There was still a cross left. Nailed to the pulpit. It was too little, Owen guessed, for anyone to think it worth chopping up or hammering onto something to protect this holy, bloody ground.

Lots of holy, bloody ground in the world, Owen mused. You think that would've satisfied you, God. But nope. You sent the apocalypse anyway. And where's that Second Coming I always heard about? You on your way? Get stuck in traffic? Someone eat the wrong apple again? Women, am I right?

"You religious?"

Owen turned. Carl was walking down the aisle with the baby, bouncing her. She'd been fussy for a few minutes now. But she seemed to be quieting down. Owen put his hands in his pockets and cracked his neck.

Wanna be covert in your philosophical moments, Wells? Try not to brood in front of the subject.

He shrugged. "I don't really know what religious means anymore. I haven't prayed in a while. I take the Lord's name in vain a lot, though, so I guess I must think I'm pissin' somebody off."

Carl stopped in front of him. His eyes flickered over Owen's shoulder and then flickered away.

Owen looked at the baby. She looked back at him. She evidently wasn't afraid of strangers. She probably already knew there were far worse things than a person she didn't know.

Well, that wasn't necessarily true.

"Can I hold her?" he blurted.

"Judith?"

Owen felt a burning flush swoop over his neck, but he rubbed it away. He'd asked to play nursemaid, great, good for him. He couldn't take it back now. "No, Michonne," he said wryly. "I've seen the way she looks at me."

Carl chuckled, sort of. That was all it could be. There was no full-out chuckling or smiling right now. Except for Owen, but his smiles were – well, in a word, bullshit.

Most of the time.

"You know how to?"

Owen nodded. "Yeah."

And so Carl handed over the baby. Owen tucked her in nice and tight against his chest. She locked eyes with him again. Then locked a hand onto his shirt.

"Do you have much experience with babies?" Carl asked.

Owen swayed back and forth. "My dad's girlfriend was five months pregnant when the turn happened. I was . . . in the hospital, for the last weeks, but before that, they had a couple of her friends who had babies come over. They wanted my brother and me to practice. Wanted us to be good with her." Owen paused. "The baby, I mean. They were having a girl."

Carl was quiet. Judith was quiet. She was still watching Owen. Evaluating him, he'd damn near swear. But hey, she wasn't crying. That had to be a good sign. Well, for him. For her, it meant bad judgement of character.

"Sydney never told me that," Carl finally said.

"I don't think she ever knew. Tyler wasn't happy about it."

He hadn't meant to say his name. He didn't like saying his name.

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why wasn't he happy about it?"

"I don't know. We never talked about it."

"But you knew he wasn't happy?"

"Oh, yeah," Owen muttered. "I could always tell."

Carl shifted his weight. "Big brother's job, I guess."

"No, the job is protecting the kid," Owen said.

". . . Right. That too. Obviously."

"Obviously."

Judith pulled on Owen's shirt. He considered making a crack about women of all ages wanting to take his clothes off, but couldn't really find the heart to.

"Here," he said, and returned the baby to Carl. She kept staring at him, though. Owen rubbed his jaw to hide the grim line his mouth had turned into.

"What happened to them?" Carl asked.

"My family?"

A nod.

"You shouldn't ask people that."

"You do things all the time you shouldn't do. You say things you shouldn't say."

Owen grinned and sat down on the couple of steps going up to the pulpit. "What, you've decided I'm your role model? That's adorable."

Carl didn't blink. Jesus. Even Sydney would have –

Nah, probably not.

Owen took out his Zippo and flipped the lid open. "They lived in Atlanta. They were there when the bombs hit."

Now Carl blinked. Actually, he let his head fall. "I'm sorry."

Owen brought his thumb down, heard that beautiful scraping noise and watched the flame dance before he let it go, let it die. Killed it. "Sorry about your mom."

Carl's head jerked back up.

"Sydney told me." Owen scraped out a flame again. Killed that one, too.

Carl swallowed. "What'd she tell you?"

"Just that she died."

Carl took a deep breath. He watched his sister, bounced her a little. Then he said, "She didn't tell you I shot her?"

Scrape, kill. "No."

"She was already dead. Or dying, I don't – we'd just – she'd just had Judith, and she . . . They couldn't both make it."

Owen watched the flame. "Well, don't we have more in common than I thought."

"Because of your dad?" Carl asked in a way that wasn't really asking.

"Well, no. My dad's a pile of charred bones in Atlanta. My father, though . . . well, you know all about my father. His tragic end, anyway."

Except for the look he'd given Owen from down on the bloody asphalt, over the barrel of a gun that shone in the moonlight, shone like Joe's silver hair, like the fading light in his eyes. No one could ever know about that part, even if Owen tried to get them to. Like he'd ever want that.

"Was it hard?" Carl whispered.

"No."

"I'm sorry –"

"You shouldn't be. He was going to kill all of you. From your dad to your girlfriend. After everyone had their way with . . ." He glanced at the younger boy. ". . . everyone they wanted their way with."

Carl's jaw clenched. Judith whined, then let out a full-on cry, and Carl shushed her, rocked her, until she calmed down again. "I meant," he said, "I'm sorry you were the one to do it."

Scrape. Kill. "You shouldn't be," he repeated, his voice as soft as the fire he so loved to play with.