AN: Here we are, another chapter here. As I said, we have a little aftermath to handle here before we reach the end, but it's close for this one. Have no fear, though, I have plenty of other stories for you to read (that I hope you will enjoy), including the sequel to this one for those who have not started it.

I published a chapter last night, so if you missed that one, please be sure to read it before reading this one.

I also have an AN at the end for the guest (and anyone else) who is concerned about the verisimilitude of the events in the story surrounding Carol's condition/time in the tombs.

For anyone who doesn't want to read it, I'll simply offer you the reminder that this is fiction and subject to my vision. I do not claim to be a professional, nor do I claim to be an expert in every single possible thing that might arise in the ZA. A little suspension of disbelief for the sake of enjoying a nearly 200,000-word fic (or any of my fics), which I wrote you for the rock-bottom price of absolutely free, is always very much appreciated.

I hope you enjoy the chapter, at any rate. Let me know what you think!

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Daryl moved buckets, dumped out dirty water, and rinsed the buckets with other stored creek water so that they could be used again to haul and store more water for boiling. After the two quick trips to move the buckets, he gathered up the soiled clothes and towels to carry them down to where they piled dirty clothes and linens for washing.

Now that things were slowly returning to something like a normal state in the prison—and now that his ears were open to life around him and the world didn't seem muffled by the sorrow inside him—Daryl could hear that everything was coming back to life. From one cell, the new baby cried out—a little girl that Rick and Lori had named Judith—and Rick hushed her. Lori was still recovering from her surgery, and she was generally in a somewhat sour mood with Rick since Shane's death, so Rick was tending the baby away from her company.

Outside, where Daryl left the buckets, Sophia had been happily playing with Beth and anyone who would entertain her, so Daryl decided there was no rush to haul her inside. She could wait the ten or fifteen minutes it would take him to finish cleaning things up.

On his final trip to the laundry room, though, Daryl stopped when he heard his name casually drifting among the noise of life as they knew it. He followed the sound, not that he had far to go, and stepped back out of sight once he realized who was talking. Maggie had very clearly sought an audience with her father, in his cell, alone.

"…if she dies?"

"Daryl's taking care of Carol. She's safe now. She'll get rehydrated, and she'll rest. She'll be up and about tomorrow. Within a couple of days, you won't be able to tell that she spent nearly three days lost in the tombs," Hershel offered.

"What if something else happens?" Maggie asked.

Daryl slipped into the neighboring cell. It was empty for the time being, though Beth had claimed it to be out from under her father. She wouldn't mind Daryl using it for cover for a few moments—at least that's what he told himself.

It was a private conversation, and he already knew that it was going to hurt his feelings and that he wasn't going to like what was going to be said between the father and daughter, but he couldn't help himself. He told himself that, beyond morbid curiosity, it was good for him to know what was being said in private—it would prepare him if he ever needed to fight against it in public.

There was very little privacy in the prison. Sounds of all sorts and voices carried long and easily. From the shared wall in Beth's cell, Daryl could practically hear the conversation as though he were sitting on Hershel's bed.

"We'd waste what time we have left if we were trying to come up with answers to all the possible 'what ifs' we might face, Maggie," Hershel said with a sigh.

"Daryl isn't exactly the greatest influence for a child," Maggie said. She lowered her voice like, for one moment, she was worried someone might hear her. Daryl did hear her, and what she said made his stomach ache and made him feel slightly nauseous.

Hershel laughed.

"If we're holding mistakes—or even perceived mistakes—against those who wish to become parents, Margaret, then your sister and you wouldn't even be here. I think it might do you well to remember that," Hershel offered.

"It's different, Daddy," Maggie said. "Lori's brought it up, too. It's just—Daryl's a little…rough around the edges."

Hershel laughed to himself.

"Maybe that's what we all need more of," Hershel offered.

"Sophia's already using profanity," Maggie said.

"Some of that comes from Beth's songs as much as it comes from Daryl," Hershel said. "Don't think that I don't hear it. Still—all things considered, I'm not certain that profanity is a genuine concern anymore."

"He lets her play with dead animals," Maggie said.

Daryl frowned to himself. He felt stuck in his spot. He felt like he wanted to move. He wanted to slip quietly out of Beth's cell. He wanted to drop off the laundry he was still holding. He wanted to find Sophia, dust her off from playing outside, find a mug that nobody was using, and carry the little girl to the cell where her mother would be happy to hold her and nurse her. He wanted to sit and urge Carol to drink soup and water—he wanted to watch her get her strength back with each swallow and each passing moment of rest and the realization that she was safe.

He wanted to ignore the fact that Maggie needed to vent her concerns to her father. He wanted to ignore the fact that he had a gnawing feeling in his gut that everyone at the prison was looking at him—expecting him to fail as a father. Maybe they already believed that he was failing as a father.

He corrected Sophia's profanity, sometimes, but he wasn't too bothered by the occasional repeated word. He let her come into contact with the world around her—even letting her see Walkers at a safe distance—because he was afraid of sheltering her. He let her fall down. He let her get hurt. And then, he did his best to teach her that boo boos would heal and that he'd be there to get her out of trouble if she couldn't get herself out.

But he wanted her to learn that she could get herself out.

Maybe Maggie was right, though, and he wasn't meant for fatherhood. Maybe he was bound to fail Sophia in one way or another—especially if anything ever happened that truly took Carol away from them both.

He wanted to leave the cell and to stop thinking about it, but he found that his feet were as firmly planted there as if he'd grown roots in the time that he'd been listening to the conversation.

"Daryl hunts," Hershel said. "And we're lucky that he does. More than once we've relied on what Daryl brings back to keep us all from starving. And he keeps Sophia with him while he cleans his kills. That's true. It's usually to allow Carol to attend to her chores."

"Watching him clean is one thing," Maggie said. "Playing with the carcasses?"

Hershel laughed again.

"Any child wants to mimic what their parents do," Hershel said. "That's how they learn. Maggie—you don't remember it, but you were helping me on the farm before you could barely stand up in your boots."

"Feeding cows is one thing," Maggie said.

"There are different skills for different situations," Hershel said. His voice picked up a slight hint of annoyance—like a parent who was on the verge of telling their child to sit and be quiet because they were tired of explaining why they had to accept reality as it was. "Sophia may very well learn to hunt and clean animals like her Daddy, or she may learn to cook them like her Mama. Maybe she'll choose to do both. Either way, no one would benefit from her having the belief that an animal carcass was never to be handled."

"We're only concerned about Sophia's welfare," Maggie said. "About—what she'll grow up to be."

"I think, if you were to ask Daryl, that's his primary concern, as well," Hershel said. "In fact, he's been worried about just such a thing since I met him. Maggie—I appreciate your concern, and everyone else's concern, but it's simply unfounded."

Daryl couldn't listen to anymore. When Maggie raised her voice with whatever protest followed, Daryl stepped out of Beth's cell. The pile of soiled linens and clothes in his arms felt far heavier than it had before. Some of that, he reasoned, was the fact that he'd been holding it for a while. The other reason, though, was that a great deal more weighed heavy on his shoulders now.

He passed by the cell as quickly as he could—all but breaking into a run—to keep from being noticed and, if he was noticed, to appear as though he were simply passing by and hadn't stopped to hear Maggie's well-prepared argument as to why he shouldn't be allowed to care for Sophia without supervision and the input of at least three other people.

Daryl dropped the laundry where it belonged. He swung through the little area where dishes and such were piled in the plastic tubs where they stored them so that it was easy to set the tubs out for people to use at meals. Daryl rummaged through the tub and found a suitable, plastic mug that Carol could use. He carried it with him out of the prison.

The fires were going and Beth was already working on dinner with the assistance of Axel, who sometimes paid more attention to the girl than seemed appropriate. Still, they weren't alone outside, and Beth could likely use a hand with things the way they were.

Daryl had barely stepped out of the prison before he heard Sophia.

"Dadeeeeeee!" She yelled.

Daryl smiled to himself. He was Dada when she was only conversing with him, but an excited yell could make her trail his name out long enough to make him Daddy—the title which he assumed would one day describe the person that he was becoming for Sophia.

"Don't run, Sophia!" T-Dog called out. He was following a few steps behind the little girl, keeping watch over her while Beth worked, and he smiled at her wild-legged run.

"Don't run," Daryl repeated. She practically skidded to stop when Daryl demanded that she not run. Instead of running, and risking a skinned knee or hand—both of which she had in various stages of recovery already—she walked toward Daryl with something of a hop in her step. When she was close enough that she considered the threat of falling gone, she launched herself at Daryl and wrapped around his leg. He'd have been thrown off of balance if he hadn't prepared for her hug attack.

He reached down and patted her back as T-Dog reached him.

"How are things going?" T-Dog asked, clearly not wanting to say anything that might alert Sophia, especially if the news wasn't good.

Daryl straightened up and nodded his head while Sophia continued to hug his leg contently. He smiled to himself.

"She's good," Daryl said. "Dehydrated. Weak from it. Tired. Gonna get some liquid in her. Get her to sleep some. Couple of days, she'll be back out here trying to take over things from Beth."

T-Dog laughed.

"No offense, but we'll all be happy to see that," T-Dog said. "You have to admit that the food's left a little to be desired."

"I ain't been huntin'," Daryl agreed, "and she ain't been cookin', but it's a taste of what the hell it'd be like if we packed up and moved on."

"Is that something you're considering?" T-Dog asked.

Daryl's stomach tightened a little. To be honest, he hadn't even thought about it, really, until the words came out of his mouth. It had been something he'd thought about from time to time, and maybe even threatened once or twice, but he hadn't thought of it too much lately.

"I think we'll stay," Daryl said. "I just meant—if we had to."

Sophia, tired of hugging his leg, wanted to be picked up and quickly grew impatient waiting for him to notice her upstretched arms. She called out to him, repeatedly, to get his attention. He scooped her up, and he handed her the mug that he'd selected from the dishes box—a plastic one with a cartoon character on it. He'd chosen the plastic one simply because he could be sure that she was going to want to help in some way, and she couldn't break the mug or hurt herself with it.

"Thanks, Dada," Sophia offered, happy with the mug as she gripped it in her hands. Daryl laughed to himself.

"You welcome," he said. "You—wanna go give that to your Mama?" Sophia looked at him, brow furrowed. He nodded his head. "Sophia—you wanna go take that to your Mama?"

"Mama?" Sophia asked.

Daryl assumed that maybe she'd understood, finally, what he'd been telling her for nearly three days, and for all the hours that she didn't sleep—or allow him to sleep—during the night. Her Mama was gone. She wasn't coming back to either of them.

But now she was back, and Daryl nodded.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go see your Mama."

Sophia's bottom lip rolled out like she was about to cry, and she bounced in his arms, kicking her legs somewhat wildly, and accidentally kicking him in the process. Daryl realized that she didn't know what to do. She was confused. She was overwhelmed. And, maybe, she was even a little distrustful that this was some kind of cruel and unexpected trick.

"Shit," Daryl said, tightening his grip on the little girl. "It's OK, Sophia…calm down. Don't wanna go in there like that, do you? You gotta calm down." Seeing that she clearly wasn't going to calm down, though, Daryl tossed a thanks to T-Dog for helping with her while he'd been occupied, and he carried the now-crying child through the prison. Her tears dissolved into the repeated request for "Mama" that she'd howled out over the past few days, and, as it had done every time Daryl had heard it before, the sound nearly ripped his heart in two.

This time, at least, he knew that there was something good to offer Sophia at the end of it all.

And that helped soothe even the ache that he was nursing over Maggie's overheard words to her father.

When Daryl balanced Sophia on one hip and pushed the curtain back, he almost ran into Carol, who was on her way out of the cell, presumably to find them. Her face was drawn up like she was seconds from bursting into tears herself. She reached her arms out, and Sophia immediately stopped crying in the same way that someone might if they were slapped hard across the face.

"Get back in bed, woman," Daryl said, holding tight to Sophia and pointing Carol back toward the bed. "We're comin' to you."

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AN: This is for the guest who was concerned about the verisimilitude of the story, and for anyone who doesn't understand why I made the choices I made. I apologize if you feel that it wasn't correctly done. I hope you can understand that it is fiction.

I wanted to address why I made the choices that I have made. The main reason, of course, is that my choices reflect my vision for the story.

As for Carol's current case of dehydration, she's been almost three days without food or water. It has been discussed, already, that she suffered from low body weight/malnutrition because of physical demands and rations within the group. Carol is also the kind that always gives to others first.

Many people are at risk of dying at/around three days without water. Carol has been entirely without water or food for nearly three days. She's been locked in a suffocating, metal and concrete cell for that time. Remember, there's no circulating air or anything at this point. In addition, she had been engaged in a rather strenuous activity (running and fighting for her life) when she got locked in there. She's lactating, which doesn't stop immediately just because she won't be feeding for a while. She's also very claustrophobic, which means that closing herself into that dark, tight space would have been terrifying for her. It would have been a choice she made only because she was sure that she wouldn't survive outside of the cell (since she also lost her knife). Her body would have been flooded with adrenaline many times over (that alone would produce fatigue and exhaustion, especially after the panic-causing issue has passed). She has likely not slept while she's been in there because of panic and anxiety. She would have likely heard Daryl, or believed he would come, so she probably tried to get his attention and called out for him as much as she dared.

I'm no medical doctor, but based on my google research, a little common sense, and some poetic license. I didn't think it was too much of a stretch to have her dehydrated (which can cause a whole host of problems, including fainting/unconsciousness) and, upon finding herself safely in Daryl's arms, allowing herself to simply "let go" for a short spell. I guess you're bothered that Daryl carried her out, since you mentioned that she shouldn't "need a stretcher" (which she didn't have) but that's canon at any rate, and it's certainly something this Daryl would do. I can't see him being like "walk it off, and be prepared to punch your way through whatever Walkers get in our way…"

Maybe that's just me. At any rate, I apologize if my vision of things did not match yours or diminished your enjoyment of the story in any way. It is what it is, and the way I wrote it is simply the way that I saw things happening. Maybe you can understand my perspective now.

For anyone else who read this rambling note, you are free to go. LOL

I do hope you enjoyed the chapter, at least as much as is possible.