelter in a better place.

After leaving the girl's room, he went down the hall to the main room of the house. Just as he entered he saw the bed, not too big for a double bed. He then walked toward the dresser; there were some framed photographs. He grabbed one of them, an old photograph, and met with the glances and smiles from those who once had lived in that house. In the picture were a woman, with her hair up in a bun and a long print dress, and a man, tall, long hair and thick mustache. He was wearing a plaid shirt and bell-bottoms trousers. He put that picture down and took another one, and met with the big blue eyes of a young girl. He was right, she was about eleven, and she had long straight black hair that fell to her hips. Paul left the picture back on the dresser, and walked over to the closet and yanked it open, taking a look at the clothes, as he listened to Daryl's heavy footsteps coming up the stairs.

"Nothing down there," he said, as he peered through the door. "What are you doing?"

"We could take the clothes, they would suit someone. Look, this is perfect for you," he said pulling out a flannel shirt with the ugliest check print he had ever seen.

"Fuck you."

Paul smiled, because despite his words, not even Daryl bothered to pretend he was offended.

"I'm gonna take a look down at the basement," Paul said, "do you want to go to the car and get the backpack?"

The two men went back to the main floor, and while Daryl went out to get the backpack and food, Paul went to the basement. The access stairs were narrow and steep, and there was little light, so he reached for the small flashlight he used to carry in the car. An unusual coldness besieged him as he came down, he also noticed a strange smell, but he could barely stand to think about it, because what he saw there left him completely speechless. Amid the basement were several aligned shelves full of food, but this was not just a simple pantry, this was the storeroom of a deranged mind waiting, helplessly, for some kind of global crisis. The selves were filled with canned food stacked carefully, countless packs of sanitary equipment, batteries, gasoline cans, tools of all kinds, drinks… there were even gas masks.

"What the fu–"

Then something happened, too fast for the scout to saw it coming. First there was a cry, but not a human cry, and then something grabbed him from behind. Paul released himself as quickly as he could, scared, and turned away crashing into one of the shelves. In a dark corner he saw coming out a walker, stretching his arms forward, like an animal, pouncing at him until he couldn't move further, like something was restraining him. Paul looked at him as he tried to calm down and catch his breath back. He noticed that the being had a rope around his neck. He realized, the walker was bobbing in the air, trying to grab him desperately, and get out the trap, he got himself into. Then Paul looked at his face, the long hair and the hairs that still framed his upper lip. He was the owner of the house; he had no doubt about it. Paul took a deep breath, and without waiting any more seconds, stabbed his sharp knife into his skull, filling the basement with a sudden and deafening silence.

"What happened?"

Paul jumped as soon as he heard Daryl's voice behind him, "Fuck! Didn't hear you coming—he appeared out of nowhere," he said, still with a broken voice.

The archer watched the man, "it's ironic, right? You came here lookin' for death and this is what you find."

"Yeah… anyway. Look at this," he said pointing to the shelves, "this man had to suffer some kind of survivalist obsession."

"No shit—either that, or he knew somethin' the rest of us didn't," Daryl said, looking at the shelves, full of supplies. "He must've spent years storin' all this."

"Well, I guess we should be thankful for his madness."

Once back upstairs, Daryl informed Paul the house had a gas stove, so after finding a pan clean enough to heat up the food Aaron had given them, Paul stirred the pasta in the fire, as Daryl looked for some dishes and candles to illuminate their rudimentary dinner, and Paul suddenly remembered all those times he had cooked for Benjamin, when he was home.

"That smells good," he heard Ben's voice behind him.

Paul turned to greet him, a smile on his face, and he offered Ben the spoon to try a little, when he approached him.

"Mmm… tastes even better than it smells, what is it?"

"A recipe I saw on TV this morning."

"You watch too much television when you're home…" Ben said, as he gently tucked a piece of hair behind Paul's ear.

"I have to do something, so I don't spend my time missing you."

"Ha! Go sell that fallacy to someone who doesn't know you, Monroe."

The two men laughed with complicity, and Paul leaned slightly to lay his lips on Ben's.

"It's burning," a strange voice said, suddenly.

"Huh?"

"The food's burnin'."

Daryl's voice broke into his thoughts, returning him abruptly to reality, and Paul watched, with confusion reflected in every little wrinkle of his face, as the archer took the pan off his hands and the fire.

"What's wrong man?" Daryl asked with a frown.

"Sorry…" Paul said, and then left the kitchen, looking for some fresh air, as felt the archer's eyes fixed on him.

"It was delicious," Benjamin said as he wiped his mouth. "I'll let you watch all the TV you want, if you keep cooking like this."

"That doesn't sound self-interested at all…"

Ben offered him a funny face, and then rose from the table to pick up the dishes. "I'm gonna feed Emmes—do you want dessert?" he asked.

But the ringing of Paul's work phone interrupted the conversation. Ben turned to offer him a quizzical look.

"No, not now, Paul."

"It may be urgent."

"Paul, you're a pharmaceutical sales rep, what may be so important, at exactly…" he said looking at his watch "twenty-three past nine, that can't wait till the morning."

Paul shrugged off Ben's frustration, who left the living room with a grunt, and went to the kitchen. Meanwhile Paul answered the persistent call that made the phone vibrate with an irritating buzz. The conversation was short, and Paul simply said hello, listened to whatever he was being told and hung up.

"When?" Ben asked, standing by the doorway.

"First thing tomorrow."

"Fuck…"

"Ben–"

"You came back two days ago."

"I know, but it'll only be a week, it's–"

"It was gonna be a week the last time, and you were out for a month!"

"Listen–"

"No, dammit! Paul, I'm tired! Sometimes it looks like you work for the fucking FBI instead of a pharmaceutical company."

"You know how this goes, the companies work on new formulas, and are very strict with their confidentiality agreements."

"And the conventions? My partner Barbara, her husband is a doctor and she accompanies him to all conventions. You haven't fucking asked me once!"

"Come on Ben, they're boring…"

"Do they know you're gay?"

"What?"

"It's because you're ashamed to be seen with your boyfriend."

"Ben that's bullshit! You know that's not true—why are you telling me this now?"

"Because I don't understand it, Paul. I try to look the other way, but don't think just because I turn a blind eye, I don't see there's something you're not telling me."

Paul approached Benjamin and placed his hands over his face, "a week, okay? Just a week, and I'll ask them for holidays. They own me."

Benjamin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Okay… I'll pretend I believe you. But you're sleeping on the couch, tonight."

"You gonna make my brain explode if you keep talking," Daryl said after taking a great portion of pasta into his mouth.

Paul looked up from his plate, distracted, "thought you hated my lectures."

"As much as Rick's bad musical taste, but we're straight into a war, and not hearing your noisy voice, worries me a little."

"I'm just tired."

"Yeah—gonna pretend I believe you," he said, then he got up from the table.

For a second Paul felt his heart cringed in his chest, "what did you say?"

"Whatever, man."

A while later the two men were in the living room, Daryl lying on the couch, with a beer in hand, he had taken from a pack he found in the tiny kitchen's pantry, while Paul cast a glance at the vinyls stacked on a shelf next to the TV cabinet. They had covered all the windows in the room with some blankets, with the intention of leaving on one of the candles to light, albeit timidly, the small room.

"Supertramp, Dire Straits, Pink Floyd… Wow, this guy has a great collection. You like any of this?"

"Huh?" Daryl answered, like he hadn't been listening.

"You complained about Rick's musical taste, what do you like?"

He shrugged "I don't listen to music."

"Come on! Everyone listens to music, or at least we used to."

"Not me."

"Really? You didn't have any favorite band?"

"Nah."

"Damn, you're boring," Paul said, pushing the archer's legs aside and sitting on the other end of the couch, as he fixed his gaze over the beer Daryl was taking to his lips.

"Sorry, there was only one, and you drive."

"So generous…"

Daryl made a face, but immediately afterwards he moved a hand, and from one side of the sofa he took a can of beer and threw it to the scout. Paul caught it in the air, but when he opened the can, the liquid came out with a whoosh, spilling most on the beer on the floor, and his hands. Daryl let out a laugh.

"Asshole…"

"Was you who said I should laugh more often."

"Not at my expense…"

But the scout laughed, too, because he was pleased to see the archer in a much more relaxed and open attitude. Very different from the defensive armor he used to show himself to the world.

"I think I'll spend the night here," the scout said, "up I feel like we're invading their space."

"Yeah, me too."

Paul smiled to himself, "We don't want to sleep upstairs out of respect, but tomorrow we're going to plunder them shamelessly. The irony."

"That' what survival is about."

"Yeah… Speaking of, did you take care of your dressings?"

"Aaron changed them yesterday, why? Did you want to touch me up again, Monroe?"

"Wow, Monroe, this is getting serious, but I'm sorry to inform you, Dixon, that you're not my type."

"I'm not too soft and manageable for you?"

"You're a jerk—and you're very wrong if that's how you see Alex."

"Have you been with someone else besides him?"

"Why the interest?"

Daryl shrugged, making a face, "don't want to talk about Negan, and that's the first stupid thing that crossed my mind."

"You think my love life's stupid?" Paul pretended to act offended, but then said: "I haven't had with anyone, what I had with Alex, but um… I had a silly night with someone from the Kingdom, once"

"The weed guy?"

There was something about the way the archer asked the question, that made him feel curious, but at the same time, upset him. Paul recalled Daryl's reservation when he mentioned the high cost of the grass, when they were in the tower's school back at The Kingdom.

"What's your problem? Are you jealous or what?" that might have sound as a funny question, if it hadn't been for the tough tone that Paul had used.

"Nah—You're not my type, either."

Paul raised his eyebrows, "so you have a type—this is getting interesting," Paul crossed his arms. "Come on, tell me…"

"No."

"Then, I'll guess."

"No."

Paul put a finger on his lips, as he was really thinking about it, "Let's see…"

"Cut that shit out!" Daryl said, toughening his tone suddenly.

"I see—you can make insinuations about me, but I can't say anything about you."

The scout noticed immediately Daryl's change of mood. In fact, the arched left his relaxed position, and sat up straighter, against the couch's back. Then he stared at the can he held in his hands, and began to play with it with his fingers.

"I promised to get him a heat lamp the next time I went out on a run," Paul said.

"No need to explain, it's none of my business."

"Of course is not, but you thought of it, and I don't like that."

Suddenly, silence surrounded them as an unwanted guest, and the tension grew between the two, as intense as palpable. Paul felt an unexpected pressure in his chest, and he didn't know why. He probably would've joked about if he had been with someone else, but for some reason, it hurt him that the archer thought he was able to go around, having sex with whoever crossed his path, and much worse, in order to get something in return. He had to put up with the stigma of promiscuity much of his life. Because society wasn't just unprepared to accept that a man could love another man, but never bothered to try to understand it. So the vice, was the only justification for such transgression.

"Never had a serious relationship with anyone." Daryl said, suddenly, "just one-night stands with women who used to know my brother somehow, and that's not sayin' much good about them. Junkies, whores… in fact my first time was with one. My brother paid for it, as a birthday present. I was turning fifteen," the archer said and then sighed. "So, guess I don't have a type."

Daryl's sudden, and unexpected, confession, had caught him off guard, but Paul listened to him intently. The archer's short story had left his lips with a soft wire, but he hadn't distinguished regret or shame in his words, just tedium. A man who was tired of projecting an expected image of himself, that didn't reflect who he really was as a person, at all.

"Your brother was gem."

Daryl nodded thoughtfully, "he was the only one who cared about me. I feel like, despite everything, I can't be mad at him."

"You deserved better."

"Why? Who decides that? I took what I could get, no more, no less."

"You deserved something better, anyway," Paul paused briefly, keeping his eyes wide. Then he asked, "You never fell in love with a woman?"

"No," the archer replied sparingly.

"And with a man?"

The archer turned sharply to nail his eyes on Paul. The scout had asked the question for the sole purpose of watching his reaction, and what he saw was Daryl's expression darkening under the flickering candlelight, that illuminated his face deepening the wrinkles forming on his forehead. The scout looked at him intently, even when he glanced away. And although the archer was trying to hide it, Paul sensed his nervousness, as he clutched the beer, took one last gulp, and then rubbed his nose with a concern hard to ignore.

"No" then he said gravely.

"You're lying," Paul said, leaning against the doorway, "You say you're not angry, but it's not true."

"I didn't say I wasn't angry," Ben said, as he moved around the room, "I said that I don't want to argue with you, right now. You're leaving tomorrow, despite my protests, so I won't spend a single minute of my time fighting you. "

"I don't want to argue, either, but I don't want to go like this."

"You'll have to live with it, Paul. Perhaps, by the time you come back, we can sit down and talk. And it's better for you to bring those holidays you talked about, if not I swear I'll put your bags in the door."

"You're not going to do that."

Ben snorted loudly, "Of course not—because despite everything, I love you too fucking much, you damn hippie. But I'm serious, Paul Monroe, you're sleeping on the couch tonight" he took a pillow from the bed and threw it towards him.

Paul looked at his phone; it was three thirty-four in the morning, as he sat on the couch, stroking Emmes, who was sleeping peacefully next to him, snoring lightly. He wanted to go upstairs, get in the bed with Ben, hug him and kiss him, and tell him he was sorry. But he was aware that apologies were useless in that moment, and Ben had every right to be tired and annoyed by the whole situation. He was too, and it frustrated him not being able to address the issue as he wanted.

With a deep sigh, he rose from the couch and went down to the small gym they had in the basement, and there he discharged all his anger and frustration against a punching bag.

"You know? Sometimes, you remind me of Ben," the scout said, after some quiet time, "He was born in a rural environment, in an overly traditional and conservative family, and grew up with the idea that a man's duty was to marry a woman and a form a family. And that thing about men kissing other men… that was an aberration—a mortal sin," he laughed ruefully. "He had relationships with women. Actually, he told me he had had a relationship with a college friend, for more than a year. But he never felt anything, physically or emotionally, and that provoked such anxiety in him that he ended up falling into a depression. He didn't understand why he couldn't be normal. Why he couldn't be like the rest."

Daryl ducked his head as he listened to the story, and Paul continued:

"We met a year after he moved to the city for work. There he had made new friends, people who helped him open his eyes to a world that was there, but he was refusing to look at. He started to understand himself a little more, and he experienced things he wanted, but he didn't dare to try before. He had flings with some men, though he never slept with any of them. His first time was with me, and it was… it was very special."

Paul watched the archer, who couldn't hide, even under the shy orange candlelight, the blush that stained his cheeks.

"I understand how you may be feeling," Paul said softly.

"How can you be so sure when I'm not?"

"Because I've seen it before. It took Ben years to accept himself, but he did it and he finally was able to be happy. Hey…" he said, aware of the archer's growing tension, "I know this is your business and that sometimes it's not easy to take a step forward—but you can talk to me if you want. I know you think I'm a chatterbox, and I don't take anything seriously, but I'm a good listener."

For a moment the two went silent, although the tension of moments ago had disappeared. However, Paul thought that perhaps he had gone too far, and that he couldn't pretend to kick the archer out of the cave he's been enclosed for years. He watched Daryl squeeze, crumpling the beer can, now empty, until it lost its form, and fixed his gaze on the floor.

"There was a guy," he said, to Paul's surprise, "he was my neighbor—he was about four years older than me. We spoke often. We got along well. He liked bikes, just like me. I enjoyed hanging out with him—he had a small workshop in his garage, and he was always doing things, and sometimes we went for rides together. But I started to feel things, my body started to react and woke up when I was near him, and I didn't understand why. And I hated it. I hated myself, because only a sick mind could have those kind of thoughts—that's what I've been told, and I was not like them," the archer paused for breath, as he played with his fingers, and moved his knee up and down nervously. "One day we were in the garage, he wanted to change the spark of his bike and asked me for help. We worked close, very close, I could feel the warmth of his body, the smell of his sweat, and suddenly, don't know why, I saw myself kissing him," Daryl sighed and rubbed his face, "I got a fuckin' boner right there, in front of him. I'm sure he didn't notice, though, because I ran out of there, straight to my home, and locked myself in the bathroom, pants and shorts down, and I put a bag of frozen fuckin' peas on my dick. It hurt so fuckin' much that I cried like a baby. Even think I gave myself frostbite. But that couldn't happen again—it was wrong. I wasn't a fag. Never saw him again."

Daryl's voice trembled with those last words, and Paul felt a lump in his throat. He wanted to get close to him and make him understand that this was part of the past. But he couldn't find the courage to do so.

"When I asked if you missed what we left behind, you said you didn't know. Now, I'm listening to you and, frankly, I don't understand," Paul said.

"Guess I never lost hope of having a normal life, whatever that was," Daryl took a deep breath. "What about you? You said you didn't miss it, when you had the perfect life."

Paul drew a bitter smile, "that's what everyone used to say, that we were the perfect couple, with the perfect life and perfect jobs. We earned a fair amount of money, and were able to buy the perfect house, in one of the most perfect neighborhoods in Washington."

"You lived in Washington?"

"Yeah… he was financial advisor and I worked as a pharmaceutical rep," Daryl made a sound with his mouth, like he just remembered the conversation they had at the pharmacy, a few days ago. "And it's true, everything would have been perfect if not for the fact that everything was a fucking lie. I didn't work for any pharmaceutical company—I worked for the CIA."

Daryl face wrinkled with confusion, he opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. He even drew a little smile, and then hissed, sounding something like a laugh, like he assumed that Paul was just kidding.

"Really?"

Paul opened the brown folder over the glass table, in front of him. He saw a photograph taken with telephoto lens from a great distance. The man's face drew with difficulty under the image noise.

"Was taken a couple of weeks ago," the man in a suit said, moving in front of him. "In Morocco, they've been following him and it looks like he has a property there. He doesn't use any personal phone inside or outside, that's the reason it has been so difficult to track him. But that photo is the proof we needed. We got him."

"Morocco?" Paul asked.

"The flight leaves in two hours."

"I spent five years living with a person who hadn't the foggiest idea who I really was. When I was home, I tried to make everything as normal as possible, although I spent most of the time Ben was out working, reading whatever shit I could find related to drugs or pharmaceutical companies in order to have something to talk about. But it was not easy, Ben wasn't an idiot, and you can't spend five years lying constantly, without the other person realizing that something's wrong."

"Hello?"

"Ben…"

"Paul? What's that noise? Where are you calling me from?"

"A phone booth."

"Why?"

"My cell run out of battery."

"Didn't you have a phone in your room?"

Paul snorted, putting away the handset, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Hey, is everything okay?"

"Yeah, as usual. You know, Martha and Jaime are going to have a baby; we got the news yesterday, at dinner. They planned it thinking that you would be back two days ago, but…"

"Yeah… I'm sorry."

"Isn't it great?"

"Yeah, yes it is. I'm really happy for them."

On the other side he could hear Ben sigh, "When?"

"I don't know, Ben," he said, rubbing his face, tired "don't want to give you another date just for plans to end up changing again."

Then he heard Emmes barking in the background.

"Emmes says hello. By the way, don't know what has gotten to him, but he has decided to use your Doors' shirt as a bed."

"And I'm sure you haven't done anything to stop him."

"Whatever makes our dog happy."

"Hey, I'll have to hang up, but listen Ben, I promise…"

"No more dates, Paul."

"No, it's not that—we're going to talk, I promise you that when I get back, we're going to sit down and talk, okay? And I'll explain everything to you."

"Ever thought about telling him?" Daryl asked.

"There was a time he thought I was seeing someone else," Paul said, letting out a slight laugh, but the smile faded quickly. "Yes, I thought about it many times, but never did. I was afraid of how he could react, that he could look at me like he suddenly realized that he was living with a stranger. But on the last trip I decided it was about time, I couldn't wait anymore. I had to do it for him, and for me."

Paul looked up from the newspaper he was pretending to be reading; when he noticed someone settling at the same table he was sat in.

"What are you doing here?" He asked Donald, one of his colleagues.

"How you doing?"

"The guy sat in the bar? behind me, orange striped shirt, short hair, khaki pants, and brown sandals."

Donald glanced behind him. "Yes… are you after him because of his bad fashion sense?"

"It's an informer, I've been after him for four days. Still can't prove anything, but I'm absolutely convinced."

"That's great, but I think that maybe you should slow down a little."

"Why, you know something about him?"

"Him? Nah, but I heard other things," he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "I have a colleague working in the Department of Defense—something is going on, Monroe, and I think they will suspend all services, and send us back home. "

"Explain yourself."

"I can't tell you much, really, have you heard about the virus affecting India? Apparently the issue is more serious than it seems," then looked at his watch. "Hey, I gotta go, see you later, okay?"

That night Paul was looking through the window at the yellow lights illuminating the adobe buildings, with one hand rubbing his face, and the other holding the phone.

"Have you heard the news?" Ben asked from the other side of the line.

"Yeah, I heard something, but I'm sure it's nothing important. It's happened other times; they scare us, and suddenly nobody talks about it again."

"Sure, because when the deaths start happening in the first world, then your colleagues develop a vaccine out of no where, and problem solved. But the truth is that people are starting to panic. Today, in the supermarket… was crazy. "

"Don't worry, this will end soon."

"What happened then?"

"Well, the chaos started. You lived that too."

"Fuck, Paul, when're you coming back?"

"I'm working on it, hope in a couple of days I can give you a date. Listen, you just—stay calm, okay?"

He heard Ben sigh over the handset. "I don't know what to do, here everybody is packing their shit to go away."

"Where?"

"I don't know! But I'm starting to think I should do the same."

"Ben, calm down! Trust me, stay home, I'll call you again as soon as I can."

"No one told you what was going on?"

"No, they just said we had to suspend all activities, and wait confined until further notice."

"I talked to my friend, but no one says anything, just that the information is confidential," Donald said, visibly angry.

In one of the safehouse's rooms, the six members of the team crowded together, surrounded by suitcases.

"Confidential? And who the fuck are we working for!" Paul said irritated.

Samantha, the only woman among them, snorted, "I don't care any more. It's enough that they've got a plane to take us out of here. Have you seen the news? Airports are crowded with hysterical people, and not a single flight is leaving."

"I think they have no fucking idea what's going on," Arthur, the youngest member of the six, said, "yesterday, managed to get some Internet and saw a video, real video, and guys—fuck! What the hell is that! Sure they don't know it either, that's why they say it's confidential, 'cause they don't have any fucking idea of what else to say!"

Paul got up from the bed he was sitting at, and began to move around the room with the phone glued to his ear. The lines had been completely saturated, and he had tried to call Ben on numerous occasions during the past few days, with no much success.

"Hello?" a voice replied hurriedly.

"Shit! Ben?"

"Paul!"

"Are you okay?"

"Paul?"

"Ben, do you hear me?"

"Not very well."

"Stay where you are, okay?"

"Fucking hell, Paul, there're soldiers all over the place, some people were able to leave, but they had threatened the rest of us to stay home."

The line seemed to cut at times, and Paul started to lose his temper. "I know, listen, don't move from there, okay? I'm taking a plane in a couple of hours, I'm going home… Ben?"

On the other side he could hear Ben moving around and Emmes barking desperately in the background.

"Ben?"

"Yes, I'm here—I'll wait. I'll wait here. I'll wait for you."

Paul felt his breath quicken, trying to catch the air that caught in his throat and couldn't get to his lungs. "See you soon—I love you…" But he could only hear white noise blared from the device. "Ben?… Ben?" He waited, but no answer "Fuck!"

"I will never forget the look of all of those at the airport. Their desperation and panic. Old people, women, men… children. We walked in front of all of them, without looking at their faces, knowing that we were leaving them there," Paul laughed sarcastically, "somewhere in our subconscious, we really thought that we were going to a safer place, even after speaking with Ben over the phone, and knowing that everything was the same everywhere."

Daryl listened to the story carefully, "Were you able to get home?"

"Yeah."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. Ben was already dead."

After all the words, and all the expressed feelings, his voice sounded too cold for what he just had said. Paul saw Daryl frown and look away.

"In that moment," the scout continued, lowering his voice to a whisper, "I realized all the mistakes I'd made, and all the lost opportunities to have that perfect life, everyone kept talking about," He rubbed his eyes. "And… I also thought that maybe, if he hadn't stayed there, waiting, perhaps he would be alive now."

"Come on! You don't know that. And he stayed because he loved you."

Paul nodded sadly. "You're probably thinking this is silly, of course I'm not comparing this with what you have had to live."

"No, I don't," the arched said softly. "We've all suffered, in one way or another."

"Yeah."

A few minutes passed until Paul sighed and shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I miss him. I miss him so much. But I don't miss what we had," he paused and then leaned against the couch. "I guess that could work for a short answer."

There was silence for a moment.

"Well—you can be yourself now," Daryl said softly.

"That's exactly the point, Daryl—and I hope you realize you can be yourself too."

Daryl nodded, and smiled shyly, and Paul responded bending the corners of his lips. And suddenly he felt relieved, because for the first time, in many years, he had finally gotten that damn weight off his shoulders, and he hoped the man sitting beside him could do the same.