When he found Sophia in the lobby, Daryl tapered off his run and ended it by walking a swift circle before bending over to catch his breath. The girl was just playing with Carl. It was a squeal of delight - not a cry of fear – she'd let out. The kids had found a luggage cart, and Sophia was lying on it on while Carl pushed it.

His heart still thumping with a fading beat of fear, Daryl growled, "Quiet down!" He rubbed his head, which was pounding.

"You okay, Mr. Dixon?" asked Sophia as she got off the cart and stood up.

"Just need to hydrate."

Carl ran, pushing the cart, before jumping on it. "Look, Soph!" Carl cried. "No hands!"

While Sophia was distracted by Carl's demonstration, Daryl made his way to the breakfast room. He almost turned around when he saw how many people were in there, but he was thirsty and his head cried for liquid relief, so he went inside and poured himself a tall glass of Sunny Delight.

Lori shook her head. "I don't know how you stand that fake orange juice."

"Perfect for a redneck screwdriver," Daryl told her. He'd never had such a cocktail. If he was going to drink vodka, he just drank it straight from the bottle. But he figured that would give Lori a new image to add to her book of stereotypes.

"I could use a little hair of the dog myself," Rick said from where he sat massaging his forehead.

"You really should have stopped after that third glass, honey," Lori told him. "Be glad I cut you off at five."

Daryl chugged the Sunny Delight. While he poured himself a refill, he said, "Carl's riding the luggage cart standing up with no hands and a pair of scissors."

That got Lori moving. Daryl took her vacated seat next to Rick, set down his Sunny D, and then nodded to the black coffee in Rick's cup. "Where'd ya get that?"

"Carol found a mobile power pack and plugged in the pot."

As if on cue, Carol set down a cup of coffee in front of Daryl. "Looks like you can use it."

He looked up at her, wondered if she'd told anyone she had found him in her bed, and muttered a thanks. Carol sat down next to T-Dog at the far end of the table.

"Where are Shane and Andrea?" T-Dog asked. "I know Glenn's still sleeping it off."

"I think they're both in Shane's room," said Rick.

T-Dog raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Sure sounded like it last night." Rick shook his head. "We cannot drink like that again. What if some walkers or a gang had busted in?"

"No one's busting through that pile of furniture against the lobby doors," T-Dog said. "And the side exit doors are solid as can be and only open from the inside."

"Still think we were idiots," Rick said. "The only people sober were Lori and the kids."

"I was only a little buzzed," Carol insisted.

"You know what?" T-Dog said. "Maybe we should have done it. Life is short. At least we all had fun last night."

Shane strolled into the room whistling.

"Some of us more than others," Rick muttered.

Shane stopped whistling when he saw Daryl and glared. Daryl held out the plastic bottle. "Sunny D?" he asked. "As a peace offerin'?"

Shane's countenance softened and he chuckled. "Sure, man." He grabbed the bottle and took a swig straight from it.

"Why does Daryl need to make a peace offering?" T-Dog asked.

"Because he's Daryl," Shane said as he took a seat at the table.

T-Dog nodded. "Sounds like reason enough."

"There's hot coffee?" Shane asked.

Carol brought him a cup, and he thanked her.

"So, where's Andrea?" T-Dog asked. "Still sleeping it off?"

"I think she might be," Shane replied with a self-satisfied smile. "I think she's sleeping very soundly right about now." Shane leaned forward with his elbows on the table and addressed Rick. "So, what's the plan? Are we rolling out when Glenn and Andrea drag themselves out of bed?"

"Why don't we rest up another day here?" Rick suggested. "I think we're all a little hungover, and I heard the roll of thunder earlier. We don't want to clear that park in a storm."

"Sounds good to me," Shane agreed.

As if on cue, there was a crash of thunder, and then rain pelted the boarded-up windows outside.

"Want that shit 'head of us 'fore we hit the road," Daryl agreed, not that either man had asked his opinion. He was offering it more and more often though, even without being asked.

[*]

After brunch, the kids discovered the hotel's game room and begged to use it. Carol went with them to take a look and found the room was not missing its door handle like the others. Instead, it was locked tight. Through the narrow window, she saw a walker in painter's overalls rattling around, bumping into the pool table. The men must not have bothered to clear the room because it was contained.

"There's a walker in there," she told them.

"I know, but can't you just ask Mr. Dixon to kill it?" Sophia pleaded.

"The room is locked anyway," Carol told them.

"He can shoot off locks!" Sophia insisted.

"Pleeeeease!" Carl begged. "There's a fooz ball table in there."

"And board games!" Sophia added.

"I'll ask them to clear the room," Carol promised. "But if they don't want to then you two don't whine about it."

"Yes, ma'am," Carl said.

[*]

Everyone ended up in the game room, even Daryl, but he didn't join in any of the reindeer games. He sat by himself on the couch against the far wall and began cleaning the handgun he'd taken from Carol. Had it needed cleaning? She didn't even know how you were supposed to tell if it did.

Sophia took her sweet time looking over the board games in the bookcase while Shane began a game of pool with Andrea. Carl and Rick made use of the fooz ball table as Lori stood on the sidelines to cheer both husband and son. Occasionally Lori would glance warily at Shane, and whenever she did, he made a point to flirt with Andrea. Carol wasn't sure if he was trying to make Lori jealous or trying to make a point that he was determined to move on. Rick, for his part, ignored it all. He had to know, Carol thought, or at least sense what his best friend and his wife had done. But he acted like he didn't. She didn't know if that was product of charity or indifference.

Glenn found a deck of cards, and he and T-Dog sat at one of the small, circular tables to play Gin Rummy. Glenn groaned as he studied his hand.

"You do a lot of kneeling to that porcelain God last night?" T-Dog asked him.

"Yeah, accept the throne had been removed, so mostly I just vomited in the hole where the toilet used to be. My room stinks now. Think I'm going to switch to a new one for tonight."

"Glenn can sleep in Andrea's room," Shane announced. "I think I can help her find other accommodations." He winked at Andrea, who smiled back.

Lori looked at Shane with a stern frown.

Rick jerked the handle of the fooz ball table extra hard, smacking the empty air with the feet of his little men. "Lori," he called sharply. "Why don't you play Carl for awhile?"

"Of course, honey," she said, and took over the handles from him. Rick, looking tense, walked over to join Glenn and T-Dog at the table. "Deal me in," he ordered.

"Ooookay," Glenn said. "I guess we better switch to a non two-person game then."

"That one," Sophia decided finally, and took the Game of Life from the bookcase and brought it to the only available surface - the right end of the coffee table. The left end had handgun parts scattered all over it. Sophia sat on the couch not far from Daryl. "You want to play with us, Mr. Dixon?"

"Dunno how."

"I'll teach you."

Carol sat down crosslegged on the floor on the other side of the couch.

"What color do you want to be, Mr. Dixon?"

"I ain't much for board games."

"Why not? Didn't you play when you were a boy?"

Daryl began putting the pieces of the gun back together. "Bought a bunch of cheap games at a yard sale once, when I was eight. Used the money I earned collectin' beer cans from 'round the creek."

"How can you earn money collecting cans?" Sophia asked as she began counting out the money. Carol noticed she was making three piles and hoped Daryl relented and agreed to play rather than disappointing her. She thought maybe her daughter had developed a bit of a childish crush on the man who had saved her life.

"Used to be you could turn 'em in to a recyclin' center, get a little money." Daryl slid the reassembled gun in his waistband against his back. "When they wasn't made from such cheap shit."

"And you didn't like playing the board games you bought?" Sophia asked.

"Didn't have no one to play 'em with. Merle's too much older'n me, probably wouldn't of even if he was home, and he was in…uh…another place at the time."

"What about your mom?"

"She'd play for a bit and then fall 'sleep, or stumble and knock the board over. 'Cause she'd be…uh…She'd be tired."

"My daddy knocked over the Christmas tree once when he was tired," Sophia said. "It made him so mad, he threw the porcelain baby Jesus against the wall. I tried really hard, but I couldn't glue Jesus back together."

Carol flushed with shame to think how many times Sophia had witness her father's drunken destructiveness.

"That's a'right," Daryl told her. "They say Jesus can glue 'emself back together."

"So, you never played the games you bought?" asked Carol, wanting to change the topic from that unwelcome memory.

"Tried to play 'em by myself," Daryl answered. "Put 'em on my bed. Run back and forth and play both sides of the board. Got tired of losin' to myself. So I took 'em out in the woods one night and burned 'em all."

"Well you won't lose to yourself this time," Sophia said. "You can lose to me!"

One side of Daryl's lips curved ever so slightly. "So sure you can beat me, are ya?"

"I'm really good at Life."

"Well, I suck at life."

Sophia's brow crinkled. "I thought you'd never played?"

"Meant the real deal. Might do a'right in the game. Ya get to pick your parents?"

"No," Sophia said. "But you get to pick your path!" She put a pink car and a yellow car on the Start space. "What color do you want to be, Mr. Dixon?"

To Carol's relief, he didn't let Sophia down. "Blue." Sophia picked up another car and set it on Start. "Nah, not the pansy powdered blue," he told her. "The man blue!"

Sophia switched out the light blue car for the dark blue car as Carol stifled her laugh.

When Sophia reached the first fork in the road, she said, "I'm taking the career path."

"No, sweetie, take college," Carol insisted.

"Why?"

"Because a good education will mean a nice job," Carol answered. "Better paying."

"Ain't nothin' wrong with the trades," Daryl insisted. "And look, path's shorter. Get ya to the finish line faster. Don't the first person to the finish get some prize?"

"You get extra money," Sophia said. "For being the first player to retire."

"But you'll make more money over the course of the game if you go to college, Soph," Carol told her.

"Then why didn't you?" Sophia asked. "In real life?"

Carol could feel the heat rise to her cheeks. She'd been accepted to Georgia State University, but she hadn't gotten a scholarship, and she had no way to pay, with her parents dead and that looming mortgage on the family house. So, she went straight to work full-time instead, at a menial job. "Well I – "

"- 'Cause she knew a college degree wouldn't be worth shit in the apocalypse," Daryl said. "But you're mama's right. Take the college route." He pointed at the arrow that led in that direction.

Sophia shrugged and moved that way.

When it was time for Daryl to get married, Sophia slipped a little pink peg into his car. "Did your wife die from the plague?" she asked.

"Ain't never had no wife."

"Why? You're plenty old enough."

"Sophia!" Carol scolded her.

"Never found no one who wanted me to be her husband," Daryl said.

"Were you looking?" Sophia asked.

Carol shot her a warning gaze.

"Not really," Daryl admitted.

"I don't ever want to get married," Sophia said. "Unless I get to be the husband."

Carol's heart jumped in her chest. "What do you mean?"

Sophia shrunk back into the couch. She toyed with her money, which she'd put on the end table next to her seat, and shrugged. "Just seems better to be the husband is all. You always get what you want. And you never get hurt. Well...until you die."

Daryl coughed and spun. The wheel whirled and whirled and whirled. Carol stared into its spiral and felt like she was about to cry. It stopped abruptly. Daryl picked up his car and slapped it down – one – slap – two – slap – three- slap – four – slap – five...

Carol quickly ran two fingertips around the edges of her eyes to hide any evidence of the solitary tears that had escaped. Her voice cracked when she told him, "You just had twin babies."

"Spin for presents!" Sophia insisted as she drove the blue and pink pegs into the back row of Daryl's car.

[*]

Daryl left when the Game of Life was over and went to the breakfast room where he could clean his own handgun in peace and quiet. He'd just put it back together and racked it open when he sensed a presence and looked up. Carol was leaning against the open entry way.

"Can you start teaching me to use a gun today?" she asked. "Please? I just want my daughter to know a woman can…" She stopped, swallowed, and looked at the floor.

"Cain't fire guns in here," he said.

"You did. To shoot off that lock."

"Shouldn't of."

"Please."

He felt sorry for Carol after all the things Sophia had said during the Game of Life. He could tell she felt humiliated by those dirty family secrets, and the woman, despite her bad taste in a husband and her failure to leave Ed sooner, had done far more to protect Sophia from her father than Daryl's mother had ever done to protect him from Will Dixon. Carol just wanted to protect Sophia now. And she wanted it almost desperately. How could he say no to that?

"Fine. Get started today," he agreed. "Go through the basics. But we ain't shootin' yet."

[*]

While Sophia continued to play in the game room with Carl and the others, Carol followed Daryl to the indoor pool. The pool had been drained and was in the process of being refinished. Most of the chairs and tables had been put away, but there were still one circular table left out. Daryl made her sit down, and he rested the handgun flat on the table. On the other side of that, he lay down a rifle. The barrel extended beyond the table, and Carol felt suddenly nervous.

"First, we're gonna go over gun safety." He walked over to the wall and removed a clipboard that hung there. It was full of papers for recording pool readings. He brought it back, set it down in front of her, and flipped over the first few sheets of paper to the blank backside. The pen, which was attached by a string to the clipboard, dangled over the table. He seized it, slapped it down on top of the paper, and said, "Write 'em down so as ya don't forget."

Relieved that they were easing into it with a simple word exercise, Carol picked up the pen.

Daryl plunked into the seat across from her. "Number one. A gun is always loaded."

She looked at the handgun, which didn't even have the clip thingy inside of it, and the rifle, which she hadn't seen him load. "These guns aren't loaded, are they?"

"A gun is always fucking loaded! Write it down!"

Carol flinched and began writing.

"Sorry," Daryl lowered his voice. "Just want you to be safe. A gun ain't always loaded, but you got to treat it like it is. 'Cause you don't know. So ya got to check it. First drop the magazine."

Magazine, she noted. That's what you call it.

He showed her how to drop the magazine from the handgun and then rack the slide and look inside. He put the magazine back in. "Now you check it."

"To see if there's a bullet in the chamber?"

"A round," he corrected her.

"What's the difference?"

"Round's the whole enchilada - bullet, casing, powder, rim, primer. The bullet's just the bullet."

Carol tried to check it like he'd showed her, but the magazine wasn't dropping.

"No!" he barked. "That's the safety!"

Feeling embarrassed, Carol muttered, "Your teaching methods leave something to be desired."

"Then ask Rick."

Carol didn't want to ask Rick. Rick would be too patient, too nice. He'd make her feel like an idiot with his niceness. It was better to feel stupid because someone was yelling at you for something you actually did wrong than to feel stupid because someone was talking to you as if you were a child who had to be gently guided through the most basic accomplishments. At least Daryl wasn't condescending. "I don't want Rick. I want you. I don't want to learn to be a cop. I want to learn to be a survivor."

Daryl studied her for a moment. "A'right then." He scooted his chair closer to hers, put his hands over her hands, and pressed her thumb against the button that dropped the magazine. His own thumb was calloused, maybe from all that shooting and fiddling with his crossbow, but, surprisingly enough, it didn't feel unpleasant. There was something reassuringly masculine about the roughness of his skin. "There." He pressed her thumb against the button, which dropped the magazine. He let go of her hands and sat back. "Finish checking it."

She racked back the slide and a bullet – round, she corrected herself – expelled itself from the chamber. "It's empty now."

"Good."

"So, what's the second rule of gun safety?"

"I'll get to it." First, he showed her how to check if the rifle was loaded, too. This time, she didn't forget how and followed his example perfectly. Then she set down the rifle and picked up her pen again.

He held up two fingers and she wrote the number 2 on her paper. "Never," he said, "never point a gun at somethin' you don't intend to destroy. Like, for example, me. Less'n you intended to destroy me last night."

"I didn't," she said, writing quickly on her paper. "But to be fair, I did wake up and find a strange man in my bed."

"But you believe I just stumbled in, right? That I didn't try nothin'?"

He really seemed concerned that she didn't believe him. Was he terrified of sending the message that he might be attracted to her? "Don't worry. I know you wouldn't want to try anything with me."

Daryl's brow furrowed, almost as though he was confused rather than reassured by her response. His eyes fell to the clipboard. "Three." She wrote down the number three. "Keep your finger off the goddamn trigger 'til you're ready to shoot."

"Can I write these down in my own words?"

"No."

Carol chuckled because he'd said it in such a deadpan fashion.

His lips twitched. "Fine," he said. "You can write the gosh darn trigger."

Carol smiled and wrote.

Daryl held up four fingers. "Be damn sure of your target and what's beyond it. 'Cause you don't want to shoot a walker, have the bullet go through it, and then hit me if I happen to be standin' behind it."

Carol nodded and wrote. "I'm really not trying to kill you, you know. You've been good to me."

"I ain't never been good to no one."

Carol raised her head. "You saved my daughter. You tracked her. You found her. You cleared this hotel. You've hunted for us. You've been good to..." She didn't want him to think she believed it was all about her. "To us, I meant. To the group."

Daryl chewed on his thumbnail. She'd noticed that nervous habit of his. He did it whenever he felt uneasy. And he was clearly uneasy with praise. He probably hadn't heard much of it in his life and didn't know how to respond to it. He dropped his thumb from his mouth. "You left eye or right eye dominant?"

"I…uh….I don't know."

Daryl turned his chair to face the pool. "Sit like this." She did. "Now stretch out your finger and point at the thermometer on that wall." Carol did. "Pointing at it?"

"Yes," she said hesitantly. She wasn't quite sure what they were doing.

"Now keep pointin' and close your left eye."

"I can't without closing both eyes."

He put a hand over her left eye. His hand was warmer than she would have expected, almost as though he'd been holding it above a fire. It made her wonder what his naked body might feel like in bed on a cold night, pressed up against hers.

Good Lord, why was had she thought that? Carol hadn't often thought about sex when she was married to Ed. She had learned to deaden that part of herself, to perform on request, and to block the act out of her mind afterward. She might notice a man was good-looking, but in the same objective way she noticed a painting was well constructed. She rarely felt this bizarre, half-unwelcome tingle.

"You still pointing at it?" Daryl asked.

Carol swallowed before she answered. "It looks off to the side a little."

He slid his hand away. "Open both eyes," he ordered. She did. "Pointing at it?"

"Yes."

"Now close your right eye." That she could do without closing both eyes. "Still pointing at it?"

"Yes."

"You're left-eye dominant."

"Well, at least I'm dominant in something," she joked.

Daryl seemed more flustered than amused by her quip. He stood and picked up the handgun. Following his example, she stood. He handed it to her, and, by placing his hands over hers, showed her how to hold it. She jumped a little at the intimacy.

"Relax," said Daryl, sounding offended. "Just need to show you what to do. Ain't hittin' on ya." He pointed out the sights and explained how to line them up. "Make sure the blue dot's 'tween the white dots so it kind of makes a straight line over what you're pointin' at. Close your right eye if ya need to." He told her to pull the trigger. There was little resistance and it made a simple click.

He fished an orange cap out of one of his pants pockets and loaded it into the gun.

"Is that a bullet?" she asked. "Round, I mean?"

"Dry firin' cap. So you can get used to pullin' the trigger without actually shootin'."

"Does it shoot out?"

"No, it don't shoot out!"

"What's the point, then?" she asked.

"Point is you're gonna ruin the gun if ya keep dry firin' all day without the cap."

"Oh. Okay."

He told her again how to pull the trigger, fluidly, all the way back, in a single motion, and he made her practice repeatedly. "Get used to this," he explained, "and it won't startle you as much when you actually shoot."

He guided her through the same thing with the rifle next, but this time he had to stand behind her and put his arms around hers to show her how to hold it. She expected to feel a bit uncomfortable when his arms surrounded hers. She hadn't expected to feel aroused, or to notice so intently the firm ripple of his muscles against the bare flesh of her upper arms. A little taken aback by the sensation, she loosened her hold on the rifle, so he pulled the butt of the gun back into her shoulder, but that caused her to fall back against him. Her ass went right into his crotch, and he jerked his hips back almost like he'd been shot. Was she really that repulsive to him?

"Keep it on your damn shoulder!" he growled.

She nodded.

He let go of her arms and stepped back slightly. He put a booted foot between her legs and kicked them open a little. She stiffened, feeling simultaneously nervous and titillated. "Need to get your stance right," he told her. "Steady yerself. Can't stand almost ankle to ankle like that."

"Okay," she said. She craned her neck to look back at him and found him tugging on the tail of his shirt to stretch it downward.

"Look where you're aimin'!" he growled.

She looked forward again.

He sighed. "A'right now..Line up yer sights like I showed ya…pull back hard 'gainst your shoulder, steady the rifle." His speaking cadence seemed slower than usual. "Now when you're ready, slide that finger on down to the trigger and pull – steady and sure. Don't slack off halfway through. Keep up the pace. Finish it off."

Carol hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she heard the click of the hammer and sighed. She lowered the rifle. "Was that right?"

"Did fine," Daryl said.

"But how can I know if I'd have shot anything for real?"

"Ain't 'bout that yet. You're inexperienced. Need to get used to the feel of the gun in your hand without all the recoil that'll make ya jump. Get comfortable just holdin' it, applyin' a little pressure...learn how it feels, where all the parts are, then, when it's time for the real thing -"

She turned with the rifle in her hands. "Kind of like sex, huh?"

He turned an angry red and she regretted her words instantly. Roughly, he shoved the barrel of the rifle away. "You're breaking rule two!"

She flushed, apologized, and walked over to lay the rifle down on the table. Not looking at him, she repeated, "Never point a gun at something you don't intend to destroy."

"Yeah," he said, his voice suddenly softer, almost contrite. "Don't do that shit no more."

"Sorry."

He sighed. "You're still learnin'."

"Is there anything else you can teach me without real bullets? Rounds, I mean. Like how to take it apart?"

"Teach ya how to load it first," he said. "And then you're gonna practice over and over 'til you can load a full magazine quick."

Carol nodded.

"But first, you're gonna read me back the four rules of gun safety. Ten times."

[*]

As Daryl took the guns he'd been using to teach Carol back to his room, he wished he hadn't been so short tempered with her. But it bothered him when she did dangerous shit, like turn around with a gun in her hand. He didn't want anyone getting hurt, especially not her.

What had bothered him most of all, however, was that when he'd accidentally pulled that rifle back a little too hard against her shoulder, so that she'd hit his crotch, he got a hard-on.

He hoped she hadn't noticed.

It couldn't look good, crawling into her bed drunk one night and then getting a hard-on the next morning just because her lean, firm ass happened to have rubbed against – Jesus, he had to stop thinking about that.

Except he couldn't.

So, after he was alone in his room, he dragged the desk chair in front of his door to make sure it stayed closed, threw himself back-down on his bed, and unsnapped and unzipped his pants. He thought of Carol in that red jersey she'd been wearing last night and of all the things he could do to her while she was still in it. His release was followed by an ugly wave of emotion.

Merle had walked in on him masturbating once, when he was thirteen, on one of his rare stints home. Daryl's big brother had laughed and said, "You're such a fuckin' faggot. Queer as a three dollar bill. Love your own dick." Daryl hadn't realized Merle was joking, and the feeling of perversion had lingered long after he realized everyone did it. Eventually, he'd gotten over that sense of shame, and masturbation had become as routine as any other bodily function.

But for some reason, the fact that he'd been thinking about Carol this time, instead of some random supermodel or even one of the other women in the group, made him feel guilty and inadequate. If she knew the sort of sexual thoughts that went through his head...she'd pack up all her gratitude for saving Sophia, her misplaced faith in him, and she'd get as far away as she could.

The door rattled lightly in its frame just as he was wiping himself clean with a hotel towel. Carol's voice penetrated the barrier: "We're about to sit down to an early dinner since no one really had lunch. Are you joining us?"

Fuck. Did she have some kind of radar? "Be there in a few!"

"No wine this time," she called back. "We're saving the rest." Her light footsteps disappeared.