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There was one thing I did before I left my house. The window in my room was left open and the curtain was drawn back. There was bird crap on my dresser and wardrobe, some kind of large insect with far too many legs making a nest in my sock drawer, and then, in the corner, by my bed, I heard something meow, and there, behind my trash can, was a cat. It looks young, a straggly, yellow-ish coat, and riddled with fleas, that's why Carol told me to put it back.

As we follow the train tracks, the cat keeps meowing from my backpack, and finally, Carol stops walking and turns to me.

"You brought it with us?!"

I shrug and keep walking.

"What is the matter with you?" she asks.

"Wanted to keep it..."

"You 'wanted to keep it'?"

I kick the stones under my boots. "I liked it..."

"Oliver, it's crueller bringing it with us."

There's a rustle in the treeline nearby. It's happened a few times since we got back on the tracks and it's making us nervous. Like last time, we see nothing. Keep moving. Hurry. Hear it again except this time I see a figure moving in the trees, raising their arm — I shoot in their direction, on reflex. Her brain explodes.

I stumble back. "I... I didn't mean... I just—"

"Get back!"

It happens so fast — another stranger scampers out of the treeline like some wild thing. Only he's a boy, like me.

"You killed Merope!" he cries.

"Don't," Carol begs. "Don't, please."

He runs at me, screaming, and then his whole body cracks open and I watch him die, and the next thing I'm aware of is that Carol is snatching my arm and we're running.

"Shit — stay low. Stay low." I do. "Think I saw others."

Soon we're getting back to the car and Daryl's truck is still here but the rest of them aren't yet. Carol curses. "Where are they? They should have gone home by now! It's been too long." She puts my rucksack on the seat and tells me to get in. "Don't think we were followed. They looked desperate. Starved. Alone."

I swallow.

"Get in. Stay low. Don't come out. I'll be back soon."

"W...what?"

"Oliver, get in the car."

I shut the door and put my back to it.

"I said get in the car," Carol hisses.

"No."

"Damn it, Oliver!"

"What, Carol?!" I bark. "What? Am I supposed to be someone else, too?!"

Carol is staring at me.

"They aren't here yet..." I draw my Glock. "We wait together or we look together. Splitting up is stupid."

"I just killed somebody for you."

"And I killed someone for you!"

Despite my loud voice, her silence is louder.

She steps back. I don't follow her.

"You hear anything," she tells me, "you shoot and you run, alright? Get in."

I open the door and then — "Good advice, lady." We swing around and several men are emerging from the treeline, armed and aimed at us. "Ah, ah, ah. Put 'em down."

The man in his thirties has a rhotic, breathless voice, blond, straggly hair tucked behind his ears, and the whole left side of his face is burned and scarred-up. He's holding a crossbow — Daryl's. Him and his group surround us. They don't look much like the two we saw before; too organised.

"I ain't gonna ask you again," Scarface insists.

Another man pulls Eugene out of the shrubs. He's sweaty and crying. Carol looks at me, her eyes wet, then she looks at the ground and shakes her head. "I can't do this anymore..."

We're grabbed and stripped of our possessions. They tell us not to move or talk while they bind our hands; for me, they fasten a zip-tie around my wrist and through my belt-loop, my right arm loose and useless.

They're Saviors. Scarface, whose name is Dwight, is the group's leader. We tell them our names, then we're led into the forest. I lose my bearings. I just know the tracks stay on our right. They tell us Negan will be glad to see us, that they've been looking for us for a long time now:—"Seven months... Damn. We were starting to lose hope in finding you guys. We were following those two — the ones you and your boy took down. We were gonna bring them back.

Did us nasty a few days ago.

Yeah, but we ran into this lump, wondering the road. He looked interesting. Backpack full. Clean. Looking like he was off somewhere important. Ah, but his pony tail sealed the deal, right guys?"

They laugh. Nobody mentions Abraham.

"Then we heard you blasting up those poor bastards yourselves, and we couldn't pass up the opportunity of getting three of you, now, could we? Now..." Dwight smiles. "It's only business."

At one point, a man starts loitering around Carol, and then he tries to touch her neck and I swing around and bite him. I'm punched across the face and knocked to the ground.

"Damn bastard bit me!"

Someone hits me again.

"No, please!" I hear Carol. "Stop!"

Then Dwight is here. He grabs the loiterer and shoves him back.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growls.

They keep talking. I don't know what they say exactly but I know they listen to Carol because I'm not getting beaten anymore. My face throbs.

"Excuse us," Dwight says, breathless. I hear a few men shuffling and grumbling. Someone pulls me up. "That won't happen to you again, ma'am. Negan doesn't like that kinda violence. Zero tolerance."

We keep walking, but soon, we stop at someone's voice in the distance.

"There's a cooler in there! Might be something we can use inside!"

It's Denise.

"We got what we came for!" Rosita answers.

"Nah! Ain't worth the trouble, c'mon!" Daryl calls. "Gotta find those shots. If it's them they wouldn'ta used two bullets for jus' a couple walkers."

"Hooly fuck," Dwight mutters. "These your people, too?"

Carol nods, trembling.

"Today is a good day, boys..."

Talk happens quickly. My voice won't work. My feet scuff against the earth and leaves. We stop at the tree-line, hidden inside it, tracks ahead.

"What the hell was that?" Daryl yells. "You coulda died right there, you know that?"

"Who gives a shit!?" Denise shouts back. "You could've died killing those Saviors, all of you, but you didn't! You wanna live? You take chances. That's how it works! That's what I did!"

"For a couple o' damned sodas?"

"Nope. Just this one... C'mon, let's find them."

"Are you seriously that stupid?" Rosita yells.

"Are you?" Denise asks.

Run, I scream in my head. Run! I hate my throat. I hate my mouth. I hate my lungs. When I need them most they forget they're a part of me. They forget I tell them what to do.

"I mean it, are you? Do you have any clue what that was to me? What this whole thing is to me? See, I have training in this shit. I'm not making it up as I go along, like with the stitches and the amputation, and the...

I asked you to come with me because you're brave like my brother and sometimes you actually make me feel safe.

And I wanted you here because you're alone. Probably for the first time in your life. And because you're stronger than you think you are, which gives me hope, that maybe I can be, too.

I could've gone with Tara.

I coulda told her I loved her but I didn't.

Because I was afraid..."

The crossbow comes up in Dwight's arms.

"That's what's stupid. Not coming out here, not facing my shit, and it makes me sick that you guys aren't even trying! Because you're strong, and you're smart, and you're really good people and if you don't wake—"

ftwoop

"—up—"

A bolt travels through skull and eye socket.

"—and face... your... urr..."

It's like she's still in there, like she's just confused about why her mouth isn't doing what she's asking it to, like she's so filled up and passionate that she just hasn't caught up yet, and then she does catch up, and she falls into Daryl's arms. It's too late to do anything.

They're forced to drop their guns while Carol, Eugene and I are dragged up the track and knelt down in a line in front of them.

"You got something to say to me?!" Dwight asks Daryl. "Clear the air? Step up on that high horse? No. You don't talk much."

They're stripped of their weapons and supplies.

"Still getting the hang of her," Dwight goes on. "Crossbow kicks like a bitch but — What was that? Seriously, I didn't catch what you said."

"I shoulda killed you."

"Yeah, you probably should've." Dwight smiles. "So, here we are. Kinda begs the question, right? Who brought this on who? I mean, I get that you'll just have to take my word for this but... she wasn't even who I was aiming for."

"Like I said," Dwight goes on. "Kicks like a bitch. It's nothin' personal. Look, this isn't how we like to start new business arrangements but you pricks kinda set the tone, didn't you?"

"What do you want?" Rosita snaps.

"I'm sorry, darlin'. I didn't catch your name. I'm D. Or Dwight, you can call me either. So, what's your name?"

"Rosita. What do you want?"

"Well, Ro-si-ta. It's not what I want. It's what you and your friends are going to do. You're going to let us into your little complex. It looks like it's just beautiful in there. And then you're going to let us take whatever, and whoever, we want.

Or we blow the boy's brains out, then theirs, then yours.

I hope it doesn't come to that, really. Nobody else has to die. We usually just try to start with one. You know: maximum impact to get our point across.

So, what's it going to be, you tell me?"

"You wanna kill someone," Eugene burst out saying, "you start with our companion hiding over there behind the oil barrels. He's a first-class a-hole and he deserves it so much more than us five."

We all look but see nothing. Dwight sends off a few men to check. I glance at Carol. She's staring at the floor, shaking her head, and then Eugene swivels around and bites what's between Dwight's legs. He doubles forward, screaming. Gunfire explodes across the tracks. Abraham, who was behind the oil barrels, takes out two men right off the bat. Daryl slits one's throat, then shoots more. Rosita has the machine-gun. Carol screams something and then she throws herself on top of me. We duck under the bullets. Walkers are coming. One grabs her foot but somebody shoots it. I see Eugene, shot, before Carol grabs me again.

"FALLBACK! FALLBACK!"

Gunfire clangs against iron, spraying embers over our heads, until it stops, and there's just breathing. Rosita grabs us, cutting our zip-ties, and we're crowding around Eugene who's groaning and bleeding. Daryl grabs his crossbow and runs after the retreating Saviors but Rosita orders him back. Denise is still laid along the tracks, dead.

We have to get them back.

We have to get back.

At home, Eugene gets treated — flesh wound; without the meds Denise found today, he would've died. Carol, Daryl and I get to digging Denise's grave.

"Stop, Oliver," Carol tells me.

I don't.

"Stop. Look at me — stop it!" She snatches my arm, pulling my sleeve; my whole arm is purple. "What is—What is that?!"

I wrench my arm out of her grip and shove my sleeve down. "The Saviors. Beat me—"

"No. No that was an hour ago. Those are old."

I don't say anything.

"What is wrong with you?" she asks. "Don't you see, you're ruining yourself!"

I throw my shovel at the pile of dirt and kick it, sending earth scattering into the hedge as I walk away.

"What're you doin', Carol?"

"What?"

"Don't you think he knows it's wrong? Y'don't think he knows that shit already?"

"There's so much pain already."

I'm too far away to hear anymore. I go to the truck. Rummage through the glove box. Check the middle compartment. Under the seat. Yes. Some of the little Danville Bridge whiskey bottles are gone. I could get away with taking one or two more, but in the end I take the lot.

I don't bother to conceal the bag as I head home.

"Oliver?"

I turn around, the bag of whiskey crackling.

"Hey," Glenn adds, "you... coming to the funeral?"

I shake my head.

He scratches his head and points. "What are you doing with all those?"

"I'm going to drink them."

"Yourself?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

I shrug.

"If you're thirsty, you know we have taps, right?" He's trying to make a joke but I'm busy walking away. "Hey, hey, wait, wait... come on, what're you doing?"

I look into his eyes and I say, "I put my parents down today, and I killed a person, and I saw Denise die... so I'd like to go, for a while — for now, if you don't mind, sir... Honestly, even if you do mind, I'm still going to."

Glenn sighs. I don't know why because I'm working very hard on not changing anything in my face. My chest still hurts like something inside it is trying to scream. I hold it down. Don't even breathe. He puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Please," I say, "I'll punch you in the throat if you try to stop me."

He squeezes.

"Honestly, Glenn. I will."

"Oliver..." I'm putting the bag of booze over my other arm now. "...you are not going to — rufck!" And Glenn Rhee and the side-walk collide with a loud grunt. I hop on the spot. He clutches his Adam's apple. "Jesus, man!"

"I... I'm sorry. I... I said I would," I mutter, shaking my knuckle. "You didn't believe me."

Glenn gets up and snatches the bag from me. I've not had much practice with fists and I'm still shocked that I just did that, and he knows it, so he dodges my next punch and grabs my collar with his free hand before I can catch myself. I struggle and grunt and call him names I've never called anybody, and then we're both just breathing very hard and his hands are on both of my shoulders holding me still. Glenn's eyes are very brown. Not brown like mine. Not brown like Michonne's either. Glenn's brown is like wet tree bark, like something you can trust your life with if you wanted to.

I don't want to.

"Get the hell off me!"

"Oliver, listen to me!"

"Let me go!"

"Stop!" he shouts. He lets go so I stumble. He points a finger. I swat it away. I try to walk away but he grabs me again. "You are not doing this today, man! You are coming to her funeral because she loved you and you are her family!"

"My family is dead!"

Glenn is not as angry anymore. Neither is he as loud. In fact, his voice is thick and quiet. "That's not true," he whispers. "You know that."

My jaw's clenched so hard I can't even reply.

Glenn grimaces.

"You're supposed to be there for her," he says. "We're supposed to be there for you. Even now. Even always." He rubs his eyes, and when he points, this time he uses his whole hand. "You can't just push us away because it's scary. You kids keep doing that, like... like you think it'll work. Like you think it's gonna stop it from hurting. Well it's not! It doesn't stop hurting, that's why you keep trying. Because when it's good, even for a little while, it is so good. It's worth it. Get that through your head. Please?"

I'm looking at my boots, scowling and swatting away tears. Glenn swallows, rubbing his throat. It's turning red. The truck is only a few yards away because I didn't get very far and he marches over and puts the booze on the front seat, then he's coming back, walking past.

"You come to the funeral or you get back in that truck," he says. "It's your choice, Oliver."

After Denise's funeral, people start moving towards the clinic for the wake. Tobin kisses Carol's forehead as he goes, Abraham frowns a lot, Carl hugs Sasha, and Rick pats my shoulder and calls me a "Good boy." Before Rosita leaves, she nods to Denise's grave like they'd been talking, like she's got ghosts too. When Michonne goes, she hugs me — her hugs are neat and secure and warm, full of dreadlocks and calm, all over, and when she pulls away I feel like I'm floating.

Daryl is the last to leave.

"Will you be okay?" Carol asks him.

"Sure."

He doesn't come to the clinic, and even though I do, I keep mostly to myself. I sit on the window ledge, in the same room Carl woke up in, overlooking the lake. Bean's here, sitting at my feet.

Rosita and Eugene are arguing over if he should drink, on account of the antibiotics he's dosed up on. Carol was talking with the others but now she's gathering her things and telling me she'll be at home.

"You staying?"

Spotting Enid making her way towards me, I nod.

"Okay. Be home for supper."

As Carol leaves, Enid sits behind me and puts her hands in my pockets and presses her nose into the space between my shoulder-blades — when she inhales, my spine goes cool, and when she exhales, it warms up again.

Finally, I ask, "Tell me your name, Enid?"

"What?"

"I want to know it."

I feel her frown. "Does it matter?"

"It does."

My spine warms, and into it, she whispers, "Enid Cholle. It's Welsh. From the word cholledig, which means lost. My parents were into that kinda stuff. They thought it was poetic, giving me a name that meant Lost Soul. Pretty ironic, huh? Pretty sad."

And I say, "Yeah."

And she says, "You look like a lost soul... lost boy."

And I say, "Yeah."

And then a lot of time passes before she says, "Yeah."

She gets up.

"I forgot something."

I can't ask what it is as she's leaving already, so I sit for a while longer until Rosita offers me a bottle of whiskey. I confess that I was going to steal them and she just rolls her eyes and slips a few small bottles into my hoodie. I'm not about to argue.

I also need to pee.

It's quiet upstairs. After I pee, I decide to stay upstairs for a while. Others come and go to the bathroom but otherwise nobody pays me much attention. I sit at the end of landing on the floor, knees against my chest. At some point, Enid returns with Carl.

"Where'd you find it?" he asks her.

"I didn't," she replies.

I realise that I haven't had enough whiskey for this. Haven't had any.

"Hey, Lost Boy." Enid sits with me. "We couldn't find you."

Carl sits with us. As uncomfortable as this is, I guess today's circumstance is enough to loosen the tension a bit.

Then I realise what I'm looking at, in his palm, where a very soggy, very startled, very straggly kitten sits. Carl struggles to hold onto it, and it will hiss and claw at him if he moves too much.

"I didn't mean to look through your things," Enid explains, "but backpacks aren't meant to hiss. I gave it a bath, some scraps. We can't tell how old it is or if it's a boy or a girl, but it eats solids and we gave it flea and worm treatment, so it'll be okay."

It looks like a very angry miniature lion.

"It's kind of mean," Carl says.

"Olivia says it just needs to settle in," Enid tells us. "She says, if it lives, it'll be useful for rodent control."

"You thought of a name for it?" Carl asks.

"Maybe we shouldn't name it yet," Enid says. "We don't know if it'll even make it."

The landing fills with meowing and it occurs to me that I haven't yet contributed to the conversation.

Enid reaches into my pocket and pulls out the Danville Bridge bottles. "Are you drinking?"

I shake my head.

"Do you want to?" she asks.

I shrug, so she pops open the little cork stopper and takes a swig. It makes her grimace. She hands it to me. I drink, too. The whiskey burns but once it's down it makes my chest and belly warm.

Carl drinks some, too — splutters. "Ugh... that's so nasty."

Enid and I keep drinking until the small bottle is empty. I lay it on its side against the floor and roll it back and forth under my finger. The sound tickles my ears.

"If you don't want them, can I have the others?" she asks.

"Go ahead."

She drinks another one alone, and with her lips all wet and twisted, she asks me, "Did you go home?"

"Yeah."

"Is it over? Is it done?"

"Yeah..."

The kitten mewls. Enid decides to take it back to her house. I offer to go with her but she declines and tells me to stay. She also takes the last two bottles of whiskey with her. Then it's just me and Carl. Neither of us say much. People come and go to the bathroom. Carl seems frustrated, and I think he's been crying; his eyes are puffy and red and blood shot. He and Denise were close, too.

He looks at me, running his hand up through his hair. The silence between us is killing me, but that doesn't mean it'll be me who breaks it.

Realising this, he sighs. "What do you want me to say, Oliver? You haven't talked to me in three days... I just want to help — to do something. You're—"

"I don't need you to help," I retort. "I don't need you to do anything. Not you or Enid or anybody. You don't have to fix me. Stop trying to fix me. Let me fix me. All I need you to do is just... just..."

"Just what?"

"Just be."

Carl glares, his eye goes cold, like ice. And I know that I sound like a brat. I know that I'm offered help every day and I still don't take it. I know I know I know.

"You know what?" he asks. "Screw you."

"No," I retort, sitting forward. "Screw you. I get shitted on all the time. Put through hell. And I get kidnapped and molested and shot and made to eat cigarettes, and then, when I'm safe again, when I'm on my own, in my own head, and when it's all biting me in the fucking asshole, I do things I shouldn't because I am mad and sad and lonely. I can't help it. Sometimes I want to die. I want to stop it myself so that nothing else gets the chance. But the reason I don't is because of you... It's... It's because of Carol, and Enid, and Glenn and Maggie, and Tara, and Rosita, and Michonne and your dad. It was because of Denise. All of you. And it still is. Because this whole place and everybody still here is still here."

He's staring at me. If I look at his throat I can see his heartbeat between his collarbones.

"I am not okay," I tell him. "And neither are you."

I stop, shutting my eyes.

"Look, I'm just sick of it, too, aright?" I say. "I am. I'm sick of there always being this bad air between us. I'm sick of ignoring it, and telling myself it's easier that way. It's not. But—"

Someone is coming up the stairs.

"Dad..."

"Boys," Rick says, and asks if we're alright — I pocket both empty whiskey bottles and we say we're fine so Rick uses the bathroom.

While his dad's inside, I tell Carl, "But I'm not sick of you, man..." which is the last thing I wanted to say, because I mean it, because: "I really hope you aren't sick of me either."

As Rick leaves, I'm looking at Carl's mouth because it's stretching and he's shaking his head like he's just heard the most ridiculous thing in the world to him.

"I'll, uh, take that as a 'no' then?" I ask, smiling, too.

"No," he confirms. "I'm not sick of you, dumbass."

"Good."

Rick, stopping before us, says, "Come downstairs, boys," and we go.

"Hey. Man. I'm sorry about Denise," I tell Carl while I follow him across the clinic into the room he woke up in. Michonne is here, sitting on the edge of the bed with Judith, who's asleep, clinging to Patty. "She saved your life."

"Saved yours, too," Carl says, telling his father and Michonne he'll be around. Mrs. Miller tells him he's a good young man and he says, "Thank you, ma'am."

"Do you remember that day?" I say to him between outside conversations, because I'm also telling Rick and Michonne I'll see them around and putting up with Mrs. Miller pinching my cheeks.

Carl holds the door open. "Yeah, I do."

As he crosses the street, I ask, "What are we doing?"

Carl shrugs. "Hanging out, guess. Do you want to?"

I'm squinting, nodding.

Carl nods, too. He grabs my sleeve and tugs me to accompany him.

Notes

RIP Denise

If you read the AU, you know what the kitten will be called.

I really liked the boy and woman who Carol and Oliver killed. They were like some weird reflection of how Oliver and Carol see themselves. The name, Merope, in Greek, means foster mother, because I'm honestly trash when it comes to that symbolism shit.

As always,
Happy reading.