Carol's checking the sharpness of her new knife when there's a knock on the door. Ivan has already come to walk Sophia to school, and George has already come with the milk (and a baby-food-size jar of butter), so she wonders who this could be. When she answers the door, Ryan holds up a basket with a single French loaf of uncut bread. "You're my last delivery."

"And how often does this come?" Carol asks.

"Once a week. It's baked up at the big house."

He follows her inside as she goes to put the bread in the unplugged toaster oven, which will serve as a nice bread box. When she turns around, Ryan has set his empty basket on the table. He smiles. "I could sure use a cup of coffee. How about you?" He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a package. "Instant coffee crystals. How about you and I have a coffee date? You would just need to heat up some hot water for us."

That's when Carol realizes this cottage is not conveniently located to be at the end of a delivery loop. He's planned his deliveries to make her the last. He's interested in her. The fact strikes her as ridiculous and flattering at the same time. She hasn't been asked on a date in over seventeen years, not since Ed picked her up at the diner where she used to waitress. It's too bad she doesn't find Ryan the least bit attractive.

Of course, she found Ed to be attractive at the start, when they were in their early twenties, and he had all that thick black hair. He was tall (6'2" in fact), and dark and masculine, and she liked what she naively considered to be his self-confidence and protectiveness at the time.

Ryan is short and a little round, with a shiny, bald streak of head between his two sides of brown hair. He's a soft-spoken washer of laundry and a deliverer of bread. He's the complete antithesis of Ed, and maybe that's exactly what she should be attracted to. The anti-Ed. But she's not.

"You know, I'd love to, but I have my own community chores to get to. Unfortunately, you caught me on my way out the door."

[*]

Carol meets up with her pike-cleaning partners at the warehouse barn, as the schedule Jefe sent home with Sophia instructed her to do. The scrawny young African-American man who was teaching the kids rifle awaits her, and he confirms his name is Noah. Another young man, with sandy brown hair, introduces himself as Zach.

The young men check out "cleaning equipment," which includes work gloves, protective arm and elbow pads, and several replacement pike tips that Zach tells her can be screwed on and off the tops of the wooden pikes. Noah checks out a rifle with a bayonet for Carol to use. She's shot a rifle before, but not often. She found one in her time out there, and she used it until the barrel unexpectedly split, and then she left it behind. "We'll be shooting them?" she asks, a little afraid of embarrassing herself.

"Try not to," Noah replies. "Use the bayonet instead. The rifle's more for backup in case we run into more than we can handle."

Noah drives out the gates in a pick-up truck, with Zach riding in the bed and Carol in the passenger's seat. "How did you become the school's firearms instructor?" she asks. He looks closer to eighteen than twenty to her, whatever Sophia may have said.

"My dad was retired military," Noah answers. "He started taking me to the range when I was twelve. I learned the basics from him, but where I really learned was out there. Surviving. The first three months, anyway. Then I was imprisoned at Grady Memorial."

"Imprisoned?"

"I got injured. These cops…they found me, took me to Grady. They patched me up there, but then they forced me to be an orderly to pay off my debt. Leaving wasn't an option like it is here, and they worked me hard. DeShawn and Daryl came there five months ago, looking for medicines. There ended up being this huge shootout, and I grabbed a gun off a cop and joined in on Daryl's side." He shrugs. "And now I'm here."

"And those cops are still there?" She thinks of that 2 next to the X on Grady Memorial on Jefe's map.

"The ones we didn't kill getting out. Jefe ordered her men to avoid the place after that. I'm surprised she agreed to the raid on that camp the other day. She's usually in favor of avoiding rather than attacking. But I guess she allowed it for Daryl's sake."

Allowed it for Daryl's sake, Carol thinks, and she again wonders about their relationship. "Can you give me formal rifle lessons like you're giving the children?" she asks. "I want to become a better shot."

Noah glances at her, and then back at the grassy field he's driving through. "Sure. I mean, you'll have to supply your own ammunition. Jefe only authorizes so many rounds for training, and you aren't on the list."

Carol sighs. She only has that box of 9 mm Daryl gave her for her handgun. "I don't suppose there are any rifles that take nine millimeter?"

"We have a Ruger PC Carbine that takes it, but I think you'd do letter to learn on an AR-15. Less recoil. I'll tell you what. I'll trade you some of my .223 for your nine millimeter. You should know, though, I'm only the seventh best shot here."

"Oh, and who are the top six?"

"DeShawn's probably the best. Then Jefe herself. Then I'd say it's Garrison, Felipe, Daryl, and Monty. Then me."

"Daryl's only number five?"

"With a rifle," Noah replies. "I mean, obviously, he's number one with that crossbow. Anyway, I think Jefe just has me teach the kids because they're more receptive to me. Because I'm younger, I guess."

"And personable," Carol tells him.

He smiles. A minute later, he pulls the truck to a stop and throws it into park. A long row of pikes, dug at an angle into the grass just outside the forest's tree line, have caught up a dozen walkers.

The protective padding turns out to be a good idea, because as Carol's stabbing one monster in the head with her bayonet, another stumbles out suddenly from behind the trees. She's still yanking out her bayonet when the walker grabs hold of her. Carol tries to shake it off and turn to stab it, but it has already bent to sink its teeth into her arm. When its mouth hits her plastic and metal elbow protector, the walker rears back, hissing, and that's just the perch she needs to drive the now free bayonet into its head. Her heart still thumping, she steps back to slide the bayonet out, and the creature crumples to the ground.

Zach, who is screwing off a bloody pike tip after peeling off a dead walker, looks at her warily. "Careful."

Carol, her heart still thudding in her chest, checks her arm. The elbow pad is scratched, but she's none the worse for wear. She peels off her slain walker from the pike and begins unscrewing the pike tip, in imitation of Zach. "I assume we keep the old tips?"

"Yeah. We take them back and clean and sharpen them for reuse."

Carol searches both of the walkers she slew and finds a pack of cigarettes in the pocket of the first one's shredded winter coat. "Do we get a finder's fee for doing this?"

Zach looks at the pack in her hand. "Hey, I won't tell if you don't tell."

"I don't want to break the rules, either."

"Jefe doesn't care about cigarettes. Boots, on the other hand…" He crouches down, pulls the boots off his walker, and throws them in an open burlap bag they've brought for loot. "Collect them as long as the soles aren't entirely worn off. The cobbler cleans them up good and we keep them in the warehouse until someone the same size needs a new pair. Collect all gold, silver, lead, and copper you can find, too. We melt all that down to make bullets for reloading."

Carol crouches down and sees her walker has four silver fillings in its gray teeth. "Do we take fillings?"

"Oh, good times." Zach walks over to her and fishes a pair of pliers out from one of his pockets. "Want me to do it?"

"I will." He hands her the pliers. Willing her stomach not to be queasy, she works out each of the teeth.

The cleaning involves driving to several more sections of pike line on the north, west, and east side of camp. While working, Carol sinks her bayonet into four more walkers, but then she uses her knife to slay three because she wants the stabbing practice. When she gets to the third one, her heart is steady in her chest.

[*]

Daryl returns at sunset that evening, while Sophia is over at Ivan's cottage playing chess. The man is clearly ravenous, and he starts rummaging for food in the cabinets.

"I'll whip you up something," Carol tells him. "Just go get washed up." He has blood on his shirt. She doesn't ask what kind.

"Ain't used to being cooked for," he admits as he wanders off to his bedroom. He comes out without his bow or vest. Holding a clean shirt in his left hand and an and oil lamp in his right, he disappears into the bathroom to wash up.

Carol knocks when the kettle boils and asks him if he wants some hot water in there to mix with the cold in the basin. She thinks he mutters "Come in," so she pushes open the door, which is not closed all the way to begin with.

He's sliding a clean shirt on over his head, and she beholds a flash of scars on his back, old and deep. "Hey!" he growls, quickly tugging down the shirt to hide the scars. "Don't just go bursting in, you dumb bitch!"

"Sorry. I thought you said come in."

"Said just a minute!"

"Well, you mumble!" She extends the kettle to him, a jumble of emotions somersaulting in her gut—pity and embarrassment for him, anger at his words, and the old, automatic fear and tension that comes from being yelled at and expecting a blow to follow. "Thought you might want some hot water."

He glares at her but takes the kettle, and she goes back to the kitchen. That gives her time to calm her nerves. The fear and tensions subsides, but the anger lingers. Ed used to call her a stupid bitch.

He takes a long time, but eventually he comes out of the bathroom with the empty kettle and the oil lamp. He shuffles into the kitchen, averting his eyes from her, and sets the kettle on the counter. He puts the oil lamp next to it and turns it down because Carol already has a second lamp glowing in the center of the kitchen table.

"Your dinner's almost ready," she says a little thinly.

He pours himself a glass of water from the faucet and then sits down at the spot where she's already set out a spoon and napkin and bowl. A piece of garlic bread rests on the rim.

"Sorry I yelled at you," he says, staring into the dancing flame of the oil lamp. "Sorry I called you a dumb bitch. Didn't mean that. It just…" he sighs. "Heard words like that m'whole damn life. From the time I was a little kid. And they just come out. I don't ask 'em to. Don't even think 'em really. Sure as shit didn't mean 'em. They just…come out. I'm working on it, though. On overcoming my operant conditioning."

Carol wonders if he got that phrase from his Treating Survivors of Childhood Abuse book. She wordlessly pours some soup from a pot into his bowl. He picks up his spoon and, looking guilty, stirs as she sits down across from him with her own glass of water.

"You ain't dumb," he says, raising his eyes to hers like it's not an easy task to do, as if he has to drag them from his bowl. "That veterinarian school was a damn smart idea. And you sure as hell ain't a bitch. Been real nice to me." He takes a bite of the soup and swallows.

"Well, you've been nice to me, too." When he looks confused, she continues, "I mean, not in the bathroom just now. But you've given me pretty much free reign over your food. You've given me and Sophia our own room. A roof over our heads. A couple of really good knives. And I know what it's like."

"What what's like?"

"Being abused by someone who's supposed to love you." It was his father, Carol surmises. The same father who abandoned him for nine days to get high or drunk with some waitress, not caring how or if his young child managed to feed himself. All that left scars, and not just physical ones.

Daryl takes a spoonful of his soup and swallows. He doesn't deny he was abused. He doesn't confirm it either. He asks, "Who abused you?"

"My husband."

"Mr. Pelletier?"

"Yes."

He dips his spoon back into the bowl. "Why didn't you leave him?"

"I don't know. I was afraid. I tried to leave twice. But I came back."

"He hurt your girl?"

She shakes her head. "Not physically. But emotionally. She was scared of him. And she saw it sometimes. What he did to me. And I also think it was only a matter of time before he started..." She swallows hard. She won't talk about that, the way Ed had begun to look at Sophia at the onset of puberty, as though she wasn't his own daughter. "I was a coward."

"But you ain't no more?"

"No," she says quietly but firmly. "I may make some necessary compromises to provide for my daughter, but I have my lines, the ones I will no longer allow to be crossed without a fight. Even if it's a losing fight."

He nods and takes another bite. Then he points with his spoon to the bowl. "This ain't as good as your usual cooking."

"Well, it's Campbell's."

He smiles and ducks his head. "Ah."

"But the bread was baked in the big house, and we got butter today, and I've been wanting to use more of those spices, so I did spruce it up. It's my own garlic bread recipe, modified."

"Yeah?" he asks. He picks up the bread that's leaned against his bowl and takes a bite. He hums. And then here it comes - "Fucking fantastic!"

Carol smiles.

He takes another bite and repeats his assessment.

"So my recommendation paid off?" Carol asks. "You got a good stash at the veterinarian school?"

"That place was a goldmine. All Garrison had to do was pound on the window on one side of the wing, draw 'em all down there, I bust in, close off that fire door, kill a couple stragglers, and they're all trapped in that one half of the building. Only looted half the building that way, but…Still got a great score."

"So what took you so long getting back?"

"Rain into these fuckers. They tried to steal our shit, shouting, Claim! Claim! Got in a fight. Killed some of 'em. Outran the others. Wanted to make sure we'd lost 'em and they didn't find our camp, so we spent some time zig zagging all over Kingdom Come, today and yesterday. Spent last night at a whorehouse."

"What?"

"Ain't in service now, obviously. Said massage parlor on the door, but it was pretty damn obvious what kind of place it used to be. Got a shit load of condoms, though. Shelf life's another two years. So, if you ever decide to get jiggy with it...you can sign some out of the warehouse."

"Who do you think I'd get jiggy with?"

He shrugs. "Rumor has it Cody's sweet on you."

"I like Cody, but I don't think Cody and I will be getting jiggy with it."

"Come on! Man got shot. Don't you think he at least deserves a pity fuck?"

"I'm not in the business of handing out pity fucks to men who get shot. But I did visit him twice in the infirmary."

"Yeah, he told me. I was just there."

Hungry as he was, Carol thinks, he went to see Cody first before grabbing food.

"Well, if you ever change your mind," Daryl says, "you'd make Cody's day. Just tell Handsy Andy to take the condoms off my allotment."

Carol assumes he means Andrew, the warehouse manager. She can't resist asking, "You won't need your full allotment of condoms yourself?" Maybe he'll let slip some information about where he goes at night.

He doesn't. Instead, he ignores her question, finishes the last bite of his soup, and says, "Wish I had more of that garlic bread to wipe the bowl with."

"Well, maybe I'll make more tomorrow. We still have half the loaf. I can give you a plain piece."

"Nah. Save it." And then he lifts the bowl, brings it to his face, and licks the insides with his tongue. What he can't get that way, he runs a finger along, and then he sucks his finger clean. He just pulled the finger out of his mouth with a slurp when he notices her watching. "Jefe says I lack table manners. That why you're staring?"

"I didn't think I was staring." She stands and takes his bowl. "You often eat with Jefe?" she asks as she sets the bowl in the sink.

"Sometimes. She likes her dinner meetings."

Carol turns when she's done washing the dishes, and, as usual, he's fishing for his cigarettes. But the pack comes up empty. "Shit," he mutters. "Well, I still got Merle's open pack in my bedroom. And the ones in the root cellar."

"I found another pack today," she tells him as she leans back against the sink. "Morley's even. That's your brand, right?"

"Observant," he says. "Another reason I was an idiot to call you dumb. How'd you find 'em?"

"Cleaning the pike lines. Zach said it was okay to take them."

"Who the fuck's Zach?"

"Pretty soon," she says, "I'm going to know more people than you do."

"Jefe assigned you to clean the pike line?"

"Why sound so surprised?"

He shrugs. "Jefe don't usually assign women to dangerous jobs."

"I get the impression she doesn't think women are as valuable as men."

"Always thought it was the other way 'round."

"Why would you say that?" Carol asks.

Daryl taps a finger on his empty pack of cigarettes. "Easier for 'er to put men at risk. 'Cause men are less valuable. Hell, we're the cannon fodder of society. More disposable than women."

"Huh. I never thought of it that way."

He pushes his chair back and stands. "That's 'cause you ain't never thought 'bout how hard it is to be a man."

She laughs.

He chuckles and ducks his head as he walks towards his bedroom.

He's joking, she thinks, but maybe not as much as he's pretending to. He must have grown up with a father who never let him show any sign of weakness, probably even beat him when he did. Now he has the weight of hunting for a community, fighting threats to it, and scavenging for it on his shoulders. His own brother became cannon fodder in service to this camp.

He comes back out without Merle's old, open pack of cigarettes, the lid pulled back, and says, "I'm one short. You know anything about that?"

Carol decides to spare the milkman. After Daryl's apology this evening, she thinks her chances with him are better than poor George's. "I smoked it," she lies.

He narrows his eyes at her. He looks down at the pack. Then he looks back up at her. "Oh, well. They're stale anyhow. Pack's been open way too long." That doesn't stop him from fishing one out, however, and sliding it between his lips. "Gonna go for a smoke."

She wishes he wouldn't, especially since his walking smokes take well over an hour. She was just starting to enjoy his company. But he does leave, and Sophia comes home fifteen minutes later.

This time, Carol must be sound asleep when Daryl returns home, because she doesn't remember a beam of light flashing under her door.