Carol relaxes against the low back of the metal stool that stands before the oak wood bar. The stools came out of the mess hall storage closest, clearly, but Henry built the bar himself. She likes the place. She likes the décor too – the fishing spears and nets on the wall, the red and white lifesaver, the shells, the large piece of driftwood with the letters HENRY'S carved out to make a sign. It reminds her of that seafood restaurant she went to once a year as a child, on her birthday – all you can eat popcorn shrimp. And hushpuppies. God how she misses hushpuppies.

She lifts her crystal wine glass. Henry looted a Pier 1, apparently, for his dinnerware. Nobody had bothered to ransack those. Carol takes a slow sip of the French Bordeaux and savors it on her tongue. Henry didn't comp her the glass, but he did offer her a discount, and she paid the difference in ammo because, well, her son owns his own business now. He's a restaurateur. Not a profession she ever would have guessed for him in this world. Blacksmith, maybe. But not restaurateur. She likes the sound of that word. It goes well with her French wine.

"You overpriced all the Old World wine," Linda tells Henry as she looks over the handwritten drink menu he's just handed her. She accompanied Henry and Carol to the pub because she wanted to see how her young mentee was doing – and Henry wanted her advice. She now sits at a stool at the end of the bar with a crystal whiskey glass containing an ounce of Candy shine to her left.

"How do you figure?" Henry asks from behind the bar, where he's playing bartender to his two lone guests. He expects a crowd to come in after dinner, though, when the Jamestown visitors have pitched their tents on the shore or are settled into guest rooms in the cabins, and the Oceansiders have finished setting up for tomorrow's fair. A towel hangs from his belt loop, ready to be used for wiping down the bar if any sailor gets a little too drunk and spills. It's going to be his biggest night since he opened, he told Carol. He's sure he'll fill his coffers with rounds and rounds of ammo. "It's all good wine. French wine. Italian wine. California wine. You can't get that anywhere else."

"We still have some California wine," Linda tells him. "They found some in the cult's apartment complex. A couple of bottles of South American wine, too."

"The cult?" Henry asks.

"It's a long story. I'm sure your mother will tell you."

"This sounds good," Henry say to Carol. "You should enter the storytelling contest tomorrow."

"I think I'd rather enter the archery competition."

"You can enter both."

"I'm not much for public speaking, Henry."

"Yeah. That was always Dad, wasn't it? God, he would have loved the storytelling competition. He'd have won the gold the last three years running." He turns his face back to Linda. "What's wrong with my wine prices?"

"They're almost twice mine for Old World wine."

"Well people can't exactly hop over to the Jamestown Tavern. I don't think you're much competition for me. No offense."

"Has anyone bought it yet?" Linda asks.

"My mom's drinking it."

Carol tries not to laugh.

"Because you gave it to her at a discount," Linda says. "And she's your mother. Listen, my ambitious apprentice, it's the apocalypse. People want to get pissed. They don't want fine dining. And you've underpriced the Candy shine." She takes her second sip. "Which is surprisingly good for shine. Is Candy coming to the fair?"

"I doubt it," Henry answers. "Eugene will, and he'll bring more of her shine to trade. But she's due in January. Even before Rachel. Not really a time to be traveling. She hasn't left Alexandria once since she got there."

"Well, she hadn't left Jamestown once until she moved to Alexandria," Linda says. "I hate to say it, but I miss her. Gunther does, too. Surely she'd come to see Gunther, at least?"

Henry shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. You really think I should lower the price of the wine? I'd lose money."

"Not if you also raise the price of the Candy shine."

"But then they'd buy less Candy shine."

"No, they wouldn't."

Henry crosses his arms over his chest. "Why wouldn't they?"

"Because, refer back to my point A."

"Which was?" Henry asks.

"People just want to get pissed in the apocalypse. And the Candy shine will still be the cheapest thing on your menu. But if you raise the price of the shine," Linda moves the index finger on her left hand up, "and lower the price of the wine," she moves the index finger on her right hand down, until the tips are only two inches apart, " the wine won't seem nearly as expensive. The price differential will shrink. People will be more willing to upgrade to it, every now and then."

"Huh. Okay. I might do that. What about my prices for the Hilltop wine?"

"Well, I don't know." Linda shoots back the rest of her Candy shine and pushes her glass forward. "I'll have to taste it before I can tell you."

"I suppose you expect that on the house, too?" Henry asks.

"Consider it my consultant's fee."

Carol chuckles.

"You think this is funny, Mom?" Henry asks. "The way she's milking me?"

Carol raises her glass casually. "You have to spend money to make money, Henry, sweetie."

Henry shakes his head but goes to pull down a deerskin flask full of Hilltop wine.

[*]

Sweetheart toddles across the shore, chasing the incoming foam of a wave. Daryl hasn't managed to get her away from the beach and into the village yet, but that's okay. Carol needs her time with Henry at his new pub, and he can't drop all their stuff off at Dianne's cabin yet, not when she's probably knocking boots hello with Gunther.

Sweetheart's pliable deer-skin moccasins – which Inola made her in exchange for some coffee beans when her feet outgrew the first pair of shoes Daryl looted – are tucked into the inside pocket of his black leather vest at the moment, and she stands now and giggles as the cold water washes over her bare feet. She slaps her feet up and down in the surf, her toes sinking into the sand each time. She toddles backwards to escape the watery assault. "Code code!"

"Well, yeah, 's gonna be cold. 'S November. Ain't swimmin' weather."

Sweetheart ventures forward a little and points. "Dat?"

"Kelp," Daryl answers.

"Whelp!"

"K – K – Kelp."

Sweetheart squats down and picks up the scraggly, wet, gooey, black-green strings. "Ewwww! Yucky whelp!" She shakes it off her fingers.

"Actually, seaweed probably," Daryl muses. "Don't think they got kelp 'n the Bay. Don't know the diff'rence really. Ain't a forest plant. Know m' forest plants. Don't know m' sea plants. Just know kelp 'n seaweed's diff'rn. Think kelp might be brown."

Sweetheart is wholly uninterested in her father's instructional monologue. She toddles on down the shore in search of more discoveries.

A fishing boat is docking alongside the Susan Constant. There's not much room for it in the great shadow of the colonial replica ship, but the Oceanside women who clamor to the dock manage to bind it. Daryl shades his eyes with a hand and gazes out at it. Beatrice is there, and some woman he doesn't know, and …Rachel? Henry said she was resting. What's she doing on a fishing boat? She's very obviously pregnant, even if she's just barely started her third trimester.

"Dat? Dada, dat?" Daryl turns his attention to Sweetheart, who is again pointing to an object on the shore. "Dat?"

"'S a seashell. Clam shell probably. Don't really know m'shells. Know m'fish. Creek fish. River fish."

"Swell?" Sweetheart asks.

"Shell. Sh – Sh -Shell."

"Swell!" Sweetheart squats down and tries to dig it out of the sand. Eventually she manages to get it, stands, and holds it up to Daryl. "Dada swell."

"M'shell?" he asks in mock surprise. He takes it from her fingers. "Thanks. Gonna treasure it 'til next Tuesday, at least." He slips it into the front pocket on his pants, the one near the knee. He loves these pants. Thick canvas, only a couple of rips, and so many pockets. He looted them from the apartment complex of those assholes who killed Harry and Laura. Someone was just his size.

The women are on shore now, and Rachel makes her way to Daryl. "Hey." She looks down at Sweetheart, who has stooped down to collect another shell. "Henry's been to visit Jamestown," she tells the little girl," but I haven't seen you since you were a baby. You've gotten so big!"

Sweetheart peers up at her with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"God," Rachel says. "She looks just like you when you're giving someone that who the hell do you think you are? look."

Daryl grunts. He doesn't know what look she's talking about. "Henry said you was restin'."

"I was resting. Fishing is very peaceful. Don't worry." She lays a hand on her belly. "I wasn't hauling up nets. I just dropped a line. Henry hates me going out on the boat. He thinks I should be his little woman and stay home by the fire."

"Doubt that."

Rachel shrugs. "He thinks I should stop going out on the fishing boat for a few months, anyway."

Daryl doesn't comment. He's not getting in the middle of his wife's son's marital disputes. Sweetheart has toddled ahead. She's squatting down. She looks back. "Dat? Dada, dat?" she asks.

Daryl strolls forward, and Rachel follows.

"Whelp!" Sweetheart says, picking up whatever has washed up. "Whelp!" She turns and holds the object up, her little hands tangled in the long mass of green-black…hair. It's hair. Not kelp. Not seaweed. Hair. And attached to the hair is a mishappen face.