There was no stopping Rick, not when he decided on something. When he was decided, it was final. It was to be done. No questions asked, no delay allowed, nothing else to say. That meant that when he declared that it was time to move on, by which time the wound had started to heal and any sign of infection was gone, they packed up and moved on. They understood, each and every one of them; he wanted home. He wanted security. His family. In the cottage, he was an invalid keeping them anchored. When his feet were moving over tarmac and grass and soil, Rick was constructive. He was going somewhere. He was the leader.

As for the hand, sometimes he would think it was still there. He could swear that he felt it itch, and he would go to scratch it. Or feel a twig brush against it. Phantom limb, that's what it was called, the sensation of thinking a severed appendage was still attached. With each discovery when he went to tend to it, he felt his ghost knit another loss onto itself, always with him and building a new defence. Already haunting the world, haunting him.

Then the road began to turn, and he began to recognise the trees, the ground, like natural landmarks. Before long, they were climbing over the corpses Daryl had told him about. About how Eve had taken them down. Now, his former disbelief felt like a foolish arrogance. Looking at Eve, how she had worked with Carl to kill the group at the house, the walkers seemed like a fickle attack against a girl more than capable of twice that.

Everyone seemed much stronger than he presently felt.

Then they rounded again, and a sensation of relief so painful washed over him like a wave of ice cold water. The wall, still there. The complex, the facility. A figure on watch. It was all there, right where it was supposed to be. Basked in orange sunset, welcoming them home. A hand patted him on the back, and to his side was his hatted son, a smile on his face as he looked up to him. "We're home."

Rick nodded, placing his hand on Carl's elbow, and together they made their way ahead, leaving the ones hesitating behind.

…

Eve stood for a moment, hesitation blocking her feet from moving a step further. The longer she looked at the building ahead of them, the sihloettes of her companions breaking and threatening her attention, the longer it took for the supposed relieved sensation of home to fill her. It wouldn't come, no matter how much she pressed. One of the figures ahead, the closest one to her, stopped, and turned in the deepening orange sunset.

"Something wrong?" asked Daryl quietly. His arm shifted, and his hand laid quietly for his bow, and the light flickered in his eyes as he looked around them. Eve shook her head lightly. "Not a walker. Just…I don't know." She couldn't quite put it into words. Either that, or, for some reason, she would feel guilty for saying it. But the look his face sent her pressed for information in a way that only a look from Daryl could, and she felt her shoulders slouch in defeat. "I just….im just waiting to feel it. Feel like im back home."

Even though that wasn't quite enough to clarify the feeling verbally, she didn't want to say much more. And Daryl, quietly assertive as he was, said no more on the subject. Instead, he held out his hand and shifted a little closer, like approaching a wild dog he wanted to tame.

The welcome party was enthusiastic to see us. Rick and Carl were already united with baby Judith, chatting with Maggie and Glenn, while the rest hung back or hugged us or did both. It appeared that not much fuss was being made about Rick, until it was realised that he was concealing his injury in his jacket pocket. As Eve glanced about the complex, two things became apparent. One, theyd been busy, and finally made the opening into the woods as safe as it could be with the shutter door filling the gap. Two, a face was missing. It was ever so obvious when, in a small group, a family was incomplete, and soon enough, Rick realised, too.

"Where's Michonne?" he asked Carol, his daughter being taken gently by her brother. He took her away as Carol and his father had a private chat. In this time, Maggie had spotted her and given her a tight hug, relief flowing into her like it was her own. "Thank god!" she gushed, "I knew you were safe. What happened?"

Eve sighed in smiles and exhaustion and just told her they'd be talking to the group together. Her friend nodded in acceptance, tucking her short hair behind her ear. "I knew he'd find you," she said suggestively, and Eve instinctively glanced around for said him. He was with Rick and Carol, throwing a look back her way every so often. She smiled on queue. "Uh huh," she murmered, her voice trailing off, and then said, "So, where is Michonne anyway?"

"Out looking for y'all. Well, Carl."

"Really? How long for?"

Maggie looked dark. "Since Daryl and Rick left. Daryl came thinking you'd be here and then went off in a rush. Seemed like to him, you were the priority. Michonne panicked and went after Carl. Aint seen her since."

Dark concern grew within, and a considerable amount of guilt. Eve admitted, "Carl and I found each other on the second day. Went back to a house Daryl and I found on the run. They…they found us there."

Maggie's wide eyes strained themselves as she rushed a smile after too long staring, causing wrinkles around them. "Well, im betting she's following the track right now. Wont be too long."

…

A minute later everyone was in the kitchen, and there it was announced what happened. Of course, none of it was essential to the group, except for one thing. The fact that their leader was, now, compromised in his ability to defend. Not incapable, but he could present an issue. The reveal came when Rick had finished the short version of what went down, and stopped when quizzed on details. Carl stood in his place while Rick sat on a barrel made during the week, and Eve couldn't help but notice the shift. She connected her eyes with Daryl next to her, a fleeting glance that filled itself with questions, and in his eyes she saw the same thing. Concern, disturbance, anxiety. A shift. A shift of who was strongest, who was best for leading the group. All eyes were on the 14 year old kid in the centre of the make shift circle, preparing to break the news.

He took a deep breath, and opened his lips. "Daryl and…and my dad, they found Eve and I in a house." That was in answer to how we were found by the pair. Then, Abraham chucked out another question. "And what took y'all so long to get back, huh? 'Cause we aint waiting much longer before we start walking to Washington," he announced threateningly. Eugene sat with his back resting on the wall, staring into the gaslight at Carl's feet. Carl hesitated, and sent a reassuring look to his dad. "We had to stay at the house for a couple of days-"

"We ran into some trouble," Rick broke in, standing once again and patting his son's shoulder, signalling for him to take a seat. When he was once again the centre of everyone's focus, he slid his shaking arm from his pocket, his forehead glistening with sweat. It took a few moments for it to register, because no one made a noise. And then Abraham bowed his ginger head. Maggie began crying quietly. Glenn rubbed her back while shaking his head in denial, as though the worst had happened. Carol stood in the doorway where the shutter once was, her head low and her face shaking, like it was holding back the emotion. Tyreese, Sasha, Tara, Rosita, and Bob blended into a sea of distraught faces.

"Now," Rick began, breaking the insufferable silence, "it aint as bad as it looks. I can still shoot, I can still help out. Nothing needs to change."

"But Rick," Maggie broke out, "how did it happen?"

"A walker bite," he said. "Daryl saved my life," he added, sending a peripheral look to his brother. "Then we found Eve and Carl."

Rick's head pivoted from left to right, checking all the expressions around him. The atmosphere was awkward as hell, too quiet, just plain miserable. Like all the morale of the group was manifested in the leader's hand being attached to him. Eve felt Daryl's arm shift beside her, and he squeezed her hand once before letting go, standing before the large group. They each eyed him with something questionable, barely any goodness. Eve knew why. Because of him, Rick was out there, and, because of him, Rick had no hand. Daryl saw it that way, and he probably had that guilt bounced back to him through each eye like light rays. Only three knew the truth, truly.

The archer stood by his friend, and stood straight, looking out of place as a public speaker. "I know, I know we're all in a shitty place. What happened to Rick…no one could see that coming. We were distracted, and that…that was my fault. But that aint saying its ended…Y'all looking like weve lost, like we aint got other shit to worry about, like we aint been through worse. Maggie," he said suddenly, his dark voice unusually coherent and a little shaky, gesturing towards her, "Hershal, your dad, he lost a leg. That never stopped him from helping Rick out, huh?"

"Daryl's right," Carol announced from her short distance away. "We've been through worse."

Dark memories manifested on some of the faces around them, and Eve chose her time to stand next to her archer. He took her in and wearily put his arm across her shoulders while everyone was talking amongst themselves, and she whispered in his ear, "I'm so proud of you." He kissed her forehead gently.

….

During the night, the group dwindled as people retired to bed. First Sasha and Bob, then Tyreese and Tara went on watch, then Abraham and Sasha, and Carl took Judith, leaving Rick, Carol, Daryl, Eve, Maggie and Glenn. It was now obvious to the group that Daryl and Eve were a couple, and they gradually became used to it. The later it became, the conversation died down and they just stayed, sat, whether in a chair or on a crate or on the floor, drinking wine from the convenience store stock room. The sourness of it didn't really register that strongly, because it had been so long that it was just nice to have a little relaxation introduced into her system. It was nice to see it in everyone left. In fact, the only one not with a small smile on his face was Rick, sat back in a dusty old dining chair. His brow was furrowed, and, when she watched long enough, Rick would sometimes look to the open doorway. He was thinking of Michonne. When that came clear, Eve left him too it and snuggled further into Daryl's side, even though it wasn't chilly.

Then it was just Rick, Daryl and Eve left, and the two agreed to go to bed with a shy mutual glance that held questions. What were the new arrangements, now?

"I'll get my things," Eve said, and stretched her body out as she stood after hours of sitting, leaving the two men to talk. When she returned, Daryl was at the doorway with his arm outstretched for her bag, and the two made it to the clothes store he'd allowed himself the luxury of.

"I'm so tired," Eve giggled coyly, stretching her arms high above her head and yawning. Daryl removed the bag from his arm and rested it against the counter. "That's called drunk," he said, feigning disapproval.

"Nooooo….I'm not drunk…" Then she became dizzy and almost lost her footing, but Daryl straightened her up. Eyeing her through his piercing eyes he murmered, "and the sky's green."

Eve shrugged teasingly, poking her bottom lip out like a child. "To some people it might be."

"To some people you're a lightweight." He guided her to the bed he'd made for himself, which he'd added more clothes to for extra comfort, and she was almost asleep as soon as her head hit the cushion, which was a coat. A few moments later, a blanket was draped over her body, and Daryl lay next to her, putting her between the counter and himself. She smiled contentedly, and kissed his cheek while keeping her eyes closed, simply because she didn't have the energy to open them. With one last sigh, she thought aloud, "We'll get a matress in tomorrow…make it homely….love you…" her voice trailed off into sleep.

…

When Rick opened his eyes, he knew instantly that he was in a dream. He was still in the kitchen, he still felt the warm air brush against his face and neck and hand. Only now he had two hands. Not just a phantom limb. His real hand. There, flexing muscles and joints and bones and flesh. He watched in awe as he moved it in his lap, felt his fist tighten and his fingers stretch in a repeated cycle.

"Rick," a voice said, and, before him, in the room, barely feet away, Lori was stood. But not as the ghost he saw her as before. No, this was Lori, before her death. Before even pregnancy. She was there, just as he'd found her in that camp, when he'd been reunited with her and his then such tiny son. He frowned, and wondered why she was there. But when he wondered it, he heard it around himself. He couldn't stand, he could only stare, and move his hand, as Lori stared back at him. With each question he thought of, her stare would change. It would change without ever really changing. But something in her eyes answered it for him, like the realisation would come easy.

Why are you here?

To remind you.

Remind me of what?

That you can love someone in this world. It keeps you going. Keeps you focused.

How is that even remotely true?

You know.

I let you down.

No, I let us down. I wasn't built for this world, and I didn't want to be part of it. Now you've found someone who doesn't need protecting, who doesn't embody your guilt.

Words passed around like smoke going nowhere but can be seen and sensed and existed everywhere, filling the room, but taking up no space. Lori stared back at him, her eyes accepting.

Our son needs a mother, Rick. One who takes care of him, makes him laugh. Protect him no matter what. A boy needs that.

Rick thought. But only for a moment.

You don't mean just him, do you?

No, her voice drifted sadly. She has allowed you to forget me. To let go of your guilt over me. You needed that.

I've not forgotten you, Rick's voice argued. I remember every day.

You remember what you had to do, what you tried to keep me safe. I've not been to you what she is to you now for a long time, Rick. Longer than you know.

So why am I realising this now?

Because she is out there, searching for you. And you are frightened beyond words.

Rick thought about asking whether she was safe, until realising that this was a dream, and Lori wasn't real. She was just a figure who represented his guilt, presented to him to cause more guilt, and pain. She followed his train of thought with a slight change in her eyes, a look of sadness of his desperation.

She is a warrior, Rick. You don't doubt that for a second.

He did know that. He'd always known it, and that's what made her such a good companion…better for him. Better to survive with. She kept him motivated, she kept him positive. She kept him hoping.

And that was something Lori struggled to do. She was a beacon, reminding him of what was, what had gone wrong. How it changed things for the worse. Then there was Michonne. She, like Daryl and Eve and, now, Carol, was built for this world. In her he saw strength, protection, fierce, fierce devotion to those she cared for.

That's why she was out there now, instead of there. With him.

He realised that he'd looked away from the ghost before him, and her cheeks glistened with tears. She followed it all, his thoughts, his realisations, and then he remembered, this was a dream. How did you let go of a ghost in a dream?

Confront it, she said in a wisp of a voice. You know im not really here.

So how do I make it feel real? Confronting you?

Instead of saying another word, she moved, for the first time, and leaned down in front of him, laying a hand on his clavicle. Rick. Wake up.

Only it wasn't her voice. It was more familiar than her voice. More solid.

"Rick. Wake up."

Rick's eyes snapped open, and he hoped to find Michonne in Lori's place. But it wasn't. It was Sasha. He stared at her for a long time, dazed and a little confused. Then relief filled him that the dream was finally over. "Where am i?"

"You're still in the kitchen. Its 4 30."

Rick frowned and looked about himself, and Sasha straightened up, putting her hands on her hips. "You need to rest. You cant do that here."

"I was fine. What're you doing up?" He began forcing himself from the chair and his joints clicked and ached with lack of movement. The woman motioned to the door leading to the main part of the building. "Bob. He's…he's got a fever." That was then the mist of tiredness cleared, and her cheeks were shining. "I'm sure he's fine but…Well, I just thought…"

Rick nodded slowly, catching on to what she was getting at. "Yeah…has he been out on a run in the last few hours?"

"We went into a town we found a few miles out, they got a food bank…he ... seemed fine."

"Did you lose sight of him at all?"

She shook her head cautiously. "Not once." That answer held no less dread of conviction. Rick remembered the prison, the infection that halved their number, and weakened even more. Sasha, of course, knew all too well how that infection felt, and, given her and Bob's situation, that was the least desirable answer to his condition. But Rick was weary. Would they survive if another person got infection?

Would he? He still had one major open wound and several scratches that could easily let anything in. He wasn't exactly being careful, but going near Bob for him would be pure idiocy.

"Take me to him," he said darkly, and he followed her smaller figure as she lead him to their safe.

The small room was dimly lit, a small gaslight at the head of their mattress. The flame glistened in Bob's shining head and face. The groans escaping from him were small and weak and infrequent, restrained. His face was solidified struggle. His eyes connected with Rick's, and then Sasha's, as though he'd not realised they were there before. His mouth broke into a grimace, probably meant to be a smile. "Think I got a…a touch of fever…" A sound came out that Rick had heard many times before, when a teenager or a father or mother knew there condition was worsening, and they put on a brave face. Either in the road after a hit and run, a shoot out, or later in a hospital bed. In front of the police or before their family's grief stricken faces. "It'll be fine, out of here in no time," that laugh said. That meant it wouldn't be fine, almost 100% of the time.

Sasha neared his side and croached next to him, taking his hand. She said nothing, not knowing what to say, and simply stared into his eyes and over his struggling frame like he was already gone.

"I…I got something…I should've said it…before…"

Rick turned his back to give them a private moment, and after a few moments of silence, he heard a gasp. "Wh-…Bob…When…?"

"At the food bank," he said, and Rick peered over his shoulder. The scene had become tragic. There she was, staring down and covering her mouth with her hands as she gazed down on Bob's shoulder, red and raw and chewed on like raw meat. He let the shirt collar go and it recovered the wound. "But I was…I was with you the whole time." They were holding hands again, one hand still covering her mouth. Bob shook his head. "The basement…when I was dragged under."

A hand flew to Rick's face and smoothed over his stubbly cheek in thought and fear. He took a few cautious steps to the couple, utterly heartbroken, and crouched beside Sasha. "Can I get you anything?"

His friend looked long at him, and Rick was confused by the emotion in his eyes. It rebelled against the flexing and tensed muscles in his face, neck, hands, the occasional grind of his teeth, the sweat on his brow. His eyes were, on the other hand, at peace. Not happy, just, peaceful. Accepting. He shook his head, saying, "No…thanks." His other hand, his free hand, stretched out, shaking as he held it in place. Rick took it and held it tightly. "You were lucky…God…he ain't done with you, yet."

Rick soon left them to it, noticing the blade that was permanently at Sasha's belt, and slowly found his way to his room, shared with his two children, down the hall. He wondered on his way whether Sasha would have the strength, when the time came. It seemed fairly close. Then he looked to his son. He wondered how she'd come out of it, whether she'd be the same. Then he looked to his son.

He wondered if she'd survive the incident, the death of someone she loved so much and had so little time with. Then he looked to his son.

Yes, she'd have the strength. Because Carl did. But she'd not be the same. She'd not have the hope or the positivity or the sense of naïve untainedness. Because Carl didn't. She'd survive though, he speculated, sitting on the futon between Carl's own and Judith's crib. Of course she would.