The room is already black. He can't be sure what time it is, he's losing track. It could be the middle of the night, it could be quite a bitter earlier. The days are getting shorter, and he can't recall how long he's been sitting in the dark; he can no longer rely upon himself to judge. It's the fourth night they've been away— No, the fifth. A whole nother day had passed him, while he sat there motionless, in the shifting shadows of day and night. Time passes over him slowly, and he feels as though he's losing his grasp on it.

Once a day, maybe more, men, with different voices, and different faces, come in. They undo the heavy locks outside, they push open the door, and spoon more goop into his mouth, and a little bit of water. They don't question him, they almost wholly ignore him. They check his bonds, and then they leave him. There is no working out what they're after. If they don't talk to him they're not after information. At the start, sometime in his first day — at least the first day he was conscious, if he did, in fact, lose more than hours when they knocked him out — they had asked him about a map. They'd found a map with this place marked on it in their car, and they were using it as evidence this was more than a scouting trip that happened upon them, this was something that had been worked out and planned. They claimed there had been forethought, and thy pressed to know more.

Daryl had answered about the map, but they hadn't seemed satisfied, they haven't brought it up again. They just leave him there, to himself, tightly bound, and without the chance of escape. But if they don't want information, what do they want? They're not getting anything from him, but if they're ignoring him, are they ignoring the others? Are the other three being equally ignored? For what possible purpose? Keeping prisoners is not worth the effort it takes to keep them, Daryl knows this. So then there has to be a purpose. There is a reason he's been separated from his group and kept alive to wither and rot, he just can't see what it is. Are the other's still waiting, like him, in the darkness? Or is he the last? Alone now, waiting for an unknown fate?

The door opens, the sound of it so loud and jarring now that he's been sunk into this isolated nothingness. He's already been force-fed the mush for the night, so either this is it — when they've broken him down enough to move on to the next step, or— He pulls his head up. And there she is, in night clothes, lit partially by the flashlight she carries with her. It isn't a very bright burning one, but still it takes his eyes some getting used to.

She steps in, but does not move near him. In all her visits, she's been careful to keep her distance. "I brought you a pillow," she speaks softly.

"Daryl shakes his head. "You can't do that Sweetheart; they'll know."

She looks at him from her doleful eyes and accepts this must be true. She crosses the room toward the kittens and settles down beside the box. "Have they been crying?"

Daryl sniffs, "Only a little." He's thinking of home, about Beth, and laying his head down upon her pillow; about the way she smells and how she feels in his hands in the dark. He's thinking about escape, but every minute under the bondage of the unforgiving ties makes it seem all the more far away, and all the less likely to happen.

She looks back at him with a quick and unfiltered smile, "They're nursing."

Daryl nods, the corner of his mouth looking vaguely friendly, "Tha's a good sign."

The girl kneels and pets the tiny brow of the small grey one. "Are they feeding you?" She turns toward Daryl. "Are they?"

Daryl lifts his head, he's tired, hungry, in pain, and losing hope he's going to get out of there.

"Yeh," he grunts darkly. There's no reason for answering that way, when he is hungry. Very. But he does.

In the morning, before her shift serving breakfast, Beth ducks her head into Carl's cell. He's dressed, but he isn't up yet. "Hey." She smiles at him as she takes a step into his room.

Carl looks up. "Hey." He looks at her, "They back?"

Beth shakes her head. Carl watches as she takes a cautious step inside, looking to him for an invitation; his nod tells her to stop being stupid and just come in already. She smiles tightly and moves further in. "How ya doin'?"

Carl shrugs, then looks to her with meaning, "You?"

Beth doesn't want to answer that just now. It's still early. "I've been reading the book," she tells him. "It's good. Well," she smiles, rethinking that appraisal, "maybe 'good' 's not the word, but, it's interesting."

"Yeah?"

"Mm,hm." She moves toward the stool, but does not sit. "There's this thing called an Apache foot trap; it's meant for deer and game like that. Could work."

Carl nods, listening, "Cool."

"Course, that's if walkers don't get caught first."

"Right," Carl minimally snorts.

"And—" she starts again, "there're funnel fish traps. Ever try one?"

"Uh,uh."

"I guess we don't know till we try, but it seems like it's simple, and we could really catch fish easily. It could be a huge game changer for us."

"If you wanna eat fish every day," he kids.

"It'll be safer than hunting," she says simply. "Might even keep our people from having to go out as much." There's a moment of acknowledged silence between them, but Beth pushes on, choosing to smile. "I brought you something." Carl looks, noticing for the first time the book in her hands is not the scouting one. His interest is piqued. "I read it," she says, "when I was your age." She smiles at herself with a roll of her eyes, it sounds queer to be saying that to someone so close to her own age. "Ninth grade English—"

"Hmph," Carl shakes his head. It's crazy to think he'd be in high school now.

"—Ms. Huth," she reflects. "It's amazing."

Carl nods at it, "What's it called?"

"All Quiet on the Western Front. I think you should read it."

Carl's head tilts as he inspects the cover at the angle at which she's holding it. "About a war?" Beth looks at him, and nods. "Which one?"

"First World War. See," now she does sit, "it's this German soldier, stationed on the frontlines in France, and it's his experiences with his comrades — before the war and during; but the thing about it is, it's not about being German. When you read it, they could be anyone. And, the thing is, they are. It's beautiful, and tragic, but he finds the universal humanity in a war that killed nearly an entire generation." Carl doesn't know the way to react to this. But he listens. "The thing is, he's so ready to do his part, but he keeps making these connections, these real connections with the enemies — the French, the Russians. But they keep going, for each other. And by the end— Well," Beth edits herself here; she hadn't meant to be so long winded. She does not speak of the utter desolation at the end, how too long being a soldier in the unfeeling machine of war killed him long before the final shot. But she does smile, her dimples surfacing in the effort. "Try it," she offers it to him, unsure if Rick would approve, if she's championing the wrong perspective. After all, there's no chance for a cease-fire in this world. Pacifism won't help with the walkers; the world didn't turn to this through hyperbole and fool-hardy valor. If they're soldiers now, the natural laws of the world shaped them as such. She's worried about Carl, but maybe it is not her place to try to reach a part of him that might slow his survival. But there is more to living than simply breathing, and putting one foot in front of the other. It's in the book she hands him, and there's an unintentional flutter of her eyelashes as she offers it to him. "We can talk about it after. If you want."

Carl rises slightly from his bunk and accepts it from her extended hand. "Thanks."

She nods, and rises. But before she leaves the cell she stops at the doorway, "Carl," she says somberly, "it's also about being lost."

But Carl hasn't taken her meaning as she meant it, "It's six days now," he says. "Six."

Beth nods. She lingers there in the doorway, "My dad says—" Carl listens. "Daddy says no one's going after them... It's too far. It'll just put more people at risk..."

"That's crap," he says, more animated. "We know where they were heading. If we're not going after them— Michonne and Daryl? They're the strongest we've got. Sasha, Hank— If they're gone—"

Beth shakes her head. "They're coming back."

Not totally sure about the second part of this chapter, I pieced it together from an older piece, and I'm aware I might be trying to fit too much in, and mixing issues up :/ (I'm also torn about the 'no rescue' thing; I suspect some readers will balk at it. The survivors have a pretty good 'no man left behind' track record, but I saw this as something they built into the plan for this run. I don't know, maybe I just wrote it for the drama?)