Daryl does most of the muscle work while Carol mostly provides balance and placement. They get the loveseat and coffee table in first, and then Daryl insists on handling the armchair on his own. He's wearing his sleeveless angel wings vest and the shirt under it must be sleeveless, too, because Carol can see the muscles of his bare arms bulge as he heaves the chair up. When she attempts to help him push it father in, he grumbles, "Just let me do it!"

"Well, you certainly have the arms for it. As Jefe noted."

Daryl shoots her a wary look and grabs some bungee cords from the bed of the truck.

"She did." Carol doesn't know why she's pressing this matter. She knows they're not having sex, but part of her wonders if that's only because Daryl is oblivious of Jefe's interest. "She told me how much she likes your arms. And how your voice is all sex and gravel."

"Stahp." He jumps up into the bed with the furniture, situates the armchair further back, and begins securing the loveseat with a yellow cord.

"I'm serious. I think Jefe is attracted to you."

He hooks the cord to the rail. "I know."

"You know?"

Now he secures the armchair, whipping a red cord violently around with a slap against the leather. "Yeah. She asked me to fuck her once."

"She…wait…she did?"

He pulls on the cord to test its tautness. "Yeah. 'Bout three months ago." Now he looks over the coffee table as if determining how to keep it from rolling.

"And…you didn't though, did you?"

"No."

Carol's relieved, but she's also surprised, and it's the surprise that comes out in words -"Why not? She's gorgeous!"

"Sounds like you want to fuck 'er." He rolls the coffee table to wedge it tightly between the loveseat and the cab.

"You don't think she's attractive?"

"She's hot as hell." He hops back down on the pavement of the parking lot.

"Then why did you say no?"

"Dr. Eastman says I ain't got to have a reason. If I don't want a fuck a woman, that's fine. Don't mean there's something wrong with me."

"Of course it doesn't," Carol agrees. "I wasn't asking you to defend your decision. I guess I'm just surprised by it. Most men…" she shrugs. "Most men would jump at a chance like that."

"I know. So don't go gossiping 'bout it to Nadia or Ryan or any of your other girlfriends. If word gets back to DeShawn or Garrison I turned her down? I'll never hear the end of it."

"You always have my confidence," she assures him. Jefe would hate for people to know as well, Carol suspects. The woman is very careful about her image. She probably perceives a rejection of that nature as a sign of weakness. "I hope that's not why you never made inner circle."

"Pfft. Think DeShawn slept his way to the top?"

"No, I wasn't implying that. But maybe she holds a grudge."

"Jefe cares too damn much 'bout that camp to let something like that get in the way of doing what she thinks is best for it. 'Sides, she knows I wouldn't take a promotion if she offered it."

"No?"

He shakes his head. "Too many damn extra meetings. Too much responsibility. I like where I am. Know what's expected of me. For the first time in my life, I've got a job that means something. And I'm good at it."

"You are good at it," Carol agrees. She leans on the tailgate. She's delighting in this news a little too much. "It must have been embarrassing for her, to have you turn her down like that."

"Ain't like I broke her heart. Think she just picked me 'cause she thought I was some kind of guy I ain't."

"And what kind of guy is that?"

"I get the impression she likes to be dominated. She's got to be the boss all damn day long, so she just wants someone else to be the boss in the bedroom. But I ain't into that. At all. Don't want to order a woman around. Get rough with 'er."

"Oh." It makes sense, Carol supposes, that kind of sex might be a release valve for Jefe, but after everything Carol's been through with Ed, that would be the exact opposite of the kind of sex she'd want. And maybe Daryl's not so different from her in that regard.

"Surprised?" he asks. "That I ain't into that?"

"No. After all you went through in your childhood, you probably want more tenderness than that."

Daryl blinks as though surprised by her response. "Everyone assumes I'm just some crass redneck."

"I don't."

"Nah?"

"I think you're an intelligent, thoughtful redneck."

"Pffft. Yeah, I'm a real Hallmark guy."

"You are thoughtful. The way you apologized to Bonnie with those eggs? The way you gave Cody half your finder's fees and went to check on him the second you got back from hunting, hungry as you were? How you let Sophia win at poker and then made her feel better at dinner when she had that bad memory of Ed? And look, now you're taking me shopping for furniture you couldn't care less about."

"Hell you talkin' 'bout? That power reclining loveseat's the shit."

She chuckles. "Besides, I think I was a redneck to the people in my first camp."

"Bunch of city slickers?"

"No, but most of them were more educated than me. They at least went to junior college or tech school or an academy. Andrea even went to law school. They were all nice. They were good, friendly people, but sometimes I got the impression some of them quietly looked down on me. The uneducated housewife, whose only talents are cleaning and sewing and cooking, the mouse who cowers before her husband." She shrugs, "Of course, they were right about that last part. I think they'd be surprised to see I've developed a backbone since then. And a few useful talents."

"Ain't like those other talents weren't useful to begin with. I mean..." He studies his own boots, which he shuffles slightly, before looking at her again. "I never looked forward to coming home before."

There's so much to unpack in that statement that Carol can't even reply. There's a sadness and a sweetness in it all at once, and maybe a question, too, a hint of something unsaid, but it doesn't matter that Carol can't unravel it, because he doesn't wait for her to. He slams up the tailgate to the truck and jerks his head toward the cab. "Ready to roll? Check if that herd's moved on from the other strip mall?"

The moment is gone and she can't drag it back, but she's not ready to move on quite yet, either. She wants this supply run to last as long as it possibly can. "Why don't we check the places you haven't looted here before we go?" she suggests. "You said there were two shops Copper Creek didn't clean out?"

"Ain't gonna be nothing worthwhile in a dry cleaner and insurance agent's office."

"Either one might have a gun. For self-defense. Especially the dry cleaner."

"Huh. Ain't bad thinking." He grabs his pack from the truck and swings it on one shoulder. "Let's pick us some locks."

[*]

Daryl tells Carol she's "one smart cookie" as he pulls the shotgun out from under the counter at the dry cleaners and she wipes her bloody bayonet with a white, silk blouse she pulled from the rack. The walker she stabbed, which didn't come when they knocked on the window but instead lunged at them from between a row of clothes when they went behind the counter, now lays at her feet.

"Two boxes of shells, too!" He slaps those up on the counter.

"We should get some tailoring supplies," Carol says as she shoulders the rifle. "Moth balls. And they should have some good spot remover products for getting out blood. Laundry soap. And maybe we'll take some of these clothes." She scans the racks. "Though most of it's impractical business attire."

Daryl grabs a long-sleeve leather jacket from off the rack and rips the plastic off. He shakes off his vest and then slides the new jacket on, but it's way too tight around his biceps and triceps. He struggles to peel it off, and she helps untangle him from it. "Might fit Garrison," he says, and lays it on top of the shotgun on the counter.

"Is that your way of reminding me you're more muscular than he is? So I won't invite him over?"

"Pfft." He sifts through another rack and claims another leather jacket, which he doesn't bother to try on—it's too small for him by sight alone—and throws it on the counter.

Meanwhile, Carol sifts through a different rack. She finds a short-sleeve, knee-length red dress and holds it up to herself. Then she lays it on the counter. "A dress?" Daryl asks, looking at the plastic wrapped clothing. "Hell's that for?"

"Me. Ed never let me wear nice things."

"Why the fuck not? You'd look fantastic in that! Why wouldn't a man want his wife to look hot?"

Carol smiles. She doesn't draw attention to his compliment. He said it naturally enough that she doesn't think he's flirting. "Because he didn't like other men noticing me. If other men noticed me, I might notice that Ed wasn't in fact the only man in the world who would ever want me."

"Damn," Daryl mutters. "He had you believing that bulllshit?"

"He did," she admits.

"And now just think. Half of the men in Copper Creek Pastures want to get in your pants."

She chuckles. "I don't think three is half."

"Trust me. There's more 'n three." He turns back to the rack and starts sifting through it again. She thinks of asking if he's one of the more than three, but that might be a tease too far.

Daryl rips the plastic off of something. Then he turns around, and, with a smirk, holds up a rhinestone-studded women's denim jacket that vaguely resembles the one worn by the woman on the cover of Denim Dreams.

"Stop!" Carol cries, but she laughs, and then she takes it from his hands to examine it more closely. "You're not supposed to dry clean denim. I guess they hand washed it." She slips it on. "It actually fits pretty well."

"Look like Reba McEntire."

Carol's not sure if that's intended as a compliment, but she decides to take it as one. Even though it's warm for such a jacket, she leaves it on.

At the insurance agent's office, they don't find any guns. The single walker inside thrashes at them through the glass door while Daryl picks the lock. He readies his knife, and Carol jerks the door open. The creature reaches around and seizes her arm just as Daryl stabs it in the head. He skips back a step as he jerks his knife out, and then asks, "You a'right?"

"It scratched my new denim jacket."

"Fucker got what it deserved, then."

She follows him inside, and although they don't find a gun, they do find a minifridge full of sodas, bottled water, and bottled iced tea, which they pack into a file box after Daryl dumps the papers on the floor with abandon. "I think you like making a mess," Carol says.

"Part of the fun. You should unwind a little. Go on. Dump something."

"I can unwind," she insists. "Sophia and I spent three weeks in this upscale McMansion once. It was a model home for a neighborhood that was still being built. There was food in the pantry. For staging, I guess, but it was real food. So we stayed until it was gone. And Sophia drew all over the cream-colored walls with permanent markers. She's a pretty good artist. I even let my hair down and joined her."

"Good. Then dump." He hands her a file box. She tosses the lid and flings the box around in a half-circle by one handle, sending papers flying across the office and floating to the floor. "That's the spirit!" he tells her. "Now find something useful to put in it."

From a cabinet under the coffee cart, Carol claims three unopened canisters of sugar and three sealed bags of coffee beans. Coffee beans begin to lose their flavor after nine months, but they don't really go bad. They'll still be appreciated, she thinks, especially since they can't be grown well in the states. There are also about two dozen snack-size bags of various chips down there.

They load up their bounty, and Daryl begins driving again, while his hand intermittently in the single-serve size bag of Cheetos. Carol's enjoying some Fritos, and they're sharing a bottle of Coca-Cola, which is currently between her knees.

"All them bags, and that's what you pick? Fritos?"

"You don't like Fritos?"

"They ain't bad, but they ain't in my top five. Only worse choice is the Sun Chips."

"Well," she scoffs, "clearly you've never had my Frito chili pie."

"Can I?" he asks with such excitement it makes her laugh.

"Well, we get milk. Can we get cream?"

"Can you get some cream."

"How about a lemon to make the lemon jucie?"

"Got three little lemon trees in the mansion. Ain't on the regular rations, but I can get you one."

"Then I can make the sour cream." As they approach a corner, the view of the cross-street is blocked by a grove of trees, so they don't see the herd of walkers behind it. "I could use ground venison instead of ground beef. And I've already got the onions. But I really need cheddar - "

Daryl slams the brakes suddenly as the growling mass of walkers rounds the corner. Carol jerks forward, and her seat belt stiffens. The Coke bottle falls over between her knees and spills fizzing brown liquid onto the floor.

"Shit," he mutters, and slams the gear shift into reverse as walkers begin to claw at the hood of the truck. He throws his arm across the back of her seat, cranes his neck back, and begins driving frantically backward, but the furniture is blocking his line of vision, and he runs the truck up a curb on the street. It hits something hard, a mailbox, it feels like, and they both bounce forward in their seats. Carol's seatbelt stops her again, but Daryl's not wearing his, so he smashes against the steering wheel, which causes the horn to blare. In her sideview mirror, Carol can see the walkers begin jerking faster toward the sound.

"Shit!" he cries, and then throws the truck into drive, jerks the vehicle forward toward the oncoming herd, and makes a sharp U-turn in the street. He clips a walker as he does so, and crushes the feet of several others beneath the tires. The creatures bang-bang-bang along Carol's side of the truck as he clears them.

Daryl slams down on the accelerator and breathes hard as he swerves jerkily around an abandoned car in the middle of the road. He picks up speed and flies down the open road until the truck is shaking.

"Wooh!" he says as they begin to put a good distance between themselves and the pack. "Damn! Looked like a whole mess of 'em!" He turns to her and asks, "You having fun yet?"

By the time she catches her breath, he's slowed down. They drive another ten minutes before he pulls into the parking lot of a long-abandoned gas station (it clearly went under before the collapse) to evaluate the damage. The herd is long behind them now, with no idea where they've gone.

"Those fuckers better not have bloodied your new furniture," he says as he throws the door to the cab open.

There's a smear of dirt across the back of the loveseat, but no blood. All the blood is smeared on the wood rails of the bed. "I can clean that up easily," Carol assures him as she joins him.

He goes to the back of the pick-up and looks at the bumper, which is dented-in from whatever they hit, and the tail, which is scraped up. "DeShawn's gonna be pissed."

"At least it's still fully operable."

"Gonna have to give 'em my finder's fee to pay for this damage though." He sighs. "Hey, one good thing though, that herd might have been from that other strip mall. If so, means it's cleared out and we can loot the place now."

"What happens if that herd heads for Copper Creek?" The mass of walkers was headed in that general direction.

"The scouts'll spy it. And then the cowboys'll lead it away. Just like herding cattle. Well, sort of like."

"That works?"

"Worked the two times we've tried it. Cowboys ride on ahead, just out of reach, and the thrashers follow 'em. If some thrashers break off, a cowboy breaks off, gallops back, lures 'em back into the mass like bait on hook, and then gallops up to the front again. There's lots of weaving, changing pace, backward horse walking and shit. Fun to watch. Like a rodeo."

"You've done it?"

"Pfft. Me and horses don't mix. Last time I tried to ride one, I got thrown. That's DeShawn's department. And Monty's. And Jefe's."

"I thought Jefe didn't leave the camp?"

"She doesn't for supply runs and scouting, but if there's a herd coming for us, you can bet your ass she's out there with the rest of 'em."

"And she's a good rider?" Carol asks.

"Better 'n Monty, not as good as DeShawn."

"Sophia's learning to ride."

He smirks. "Well, she'll be better 'n DeShawn in six years."

Carol smiles. She hopes so, if Copper Creek still stands in six years.

They check the map to find another way to SM 19 that won't cross the herd, and soon they're back in the truck and back on the road.