One Man's White Trash is Another Man's…

Beth was shoved back into the elevator.

The music. The blinking button. The shifting floor. The glowing display that changed from 'AD1986D1' to 'AD1986D2.'

Then the ding! followed by the silence. Dale's distant inner thoughts urging her forward. The doors slid open. She stepped out.

The crackly, yellowish haze remained. She was in the diner again. Dale and Philip were in the same booth as before, sitting across from each other, sharing lunch. But their outfits were different. And there were St. Patrick's Day-themed decorations and advertisements scattered throughout the small diner.

The waitress was making her rounds, stopping at their booth to refill Dale's coffee and Philip's iced tea. Then she was off to the next table.

Philip took a swig of fresh tea and paused with his fork and knife crossed over the steak before him. He looked at Dale with narrowed eyes and asked, "So who do you trust in the office, Dale?"

Dale looked back at him, a bit perplexed. "Everyone, I suppose. Why'd ya ask?"

Philip shrugged. "Just curious. Everyone, really?" He frowned. "Surely not everyone."

Dale chuckled. "Well why not? I've gotten to know 'em all pretty well over the last couple years. Never gave me a reason not to trust 'em. They're like a second family to me."

Philip stabbed a single green bean with his fork and popped it into his mouth. "You always say that—like a second family. Would you really trust all those people with your life?"

Dale paused and took a sip of coffee. He gazed back at Philip, a bit confused. "With my life? That's awfully serious. I would hope it'd never come to somethin' like that."

Philip raised his eyebrows as though the older man had just proven his point. "So you don't trust them. Not really."

"Does trust always have to be a life or death situation?" Dale mused.

Philip shrugged. "What's the point otherwise?"

Dale furrowed his brow. "There's a lotta different kinds of trust, Philip. Just like there's different kinds of love. Not every relationship has to be built on the notion of whether someone would throw you under the bus for their own gain, or whether they'd sacrifice their own life to save yours." He set his coffee cup down gently. "You understand that—right?"

Philip laughed and sliced into his steak with the knife in his hand. "Of course I do. Just pokin' yer brain."

For some reason, Dale didn't take much comfort in that statement.

The scene flickered and shifted. And though the two men's outfits changed, the diner remained mostly the same, as did the meals set out between them.

A different day. The same week.

Philip appeared discontent. He wasn't digging into his rare T-Bone with the same vigor as usual.

Dale spoke up. "Something botherin' ya today, Philip?"

Philip grunted, gazing down at his food thoughtfully. "Not lookin' forward to leaving work early for another damn doctor's appointment."

"Oh," Dale said. "Everythin' alright?"

"Yeah," Philip muttered, keeping his eyes cast downward. "Just these relentless parasites. Stupid doctor won't listen to me, keeps prescribin' shit that doesn't help. Think I'm gonna give him a piece of my mind today."

Dale opened his mouth, prepared to voice his concern—Parasites? More meds? How had a little tapeworm been going on for this long and causing so many problems?—but Philip lifted his head and gave a nonchalant shrug, cutting him off.

"You know how it is," he said casually. "Damn doctors wanna charge an arm and a leg just to tell us it's all in our heads and shove more pills down our throats. We're no more'an a paycheck to them. Nothin' new."

That was enough for Dale to keep his comments and questions to himself. He merely nodded and pretended to agree.

"Right," he muttered half-heartedly. "Those doctors never wanna listen, do they?"

The scene flickered again. Their clothes and meals changed, and the St. Patrick's Day decorations disappeared.

Another day in another week. Another lunch between Dale and Philip.

This time, Philip didn't look so down. In fact, he looked alight with determination. Or maybe it was anger. It was hard to tell with him.

He was focused on Dale, though Dale was preoccupied with the BLT in his hands.

"Don't you ever get tired of the small town life, Dale?" Philip asked.

Dale smiled. "Can't say I do. I reckon me an' Irma are a simple kinda folk. Doesn't take much to keep us satisfied. Never has."

Philip narrowed his eyes almost suspiciously. "But why?"

"I'm not sure," Dale replied honestly, setting his sandwich down and wiping a splotch of mayonnaise from his chin. "We've just learned to be happy with what we have. It's all about appreciatin' the little things, I suppose."

"Hm," Philip pondered with a frown. "So you always planned on stayin' here for the rest of your life? Or did you stay because your wife wanted to?"

Dale didn't flinch at this question. It wasn't even close to the first time someone had asked him that, and he always had the same answer. "I like Senoia just fine. Thought about other places—maybe Texas or Northern California. But to be honest, I'd be happy anywhere, so long as I got Irma by my side." He beamed proudly.

Philip didn't seem very pleased with this response. He sighed and went back to his food, shaking his head. "Guess I just don't get it."

"Which part?" Dale asked.

"All of it," the other man admitted. "I've always felt stuck in these small towns. From one to the next. But I've never been able to afford to move anywhere else. Then I see all these folks who get stuck here forever; trapped in mediocre lives, workin' a job they hate and livin' in a house they're sick of paying for. Never able to get out or move up in the world."

Dale frowned. "And ya don't want that to be you?" He guessed.

"'Course I don't," Philip said.

Who have you been talking to that's so damn miserable? Dale wanted to ask. But he didn't.

"Ya know, as a kid, I used to dream about…" Philip paused and met Dale's eyes warily, as though he were iffy about letting himself get reminiscent. Then he went on, "New York City. Or Los Angeles. When I got a little older, I imagined havin' a high-paying job, so much money I wouldn't know what to do with it all. I dreamt about havin' one of those fancy penthouse suites all to myself. Somethin' with a great view of the city, quiet neighbors… A place where there's so many people that everybody's practically anonymous."

Dale calculated his words carefully before speaking. He wanted to ask, and what about the part where you're all alone in that big city, spending all that money on yourself?

But maybe that's what Philip wanted. Some people didn't want a partner, not even a companion. They just wanted fancy cars and big houses and piles of brand new clothing. The freedom to do anything they damn well pleased, whenever they pleased to do it, without being forced to make human connections. Maybe Philip was one of those people.

"Big place like that sounds like a good opportunity to meet a lotta beautiful women," Dale said, chuckling light-heartedly.

But despite the teasing tone in his voice, Philip's shoulders stiffened and he sawed through the last of his steak a little harder than was necessary. "Women are nothin' but a waste of money and energy," he grumbled. "Just a way to pass the time here an' there."

Oh. Dale bristled and took a bite of his sandwich to avoid responding.

He hadn't realized Philip was one of those guys. He probably should've figured it out by now, but he still hadn't decided whether Philip was just very private about his dating life, too shy to realize he was an attractive young man, or secretly gay. Not that it mattered to Dale either way. Sometimes he thought having a good woman—or man—in Philip's life might cheer him up a bit, or give him some hope that he severely lacked.

But now he was starting to think maybe that wasn't what Philip needed at all. If anything, Philip needed a purpose to fill that big gaping void inside his soul.

Would he ever find it here in Senoia? Or while working at Sanctuary Insurance? Or would he just be left endlessly chasing pipe dreams and getting disappointed, like so many men Dale had seen who became infatuated with that glitz and glamor Wall Street sort of life?

Big cities and lots of money and a fancy place all to yourself. Yeah, that was the dream for a lot of small town folks. Didn't mean it was within reach for most of them, though. Such was the cycle of poverty that permeated places like Senoia. Sometimes, life just didn't work out that way. Sometimes, you had to settle for what you had and try to make the best of it.

But something deep down told Dale that Philip wasn't the kind of guy who would ever take 'no' for an answer. And he wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or a really ominous trait within an already disconnected man.

The scene flickered. The two men's outfits changed, their hair and facial expressions slightly different, and Easter decorations popped up around the diner. The food before them switched, though Philip always had his tall glass of iced tea and Dale always had his mug of warm coffee.

A different day. Only a week or two later.

Philip seemed to have something on his mind. He was frowning heavily, fork clutched loosely between his fingers as he pushed his half-eaten salad around on the plate in front of him. Dale was happily munching on his burger and popping french fries into his mouth, but he'd noticed the other man's demeanor throughout the day. He'd been intending on trying a new approach once they were alone and had some good food in their bellies.

"So," Dale started, smiling warmly across the table as Philip met his gaze. "Ya know, we've had lunch together quite a few times now. How would ya like to come over tonight an' have dinner with Irma and I? She makes one helluva lasagna."

Philip looked back with a blank expression. He shrugged. "No thanks. I've got plans."

"Oh," Dale's face fell, though he quickly covered it with another smile. "I understand. Maybe another night? Next week?"

Philip shrugged again and went back to pushing his salad around. "Maybe."

There was a beat of awkward silence. Dale cleared his throat and took a sip of coffee.

Then he asked, "Got a date or somethin'?" He chuckled, hoping it would come off as teasing rather than invasive.

Philip sneered. "Definitely not. Just goin' down to the bar." He quirked a brow and added, "I've been makin' friends. Like you suggested."

Friends? This was the first Dale was hearing of such a thing. "Is that so? Well, it's good to hear. Which bar ya been frequenting?" There were only two in town, and Dale knew that one was decent, while the other was… well, unsavory. To say the least.

Philip hmphed. "The Dirty Penny. If that matters."

Damn. That was the least favorable answer. But Dale wasn't trying to pass judgment, so he simply smiled and said, "Ah, that place. Yeah, you'll meet some interesting folks in there, that's for sure." He huffed out a breath of amusement and took another sip of coffee.

Philip was either ignoring him or unaware of the subtext in his tone, because he shoved a bite of salad into his mouth and chewed half-heartedly before setting his fork down and pushing the plate away. He chased the bite with a swig of iced tea, then he sighed.

"How long have you known Frank?" He asked.

Dale wiped his mouth with a napkin and finished the bite he'd taken before he answered. "Our boss?"

Philip nodded, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Well," Dale said. "A few years. Only in passing, though. Till he hired me, of course. He's a good guy and a good manager. Why d'ya ask?"

Philip's hands were clenching into fists atop the table's surface. He shook his head, jaw stiff. "Seems like the guy's got a vendetta against me. Like he doesn't want me here."

Dale furrowed his brow in confusion. "I'm sure that's not the case. What makes ya say that?"

Philip scoffed. "He won't give me a damn chance." He paused and narrowed his eyes, shooting Dale a suspicious glare. "You didn't tell him that I'm medicated, did you?"

"Of course not," Dale assured. "That's none of his business, Philip. I wouldn't go tellin' people somethin' like that."

The younger man seemed to relax just the slightest at that. He nodded. "I trust you, Dale. I just had to ask."

"I appreciate it, but I still don't see why you'd think Frank would have any kinda problem with ya," Dale said. "Has he been givin' ya slack or somethin'?"

Philip sighed, glancing away. "Just keeps turning me down on new clients."

"Well, I'm sure he's got his reasons," Dale said. "You know how that red tape can be." He didn't think he had to specify; they both knew what kind of (less than legal) hoops the Bumgardners' had to jump through just to ensure they wouldn't lose their family home.

Philip grumbled unhappily, "That doesn't explain why he won't even consider me for a promotion."

Dale had to stop himself from barking out a laugh and remember that Philip was still young and full of big ambitions. He explained gently, "How long ya been here now? Barely a year? Give it time, Philip. Promotions don't happen just like that in this business, especially in a town like ours. Ya gotta get some seniority under your belt first."

No matter how hard Dale tried though, everything he said seemed to aggravate Philip a little more. It simply wasn't what he wanted to hear.

He scowled and said, "How much seniority? Do I gotta commit my whole goddamn life to this shithole company before I see a salary past five figures?"

Dale blinked, a bit taken aback. "Past five figures? How much d'you think Frank makes? How much d'you think there is to make here?"

Philip narrowed his eyes. "Exactly. This fucking small town and its pathetic boundaries…"

He must be cranky today, so Dale decided he'd better tread lightly. He'd never seen Philip come even close to what could be called losing his temper, but he wasn't about to risk that today. The younger man already seemed agitated. Maybe he was struggling with something else and didn't want to talk about it.

Or maybe he was realizing that his pipe dreams were just that… nothing more than pipe dreams. There was no penthouse suite overlooking the city skyline waiting for him at the end of a career with Senoia Sanctuary Insurance. But was he only just now realizing that?

If only Dale could get through to him.

"I can assure ya," he told Philip. "Frank doesn't have any kinda vendetta against you. It's all business. You might never make six figures, but I think you'll find a different kinda satisfaction from this line of work." He offered a small and hopeful smile.

"Not the satisfaction I'm looking for," Philip muttered, wrapping one hand around his condensated glass of tea. "And I don't think I really believe you, anyway. Frank doesn't trust me and he doesn't like me, that much is clear."

Clear how? Dale wanted to ask. He'd never seen a shred of evidence that would support Philip's theory. He thought maybe he hadn't been paying enough attention, but no. He knew Frank pretty well by now.

Philip, on the other hand? Well, Dale felt like he was still getting to know Philip. Even after a year of working less than ten feet apart, and well over a dozen lunch breaks spent together.

This young man was unlike any Dale had ever met before. And he still wasn't sure whether it was in a good way, or if it was more like a giant red flag.

But who was he to judge, anyhow? He reminded himself that everyone was fighting their own unseen battles, and there was always much more lying beneath the surface than what met the eye. Philip had his reasons for being paranoid. For being distrusting and maybe a little disconnected from reality. And he probably had his reasons for wanting to escape small towns forever.

Dale just had to be patient and look a little deeper. Remain empathetic and understanding and, most of all, open-minded. He'd figure this guy out eventually.

Just as Dale's inner thoughts went silent, that familiar and unseen force shoved Beth back. She regained her balance inside the elevator and watched the metal doors slide shut, like curtains closing upon a stage. The music started back up.

She barely had time to think, 'Yes, show me more about him. He was always a little weird, that's a given. But I need to know everything Dale knows.' And then the next button on the panel beside the doors was blinking, and she reached out to press it.

The floor shifted beneath her and she felt the elevator rising. The sign changed from 'AD1986D2' to 'AD1986D3.'

Ding!

The music paused. The doors slid open, but as was expected, the crackly old filmstrip-like haze remained over everything in sight. Beth stepped out to find herself inside Senoia Sanctuary Insurance once again.

There were Easter decorations scattered throughout the office. Dale's inner thoughts urged her forward and told her that this memory took place not long after the previous one inside the diner, though she'd already figured it out by taking note of all the little details.

Every floor this elevator took her to felt like another piece of some giant jigsaw puzzle—a brand new puzzle, something entirely separate from the one she was attempting to piece together with Daryl and Rick in the present day. Yet she knew it was connected. All of this was connected somehow. The more she understood, the more of an advantage she'd have over The Governor.

The more of a chance Daryl stood against Papa Legba and that spot in Hell that was surely awaiting him.

The insurance office was bustling with employee activity, but the sunlight pouring in through the plate-glass windows and the analog clock hanging on the wall indicated that it was late afternoon. It was getting close to quitting time for the 9-to-5 workers. Philip was at his desk, speaking quietly into the phone held to his ear. Dale was across the aisle at his own desk, filling out paperwork and humming softly to himself.

A few seconds later, Philip ended the call and returned the phone to its cradle. Dale's eyes flicked up and watched discreetly as Philip proceeded to slide open his bottom desk drawer. He pulled out a small hardback book and opened it up to a page, grabbing his pen and jotting something down. Dale watched, his own pen gone motionless between his fingers.

Philip must've scribbled at least a paragraph's worth of… something, his face taking on an odd and thoughtful expression as he did so. Then he closed the book and returned it to its spot in the bottom desk drawer, shoving it down beneath a few folders and a stack of stapled paperwork. He shut the desk drawer tightly and glanced over his shoulder, as though he could feel Dale watching him. But Dale had already averted his gaze back down to his work and resumed filling in blank lines on crisp white paper.

He kept watching Philip from the corner of his eye, though. And it wasn't more than a minute or two before the younger man started packing his things up for the day into the black briefcase he always carried.

Dale didn't lift his head until Philip had pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and slipped it on. "Another appointment?" He asked casually.

Philip whipped his head around and met Dale's eyes for no more than a brief second, grabbing up his briefcase and pushing in his chair. "Yeah. See ya tomorrow, Dale."

"Have a good night, Philip," Dale said.

He watched as Philip strode across the office and out the front door—always walking like he was a man on a mission.

Dale didn't return to his paperwork, though. Instead, he looked over and eyeballed Philip's empty desk. A terribly uncharacteristic idea was forming in his head, and he was doing everything he could to convince himself not to let it go any farther.

Because he should mind his own business. He really should.

But dammit, Philip was so… off. So distant. So disconnected from everyone around him. And Dale had seen him writing in that mysterious little book on several occasions, and of course he'd never dared ask what Philip was writing. But no matter how hard he tried, no matter how many different approaches he attempted, he couldn't seem to get this young man to just let him in. He couldn't seem to figure out what the hell was really going on in Philip Blake's head.

Since the paranoid talk about Frank, Philip had voiced his opinion about a handful of other coworkers in the office. Nothing he said ever really made sense, but Dale had taken one clear and concise message from all those conversations: Philip didn't trust anyone. Not a single soul. He claimed to trust Dale, but how could Dale believe that when he heard the way Philip talked about other innocent folks? When he consistently acted like everyone was out to get him, or hold him down, or otherwise staunch his potential?

He was also unhappy. Very unhappy. In a way that Dale thought could be harmful given enough time and dissatisfaction. Yet Philip refused to even admit that he held deeper grudges than those borne from being confined to a small town life amidst his big city ambitions. And if he wouldn't admit it, he would never seek help for it.

Dale just wanted to help. But he needed a clue as to how he could help.

So he waited, growing more nervous as he thought about what he wanted to do. How morally wrong and invasive it was. And while he waited, he kept trying to convince himself that this little breach of privacy was necessary.

By the time he'd justified it inside his own head, the clock had already passed 5. His coworkers gradually packed up their things and bid their goodbyes and left for the day. Less than an hour later, Frank was shutting and locking the door to the manager's office. He paused just long enough to remind Dale to lock up, and not to stay too late "because Irma might get worried." Then Frank was out the door and on his way home for the night.

Which left Dale all alone with a completed stack of paperwork set out before him while his eyes lingered on the empty desk across the aisle.

He didn't allow himself the chance to second guess his decision or back out at the last minute. Instead, he dropped his pen and stood up from his chair and walked the ten feet it took to reach Philip's desk. Then he crouched down and opened the bottom drawer, carefully shuffling through stacks of paperwork and color-coordinated folders until he found what he was looking for: the little hardback book that sat at the very bottom, pushed all the way to the back.

Like Philip was trying to hide it.

Dale struggled with his conscience, which told him that of course Philip had hidden this damn thing, it was his own personal property and Dale had no right to go snooping through it. But that little angel on his shoulder did nothing more than chatter away uselessly while he pulled out the book and set it down atop the desk's surface. He carefully opened it to the first page.

After that, he had no control whatsoever of what his eyes did or did not see. Once he started reading, it was impossible to stop.

The first few pages told him that this was some kind of journal, and though that made his stomach clench up into a tight knot, it didn't stop him from continuing. Philip had apparently been scribbling entries into this particular book since shortly after he moved to Senoia. In less than a year, he'd filled all but maybe a third of the pages with various scrawled entries and freehand sketches.

Dale kept turning pages with careful fingers, his heart thumping hard against his ribcage. His eyes kept skimming through paragraphs and across pencil drawings:

"… thought it might be different here, but I should've known better. Even smaller town than Peachtree, what the hell did I expect? I look around and see all these oblivious fools perfectly happy with their sad little lives in this podunk shithole. Ignorance really is bliss, isn't it? I can't help but wonder why I couldn't have been born like everyone else. Normal. Simple. Stupid. But I've always felt out of place. As far back as I can remember. My own mother couldn't even understand me. So why do I keep letting myself think I might find something different? Why can't I be happy with so little, like everyone else? Why the fuck can't I break this cursed cycle that my shithead parents brought me into?…"

"… been spending too much gas money on driving back and forth to Peachtree for their library. Surprised to find out the Senoia library has quite a few useful resources. Lots of older medical textbooks. Spent the whole weekend browsing and taking notes. Nearly filled another notebook. Sadly, had to cross-reference at the Peachtree library on this entomologist's paper that I found from 1951 — JAY TRAVER. But all I can find are texts from the last couple decades discrediting all her research and findings. Very disappointing. Might have to drive up to Atlanta and check there for less biased info. I think they have one of those computer catalogs…"

"… been having trouble sleeping the last week. Wake up in the middle of the night and I can hear the damn things squirming around in my stomach. Tried a new detox method but no results yet. Got another doctor appointment tomorrow, hopefully he'll give me an anti-parasitic that actually fucking works this time. I'm so goddamn tired…"

A sketch of what seemed to be worms and tiny insect-like beings writhing around inside a human stomach, some of them crawling up to the arms and all the way to the throat at the top of the page.

"… the invaders seem to love rare steak. Lucky for them, so do I. Offers me a few hours of peace if I eat it in the middle of the day. Puts them to sleep. Think I'll bring it up to the doc—maybe an iron deficiency?…"

"… more antipsychotics. WHY ? This is such bullshit. That corporate fucking schill won't listen to a damn thing I say, just keeps telling me it's all in my head and to keep up with my meds. I WILL NOT BE MEDICATED INTO SILENCE. No one will fucking listen to me. I'll MAKE them listen. I have boxes and boxes full of notebooks to support my research. Probably going to switch doctors again…"

A sketch of the American medical caduceus with a big red X slashed over it.

"… slept like shit again. But not because of the little unwelcome visitors. Haven't had a dream in months, but my stubborn brother showed up last night. Fucking asshole. He was missing half his head and when he tried to talk, all that came out was blood and brain matter. He looked awfully disappointed, too. Like he always did. Wish he'd just leave me alone already. Had no problem abandoning me when he was alive, but now he's dead, he wants to pop up and try to fuck with my head? Typical Brian. Guess some things never change, even after death. Might need to ask the doc for more of those sleeping pills. Even though they make the worms more active. Side effects are unavoidable, I suppose…"

A less-than-detailed sketch of a man standing in the middle of the page, no face, but half his skull missing and a gun clenched in his hand.

"… why do these small town folk get so insistent on knowing and befriending everyone in their vicinity? Why can't I just have some fucking peace and be left the hell alone? I'll admit, it can be nice to have someone to talk to. I'm guilty of that. The pathetic little monkey brain part of me that starves for human connection. Not my thing, though. I don't want to go into these people's houses or meet their fucking wives or make small talk for 3 hours over a subpar homecooked meal. I'd rather be bending some blonde over a toilet in that disgusting hick bar—at least I get a few minutes of actual pleasure out of that. How do I make this worth my time? I keep trying to figure it out. What can I learn from these simple-minded morons that might help me on my path? Could one of these hillbillies have the solution I've been looking for all these years?…"

"… had that stupid dream again last night. The one that keeps following me. I think the first time I had it was when I was in high school. I can't even remember anymore. Not sure why it keeps happening. I don't believe in that stuff. And the dream itself makes about zero fucking sense. Starting to think it might be the parasites getting into my brain…"

A vague sketch of a Ouija board with the planchette placed in the middle.

"… found some interesting new texts. Stuff about the global conspiracy and the new world order and what the elites are planning. How they've been keeping us in line for centuries. Not sure about the Satanic connections because I never really fell for that shit. But it's fascinating nonetheless. Didn't let myself fall too far down that rabbit hole, but it's definitely given me a lot to think about. I already knew the doctors were all in on some kind of nationwide (or global?) plan to keep people like me—people who asked too many questions—quiet and medicated. But maybe it really does go farther. Even people like JFK and MLK Jr. Maybe they knew things that could've blown the whole conspiracy wide open? We can only really guess. Think I'd better stick to figuring out why my body's been invaded and why I'm somehow immune to all their efforts to dumb me down…"

"… been hitting a little roadblock with the research lately. I think I've gone through damn near every medical textbook and entomology book in both libraries. Started driving up to Atlanta for weekend visits to their library—love that computer catalog, so convenient, can't believe how quickly technology is evolving—but that leaves me with weeknights to myself. Decided I deserve a little break. Started going back to that bar on the edge of town. It's sketchy as hell and dirty, but it gives me a great view of all the locals. I get to eavesdrop on all the little bits of intel and gossip. Put on my business face and talk to them like I respect them (it can get draining, but so can reading through medical textbooks). Actually helped me a couple times to nail a new client. I know, weird right? Wouldn't think these dumbfucks would even think about insurance, let alone have the money to afford the shit I'm selling them. Most of them are so fucking miserable and desperate to feel free, it's kind of hilarious. Might have found another new client. We'll see…"

A sketch of a bar and two empty barstools. There were two beer mugs sitting close together atop the bar, and an ashtray between them.

"… had another shitty dream last night. Not sure what's causing them. Torn between taking the sleeping pills and risking the nightmares. Wasn't Brian this time, thankfully. But it was those kids from school. It was like I was right back there, hormonal and angry and hurt and humiliated and completely fucking helpless. They kept taunting me. Laughing at me. Calling me The Governor. Of course, as a mature adult, I know now that they were just jealous. None of them understood me. They were scared, as simple-minded folks always are. They thought they could bully me into conforming. If they pointed out my natural penchant for leadership and greatness and boundless intellect, they'd have to admit and recognize that they could never match up to me… I think I'll use that name from now on. The Governor. Has a nice ring to it. Say it in the right voice and it's downright menacing. People wouldn't even consider fucking with a guy called The Governor… Someday, those asshole fucking kids will regret ever coming up with the name. I've still got most of their addresses in one of my notebooks. Maybe I'll pay some more visits once I claw my way out of this shithole. They'll see what I can become…"

A sketch of four nondescript children standing upon a playground and pointing. There was a big storm cloud drawn above their heads, hovering threateningly. It was labeled THE GOVERNOR.

"… already had the feeling most of the dickheads I work with were out to hold me down. Well, it was confirmed today by the biggest dickhead of them all, my boss. Denied a new client for no good fucking reason. He's fucking with my money and he knows it. He wants to keep me here as long as possible, to rot and wither away like all these other dead-eyed robots. He knows I could take his job and he's doing everything to keep me below him. Not sure why I ever thought this company might be different than the last. I'll do my time and then I'll make my way somewhere higher. Hopefully it won't take me more than a couple years. Don't know how much longer I can put up with these empty shells that call themselves people…"

"… decided on another approach with the new client. Think this might work ! It'll cost the rest of my savings, but it's an investment I'm willing to make. The profit will be more than worth it. I could actually get the fuck out of Georgia entirely with that kind of money. Fingers crossed…"

The final entry—the one Philip must've been scribbling when Dale had watched him earlier—was brief:

"Going to tell this doctor where to shove his pills and see if he wants to try one more time to give me what I need before I switch over to the new doctor. Not getting my hopes up. Bringing a few of my notebooks to try and convince him, even though it's never worked before. Probably just going to end up leaving pissed off, like the last six doctors. At least I have the meeting at the bar to look forward to later. Should be an interesting discussion. Fingers still tightly crossed."

Dale closed the book with trembling hands. Somehow, rather than finding any sort of answers, sneaking a peek at Philip's private journal had left Dale with even more questions than he'd already had. Questions that he would never be able to ask aloud.

Philip was even further gone than he could've imagined. How had he been so blind? This young man was struggling—severely struggling. That much was clear. He was alone and going out of his mind because anyone who'd ever known him well enough was dead and gone. And every person around him was none the wiser.

But what could Dale do? He shouldn't have even seen this damn book. He shouldn't have tried to get close. Yet something told him that Philip needed help. His help. Maybe he just needed a little reality check, a little fatherly guidance. From one man to another. A little push in the right direction, in order to keep him out of harm's way.

Dale carefully returned the hardback journal to its spot at the very bottom of the desk drawer. And as he glanced across the folders and stapled stacks of paperwork, he wondered… Who was the new client that Frank had denied? Why was Philip so upset about it?

He shut the bottom drawer and opened the drawer just above it. Sure enough, just as Dale had assumed, there was a carbon copy pad used for new client documents. He pulled it out and began flipping through it, squinting down at the faint writing that had copied over onto the bright yellow paper.

He didn't have to guess which new client had been denied. Dale knew as soon as he saw the name scrawled on the page: William Dixon.

That guy rarely even had insurance on his truck. Why would he be agreeing to buying a plan from Philip? Where'd he get the money? And why would he even need insurance like this?

Dale realized what this was: there was a property plan for the trailer that Will owned, as well as a life insurance plan for his wife, Leanne. But—wait. Another life insurance plan…

For Daryl Dixon? The eight-year-old son? What the hell? Why would that ever be necessary?

Yet there was nothing for Merle Dixon, the eldest son. Even though he'd shipped off to the Service. Maybe the military offered their own kind of life insurance plan to the next of kin? Dale wasn't sure, he had no experience with understanding all the technicalities of the military. But that wasn't the part that bothered him, anyway.

The amounts listed on the paperwork were laughable, as were all of Will's credentials. Dale nearly rolled his eyes when he realized that this was the denial Philip was so upset over. How could he have thought Frank would approve something like this? Especially when everyone in Senoia knew all about the unemployed, wife-beating, binge-drinking, drug-using Will Dixon. No one in their right mind would insure that guy.

Dale was putting the pieces together in his head very quickly. Obviously, Philip had met Will down at that sketchy bar, The Dirty Penny. They must've gotten to talking. Philip must not know about Will's reputation. The infamous Dixon patriarch probably fooled Philip with some kind of get-rich-quick scheme.

Decisively, Dale shoved the pad of carbon copies back where he'd found them and shut the desk drawer. He stepped back, still shaking a bit, his heart still racing. He knew what he had to do.

Philip needed guidance. He needed to be warned about the dangers of colluding with a Dixon. He needed a few words of advice.

And clearly, Dale was the only one who could give that to him.

Once again, Beth was forced back onto the elevator by a force she couldn't resist. Dale's inner thoughts drifted away and the metal doors slid shut. The out-of-place classical music played around her.

The next two buttons on the panel were blinking this time, and though she wasn't sure what it meant, she chose to keep up the pattern she'd been following. She reached out and pressed the first blinking button.

The elevator shifted and ascended. The tentacle-vines squirmed to life and began writhing within her core.

The glowing display above the doors switched from 'AD1986D3' to 'AD1978D1.' At first, she thought it might've been a glitch. It didn't seem like the correct pattern.

But then there was a ding!

The doors slid open and the music paused. Beth stepped out into bright afternoon sunlight. The tentacle-vines seemed to be going crazy beneath her skin, and she wasn't sure why.

One glance around told her she was in the parking lot of one of the only two grocery stores in Senoia, though it was vastly different than she'd ever seen it in her lifetime. All the cars were 60s and 70s models, and the few people walking through with full carts of groceries were dressed in late 70s attire, with the hairstyles to match. It was the middle of summer. Close to Independence Day, she guessed, based on the fireworks stand set up on the far end of the parking lot.

She walked across the pavement, urged forward by the distant sound of Dale's inner thoughts. He was alone, and he appeared younger than all the previous memories. He was walking away from his car and heading towards the entrance of the grocery store. Beth followed close behind.

Just as he was approaching the doors, they were thrust open and a family of three was herded out by the very angry store manager. A man and his pregnant wife, along with their elementary school-aged son, stumbled out over the sidewalk. The wife tried to shuffle away shamefully, urging her son along as well, but the husband was turning back to curse at the store manager.

"Hey, fuck you! I came in here to spend my hard-earned money, ya fuckin' prick!"

The store manager stood his ground, glaring at the unkempt man. "Go on, Will, get the hell outta here. I don't want yer business—already told y'all not to go bringin' that brat in here till you teach him some basic manners."

Beth figured it out in the split-second before Dale's inner thoughts confirmed it for her: she was seeing the Dixon family.

They were all dressed in raggedy, dirty clothing, though Will was the worst of all. His mud-colored brown hair went past his shoulders, greasy and stringy, and his strong jawline was covered in a week's worth of stubble. He was tall, at least six feet and a couple inches. Just by looking at him, Beth could see where the Dixon boys had inherited their body types and physical mannerisms. She could even see where they'd inherited the shape of their eyes, their jaws, and their hairlines.

Leanne, on the other hand, was better kempt. She'd tried, at least. Her long, sandy blonde hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her pregnant form was draped in a stained, mustard yellow dress. She looked nothing like Beth had imagined. She had soft, dark blue eyes—the same color as her youngest son's. Her children had clearly inherited her cheekbones and modest forehead. She was petite, no more than five feet tall, and walked with sagging shoulders, as though she were carrying an unseen weight on her back.

Little Merle would've been indistinguishable if not for the signature scowl on his face. A head full of shaggy, bright blonde hair, and eyes as blue as freshwater. He looked like he hadn't been bathed in a month.

Dale had paused and stepped aside, waiting for the tense scene to clear before he tried to walk past and enter the store. He saw Will Dixon acting a damn fool, and poor Leanne Dixon trying to steer clear of the inevitable blowback, keeping her little boy Merle close at her side. Though Merle was standing by with a rebellious scowl, watching his dad argue.

"Manners, huh?!" Will Dixon slashed an arm through the air angrily. Beth reeled at the sight, taken aback by how familiar it looked. Then he was jabbing a finger in the manager's direction. "You wanna accuse my boy of stealin', but yer the dumbass who won't even let us get to the checkout. How the fuck you know he was tryin'a steal?!"

"Last week it was a whole ham, this week it was a rack of ribs," the store manager argued. "My store, my rules. Now you go on an' get yer delinquent kin the hell off my property 'fore I call the cops!"

The manager turned and stormed back inside while Will flipped him the bird. Then the Dixon patriarch marched over to his waiting wife and son. He slapped Merle upside the head and cursed at him.

"Stupid little fucker. Can't even take you in to buy some goddamn peanut butter without you gettin' us kicked out. I swear, soon as we get home—"

Leanne stepped between them and looked up at her husband. "Go easy, Will. He's a growin' boy, he's just hungry."

Will's eyes flashed with anger and he towered over her, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "Oh, so now yer defending this little retard? Hungry, huh? What're you sayin', woman? I don't provide enough—fuckin' peanut butter sandwiches ain't good enough for ya? Why don'tcha get yerself a fuckin' job an' start puttin' some real food on the table, 'f you think yer so high an' fuckin' mighty!"

She cowered, visibly deflating out of fear and meekly nodding. "I'm sorry baby, I didn't mean—"

"Nah, I know exactly what ya fuckin' meant, bitch," Will interrupted. "And ya know what? Y'all can walk yer asses home. Let's see how hungry ya get after that!"

He turned his head and spat on the ground, and Dale flinched when he saw the sharp pinch Will gave to Leanne's upper arm before he stormed off in the opposite direction. She and Merle stood silently, watching as he left them and got into his beat-up old truck. He peeled out of the parking lot as fast as he could, tires screeching on the pavement and a cloud of exhaust billowing in his wake.

Dale hesitated where he was. A few people had come and gone from the grocery store, but they'd all quickly looked away from the scene playing out nearby. He should've looked away, too. But he simply couldn't.

Everyone knew the Dixons. Everyone knew how they… operated. And everyone had silently agreed that it was none of their business.

That's just how things were sometimes. You didn't go intervening, trying to step in and tell a man how to run his household. It just wasn't polite.

Even when the wife was constantly sporting fresh bruises. Even when the child was sporting similar bruises, and acting out and causing trouble all over town.

Leanne had stepped a little farther away from the doors, keeping a very displeased Merle at her side, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. She was lighting one up and taking in a deep drag when Dale approached her.

Before he could say anything, she was rolling her eyes and frowning at him, turning away. "Show's over, asshole. Nothin' ta see here."

"Leanne, it's just me," Dale said, speaking and standing before her like he would a skittish animal.

She shot him a side-eye and crossed one arm over her swollen breasts, resting it atop her heavily pregnant belly. Her other arm bent routinely to bring the cigarette to her lips and away. "I know it's you, Mr. Horvath. That's why I said show's over. You can get back to yer pleasant grocery trip now."

Merle stepped forward and glared up at Dale, his voice high-pitched and angry. "Fuck off, old man. Leave my mama alone."

Leanne gently tapped the boy on the top of his head and urged him back. "Hush up now, he's not an old man, Merle. You've caused enough trouble today."

What was he, eight? Maybe nine years old? And he was already filled with so much rage. It made Dale deeply sad to see such a thing developing in a boy so young.

Like father, like son, he remembered. Or so the saying went.

"I just wanted to see if I could offer y'all a ride home," Dale said, keeping his eyes on the Dixon matriarch.

Something flickered in her blue eyes, but she quickly glanced away and took another drag from her cigarette. "Well I appreciate the offer, but our legs work just fine. We don't need yer charity."

He frowned, glancing down at her big belly. She was already sweating in the mid-afternoon Georgia humidity, beads of perspiration that made her sun-bleached hair stick to her forehead and neck. Merle stood off to the side, dressed in clothes that were obviously too small for him, kicking pebbles across the sidewalk with evident frustration.

"It's not charity," Dale assured. "Just neighborly kindness. What is it, two, three miles away? That's an awful long walk fer a little boy and a pregnant woman."

She sighed, ashing her cigarette. "Me an' my boys are survivors. A little walk ain't nothin'."

Dale perked up. "So you're havin' another boy?" He smiled. "Congratulations, Leanne."

At that, a genuine smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. Only for the briefest second, though. She took another drag off her smoke and muttered, "Yep. Another boy. Gonna name him after my granddaddy this time."

"That's wonderful," Dale said. He tried to keep the same congenial tone in his voice as he insisted, "You look like yer about to pop any day. I can only imagine how swollen your feet must be—let me give you a ride. I can drop y'all off down the road. Will would be none the wiser."

Leanne's eyebrows creased and she took a half-step away, shooting Dale another glare. "I said, no thank you. Now leave us be, alright? Ain't right to go pokin' yer nose in other folks' family affairs."

Dale's face fell and he let out a sigh of defeat. He gave one last glance towards Merle, who seemed to be in his own little world as he crouched down and collected a palmful of small rocks. There was a big purple-and-green bruise on his upper arm peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt.

Then Dale shrugged. "Fine. Can I at least get ya anything from the store? Maybe that peanut butter you came for—"

"I said, fuck off," Leanne spat.

Dale's heart sank, but he had no choice except to turn away and walk on.

Sometimes, he really hated this damn town.

to be continued…