DeShawn's farm truck thumps over a piece of blown tire in the roadway, and the vehicle slows and then eases to a stop. Carol puts her sedan in park.

"Why are we stopping?" Sophia asks.

"I don't know." She turns off the engine as the men, armed, spill out the truck. She slides her handgun out of her holster and hands it to Sophia. "Stay here, and don't use this unless it's a life or death situation. The safety is there." She points to the small button. "Keep it on unless you need it."

Sophia nods, and Carol takes her rifle and exits the car. She sees now why the men stopped. A car in the gully at the side of the road has crashed head on into a thick cement light pole. Steam rises from the bent hood. A fresh crash.

She joins the men as they sweep around the vehicle, where two walkers thrash inside. DeShawn jerks open the driver's side door, and Garrison bayonets the nearest walker. When the second crawls over the first, he stabs that too.

DeShawn peers into the car. "They must have blown a tire, lost control, and died on impact. Then they turned in here."

Carol puts a hand on Daryl's back. "You aren't supposed to be wielding that crossbow yet," she reminds him.

"I'm fine," he mutters.

"You're stubborn anyway." She kisses his cheek.

He flushes as DeShawn and Garrison exchange a look with each other. "You're one to talk about me and Nadia," DeShawn tells him.

"Ain't like that."

"Yeah, and how's it like with me and Nadia?"

"Didn't mean - "

"- Boys," Garrison interrupts. "Quit your bickering and just be happy you actually have women. Some of us aren't so fortunate." He leans into the car and pops the trunk. "Maybe they were out looting. Let's see what we got."

When Garrison and DeShawn have cleared the driver side to inspect the trunk, Carol can finally sees the faces of the freshly-turned walkers clearly. They're battered from the crash, bloody from Garrison piercing their foreheads, and soulless in the eyes, but they're still recognizable. Her stomach churns, and she puts a palm down on the hood for support. Daryl rests a hand on her shoulder and studies her eyes. "You a'right?"

Carol breathes in.

"You recognize them?" Daryl asks.

Carol nods. "It's Gareth and Martin. From Terminus. That camp where Sophia and I stayed for two weeks before it was overrun by bandits. I just…" She swallows. "I left them all behind. But if they were out here driving, maybe Oscar's right. Maybe they did eventually take the camp back."

"Nothing but signs!" Garrison calls from the trunk. He holds up a yard sign made of white posterboard attached to metal sign stakes. Handwritten in permanent black marker are the words: Find Sanctuary at Terminus. 130 Miles Southwest. There's an arrow beneath that, and then, At the end of the train tracks.

Daryl and Carol come over to investigate the trunk, which contains posters, tape, yard signs, and wooden signs, all directing people to Terminus, with arrows, differing directions and distance numbers, and that address of sorts.

"Why in the hell would they give out the location of their camp?" Garrison asks in disbelief.

"They used to do that. I found them because I caught a broadcast on the radio offering sanctuary for all. They took in me and Sophia. Oscar heard the broadcast, too, recently, and played it for me. I guess they're doing it again." She shakes her head. "But it doesn't make sense. Not after what they went through with those bandits. The screams…" The guilt rises again like bile in the back of her throat. "I can still remember them."

"Hope springs eternal," DeShawn murmurs. "Maybe even after all that, they still believe in people. And they must have quite the setup, if they're inviting all of Georgia to share it."

Garrison is now opening a back door of the sedan. "Got a whole bunch of butcher paper rolls back here. And a big food scale. And check this out." He draws out a large black cloth carrying case and unfolds the three sections on top of the hood to reveal cleavers, knives, and other instruments. "State-of-the-art butchering kit. Sharp and looks like it's barely been used. Tommy will love this." Garrison folds up the case again. "He's been wanting new tools. We can use all this when we butcher the cow."

"If they were looting a butcher's shop, they must have livestock," DeShawn reasons. "Maybe we should pay them a visit, see if we can establish trade. We've got that one ram we've just been waiting to get fat enough to eat because we can't breed it. But maybe they have an ewe and we can work something out."

"Terminus had gardens," Carol says. "In garden boxes. But it didn't have any fields, really. It was surrounded by cement and asphalt and gravel. It's in a train station. They had some chickens in a coop, but it's no place for livestock."

"Maybe they've expanded," DeShawn suggests. "Beyond the train station, to nearby fields. It might be worth checking out. You know them right? You could make the introductions."

"I don't know how well they'd receive me after I just ran off and left them to their captors like that."

"Ain't like you had a choice," Daryl tells her. "You weren't armed. You were outnumbered, and you had Sophia to think about. And as far as you knew, they were as good as dead."

She appreciates his reassurance, but it doesn't much to asuage her guilt. "They may not see it that way. And, besides…" She glances at the butcher papers in the backseat and then the butchering kit on the hood. "Something just doesn't feel right about all this."

"Well, that's Jefe's call anyway," DeShawn says, "but I think it might be worth – " He ducks instinctively as a gunshot sounds. Daryl raises his crossbow and whirls, and Carol and Garrison turn toward the sound with their rifles poised.

Sophia stands just outside Carol's sedan, her handgun pointing forward, and a walker three yards away, dead on the roadway.

"Huh. Your girl's not a bad shot for thirteen," Garrison observes.

"That sound's going to draw more, though." DeShawn nods to the forest side of the roadway, where another walker is lurching out from between the trees. "Let's get going."

Sophia tries to fire at the emerging walker, but it's too far away, and she misses. "Stop!" Carol yells at her and jogs to the car. "Just get in!"

The men grab the butcher kit, scale, and rolling papers and toss them in the bed of the truck with the furniture before piling into the cab. Daryl is wincing, because he shouldn't be slinging objects right now.

The walker reaches the driver's side as Carol starts the car. It slaps its decaying hands against the glass and growls. More creatures are spilling out from the treeline now. She hits the accelerator hard, swerves around DeShawn's truck, which is not yet moving, and takes the lead. A second later, DeShawn is on her tail, and the walkers are yards behind. She breathes a sigh of relief.

When they've put some distance between themselves and the pack, Carol tells Sophia, "It's better to avoid shooting if you can. It draws more."

"I know. But that one was really close to the car."

"I'm glad you shot it, and it was a good shot. But that second one was farther away. You could have just let it be."

"We should kill every one we come across. We should kill as many as we can. We should go hunting them!"

"I don't know about that. There's no reason to risk killing them when you can just avoid them."

"But if we kill them often enough, and we do it for long enough, maybe my kids will almost never see one."

Carol glances at her daughter. Sophia's actually thinking of growing into adulthood in this apocalypse, marrying, having children. She truly imagines a world beyond. A month ago, the idea would have seemed impossible. "Maybe," Carol agrees. "Maybe. But for now…let's just try to stay safe, okay?"

"Okay," Sophia agrees. "Did you get any good loot?"

"Some knives," Carol says simply. She doesn't tell her about Gareth and Martin. Sophia wasn't close to anyone at that camp. They didn't really become friends with people like they instantly did at Copper Creek. But the people were nice enough, and they left them to their fate. It would pain the girl to know, and she's just lost Patrick. She'll hear, eventually, Carol suspects, but she doesn't need to hear it today. "Just some really good knives."

[*]

They check in their loot at the warehouse before heading to thier cottage. Sophia asks to go straight to see Carina because she wants to talk to her about everything that happened at the prison, the good and the bad.

Meanwhile, DeShawn and Garrison haul out the grandmother furniture from the cottage and bring in the new furniture for Carol, since Daryl can't do any heavy lifting at the moment. She tells them where to situate it, with the loveseat facing the fireplace and the rocking chair near the hearth, and the coffee table situated just far enough away that they can recline. It fits fairly well and definitely looks nicer than what they had before.

Garrison asks to keep the old loveseat for his own trailer. "My couch got bedbugs and I had to burn it."

"Take the armchair, too," Carol tells him.

"Ain't got the space. But I'll take that old coffee table. Mine's just an overturned barrel."

Daryl offers the men each a shot of whiskey for their trouble, and while he sips, Garrison asks Carol, "That Lilly woman, the nurse? She got a man?"

"I believe she's sworn off men," Carol says. "She got out of a bad relationship earlier this year." She doesn't go into any detail about the Governor.

"So she has poor taste in men." DeShawn smirks. "Sounds like a point in your favor, Gary boy."

"Fuck you, Denzel," Garrison says, and then he looks at Carol. "Forgive my French, ma'am."

Carol laughs. "Trust me, I've heard worse."

Just as Garrison and DeShawn are leaving, Cody comes into the cottage and shuts the door behind himself. "I heard we got matching scars now," he tells Daryl.

Daryl snorts. "Yeah, guess we're wound brothers." This causes Cody to grin. It's clear he looks up to Daryl, and it's probably a boost to his ego. "Let's toast with a shot." Daryl gets down another glass, pours some more whiskey in his, and hands a fresh pour to Cody. The men clink glasses.

Daryl shoots his, but Cody only takes a small, tentative sip and then sets it on the kitchen table. "Now we can ride together to get around while we keep healing up," Cody says. "You on your bike and me on mine."

"Man, I told you not to call that thing a bike. It's a fucking moped."

Cody frown.

"Tell you what," Daryl waves his glass at him, "Gonna loot you a real bike."

"Yeah?"

Daryl nods. "Soon as I find one that still runs."

Cody glances from Carol to Daryl. "Heard something else, too," he says. "That you two been kissing on each other."

Daryl swallows the last of his whiskey and hisses. "Sorry, man. Wasn't trying to steal 'er out from under you. Just kind of happened."

"Yeah. I know. She already said we were just friends anyway." He glances at Carol, who smiles softly at him. He turns back to Daryl. "You're lucky. Don't screw it up."

He looks over Cody's shoulder at Carol. "Trying not to."

When he's gone, Daryl sweeps up Cody's unfinished glass and is about to shoot it back, but notices Carol looking at him. "What?" he asks.

"Nothing," she says. "It's just when Ed would drink a lot, he used to...But you're not Ed. I know that. I'm just having a bit of a flashback."

Daryl lowers the glass. "Ain't like I got to drink it right now. It's alcohol. It'll keep." He pours the liquid back into the bottle and caps it.

[*]

After dinner, when Sophia disappears to Ivan's cottage for their nightly chess game, Daryl throws himself into the reclining loveseat and pops the stool up with an "Ahhhh!"

"That's okay," Carol calls over from the sink. "I'll just do the dishes all by myself while you relax."

"I'm wounded. Ain't s'posed to be doing any heavy lifting. You said."

"Dishes aren't particularly heavy."

"Yeah, well, that's your job anyway, ain't it?"

"Normally, yes," she agrees, "and I'm happy to do it, but now it's also my job to bring home some of the bacon. At least until you're off disability. Jefe said if I can take on some more pike cleaning and warehouse shifts, and you'll still get the full 150% rations."

"Yeah?" he cranes his neck back. "You ain't got to do that, you know. We can get by on disability."

"I want to do it. I don't really have enough work to do around the cottage. You don't ask for much. I have more time on my hands than I know what to do with, and I'd like to be contributing more to the community."

"A'right." He turns his head forward and leans back on the headrest. "I could get used to being a kept man."

Carol chuckles. "You could not. You'd go crazy. I'll be lucky if I can keep you from hunting for the next three weeks." She sets the last dish in the drying rack and comes over to sit beside him. "I guess you've claimed your side."

"Man's gotta be nearest the door. 'Case something comes through. Them's the rules."

Carol reclines her side of the loveseat. "Seems a bit sexist."

"I know, it is, ain't it? Like I said, men are more disposable than women. We have to get eaten first."

"Well," she turns her face to him and smiles, "I wouldn't mind getting eaten first." She wiggles an eyebrow.

"Stahp. Know what I meant."

"And you know what I meant. I'm perfectly capable of defending myself now."

"Yeah. Don't mean I don't wanna though." He moves one finger on the armrest between them and strokes it over the back of her hand before settling it on the armrest again, a hesitant act of affection, but one of the few he's initiated.

Carol covers his hand with hers and laces her fingers through his.

He closes his eyes and murmurs, "This is the life."

"This loveseat is comfy," she agrees. "When do you have to go see Dr. Eastman?"

"Was s'posed to be there in ten minutes, but ain't no point now I guess."

"What?" Carol asks, raising her head from the headrest. "No, you should definitely go."

He opens his eyes and turns to look at her. "Why? You're the one's been nagging me for even lifting my bow, and now you want me to swing a staff?"

"I don't mean swing a staff…but you should still go." Does he really not know he's being counseled at those staff lessons? Or is he just not willing to admit to anyone else that's what's happening? "Maybe you can do breathing lessons or something."

"Breathing lessons? Know how to breathe. Don't mean to brag, but learned that when I's a baby."

She laughs. "I mean, you know, meditative breathing. I'm sure Dr. Eastman knows all about that. And it could be good for you. "

"Already know how to shut off my mind. Can spend hours in the woods alone, hardly thinking at all. Told you I was zen."

"Maybe he can talk you through some staff forms without you doing the movements. Model them for you. You really shouldn't skip a lesson. Seriously."

He peers at her. "Fine." He reaches for the handle and snaps the recliner's stool down before standing. "I'll go." He smirks. "Think you must just want me out the house so you can do a little one-handed reading."

"In your fantasies," she tells him with a light smile. His eyes rake over her, like he's imagining her pleasing herself, and she can feel her flesh warming, but then he looks almost guiltily away. It's still a problem for him, she thinks, his own sexual thoughts. "And there's nothing at all wrong with your fantasies," she reassures him.

"Mhm," he murmurs, and then he fishes out a cigarette from his front shirt pocket, slides it between his lips, grabs his vest off the back of the rocking chair, and shirks into it. "Thanks for dinner." He turns and opens the cottage door. "It was fucking fantastic."