Seven Years Later

I smell smoke when I wake. Not the frightening kind – it's campfire smoke, which has a distinct smell, an earthy kind. It has a distinct feeling, too. The feeling you get when you're safe, when you're around people you like, people you love. The feeling of settling down after a long day of hunting. It's a good feeling to wake up to. A good smell.

I open my eyes, only to squeeze them nearly-closed right away. Dawn's already started, it's going full-force, and eyes don't like that kind of thing. The morning light streams through the crack between the tent flaps as I push myself up, squinting at my surroundings. My familiar tent. Well, semi-familiar.

I slept in, the more-gold-than-silver light is proof of that. Not typical of me, but not surprising. I tend to sleep through sunrise when I'm visiting Dad.

I pull and kick my quilt off me. With the exception of my boots, leather gloves, and overshirt, I'm fully dressed - socks, jeans, bra, tank top. Another not-typical thing that actually is kind of typical when I'm here. I don't hear Dad outside, or Dog, for that matter. They'll probably be checking the traps. Or fishing. Or doing one of the other hundreds of things Dad does to either survive or keep himself busy. Or both, sometimes.

I run a hand through my hair, note the tangles between my scalp and my shoulder blades, debate brushing them out, decide to hell with it, and tie it all back in a ponytail. I pull my overshirt on, leaving it unbuttoned, like always. Roll the left sleeve back once, just enough to keep visible the brown braid of leather – glimmering with the delicate silver chain woven in with it – that I always keep looped three times around my wrist. I pull on my gloves, also leather, and fingerless, and which slide onto my hands like they belong there. Which, after years of daily use, I guess they pretty much do. The left-hand glove is even personalized, its index and middle fingers closed off with tight, neat stitches. Michonne's work. Sewing is not a talent of mine, I've come to terms with that.

I cross my legs, meditate for about ten minutes, then crack my neck and get up. Push my feet into my boots, clip my knife to my waist. I leave my bow, quiver, and machete at the foot of the quilt but pull my toothbrush and little jar of toothpaste from my bag before stepping out into the world.

It greets me warmly, literally and otherwise.

The campfire is burning in that small, almost-gentle way campfires burn when a log hasn't been added in a while. The metal rack situated over it holds a lidded kettle I know'll be filled with coffee. On the other side of the little campsite, one flap of Dad's tent is flung over the tent's top, and, as far as I can tell, there's nothing inside but tangled blankets. The wide and ever-muddy river ripples lazily along on my left side, showing no sign of Dad. His raft – his own creation, built with logs he cut and bound himself, because of course he knew how to do that – is still here, although it sprung a leak a couple of months ago. I'm not sure if Dad's fixed it or not.

Behind my tent, Rabbit – who, contrary to her name, is actually a horse, one of my favorites – grazes in the nonchalant way horses are so good at, black tail flicking flies off her flanks. "Mornin' to you, too," I tell her. She ignores me.

I brush my teeth, watching the river the be a river, and I've just spit when I hear a bark from behind me. Two barks, three . . . I wipe toothpaste from my lips and turn in time to have my legs rammed into by the panting bundle of fur I know as Dog, who happy-whines, ears back and eyes adoring, as I stick a foot back to keep from falling over. "Hey, buddy." I rub his side, which wiggles right along with his tail. Dog's not a German shepherd – Dad doesn't know, or really care, what breed he is – but he has a face that reminds me of Buck, the dog I had as a kid, who was a German shepherd. And that kind of makes me happy. "Hey . . . How's my boy this mornin', huh? How's my boy?"

"Ain't your boy."

On the other side of fire, arms full of thin logs and – naturally – his crossbow hung across his back, is my dad. The version of him I still haven't really gotten used to seeing. Which is weird, since it's the version of him I've seen most in the past six years. This version of my dad dresses in old boots, torn dark jeans, and a baggy green poncho he got from somewhere and wears, I think, pretty much anytime he's out in the forest. He has hair to his shoulders, haphazardly-cut around his face to sort-of keep it out of his eyes. The bags beneath his eyes are deep and dark and permanent. Not unlike mine.

The complex thing about this version of Dad is that it really shouldn't be – really isn't - all that different from other versions of Dad, even versions I was totally used to. I mean, when you just look at the physical aspects, none of the versions have been that far off from this one.

And yet.

Dad nods at Dog, whose ears I'm currently scratching. "Quit tryin' to steal my dog, would ya?"

"I'm not tryin' to steal him. Can't help it if he likes me more. Ain't that right, Dog? You like me more, yeah?"

Dog's tongue flops from his mouth.

Dad dumps the haul of logs beside the fire. I put my toothbrush and toothpaste back in the tent and, from the fireside pile of mismatched dishes, grab a tin mug. I settle onto one the stumps my dad uses as furniture and pour coffee from the kettle, the steam and the scent brushing pleasantly over my face. Dad's propped his crossbow against his own stump and now walks towards his tent, rolling the poncho off, revealing a dark shirt with no sleeves and – because somehow, by a miracle of the universe, he still has it – his old leather vest. The one I've always loved, the one with the wings. Well. Just one wing now.

Dad tosses the poncho over his tent before returning to the fire. Dog splashes into the river, lapping as he goes, and Dad squats and slides one log onto the fire, then another. The embers shift, sizzle. Tiny flames start to lap at the sides of the fresh wood. "Sleep alright?"

"Yeah. Really good, actually."

"Good." Dad moves the kettle to the side of the rack and places a biggish pot in its place. "You looked tired last night." He pops the lid off a plastic jug – he's collected three or four or them, these multi-gallon jugs of different shapes and sizes that he likes to keep filled up. He pours water into the pot until it's about halfway full. "What, them comfy beds at Alexandria ain't cuttin' it no more?"

He's one to talk about looking tired. That said, he's right. I needed some rest. Haven't been getting enough sleep lately. My own fault. Well, half my fault.

"Been a busy few weeks." Not the complete explanation, but not a false one. I sip my coffee. Dad's not much for coffee, not unless it's a cold morning or he needs the caffeine, but he's good at making it. The campfire helps, I think. Everything tastes a little better, to me, when it's from a campfire.

Dad goes to his tent and returns with a burlap sack heavy with five pounds of sorghum. I know that's what's inside the sack because I brought it to him yesterday, along with a dozen or so other items. Just some stuff he can't get out here, stuff I know he should have – stuff I want him to have – but that he won't ask for. Jarred foods, mostly – apples, tomatoes, beans. A little honey. Coffee. Toothpaste. Bandages. Tobacco, paper to roll it in. Some books I think he'll like, to replace the ones he'll send back with me.

It makes me feel better. Bringing him stuff. I don't know how much it matters, but it makes me feel better. So.

Dad sits, dropping the sack by his crossbow, brushing the dirt off his hands. Dog trots out of the river, paws slapping against the mud. He shakes himself – I'm a good ten feet away, but I still feel droplets hit me – before padding over to Dad, who rubs his head in the rough-but-loving kind of way my dad mastered a long time ago. For certain situations.

I jerk my head out at the forest. "You check the traps?"

"Checked the snares." Dad picks up a stick and pokes the fire, causing one of the logs to roll over with a soft thud. Sparks fly up through the rack and float around the pot. "Dog checks the traps."

I look at Dog. "Is there anything you can't do?"

He thumps his tail.

The traps in question, to be clear, aren't for animals. They're for walkers. See, once Dad realized – or decided, or admitted to himself, I'm not really sure – that he was going to stay out here indefinitely, he took measures to protect the camp. To make a long story short, he riddled the perimeter with I-don't-even-know-how-many holes of varying sizes and put spikes in them. If a walker comes across the camp, it ends up with at least one part of its body – a leg, typically – sunk into the ground, impaled in multiple places. It's a system that, I have to admit, seems to work pretty well. When I'm here, Dad sleeps while I sleep. There's no way in hell he'd do that if he thought a walker could get at me.

After the water's come to a boil – actually, after Dad's let it boil a while, which I'm pretty sure he only bothers to do when I'm here – he tilts the burlap sack over the pot, lets some sorghum stream out. The grain makes a satisfying, soft kind of sound as it meets the water. "Why's it been busy?"

"Hm?"

"That's what you said, a minute ago. Everything okay?"

I hold my coffee against my chest, enjoying the warmth. "Yeah. Yeah, everything's fine. It's just, with the summer ending, we're thinkin' about winter now . . . You know how it gets. The Council's meeting more than normal, so . . ."

"Last night you said everythin' was goin' good with the Council."

"It is. I mean, it's still kinda weird for me, but – it's goin' good. In every way. Really. Just a hectic time of year."

"Mm."

The sorghum cooks. Steam twists in with the campfire smoke. Dad and I take turns throwing a stick for Dog, I fill my mug again, and, before long, Dad's ladling us each a bowl of porridge, scraping the pot clean. We sit and eat. The porridge is far blander than I'm used to, because it's made with water instead of milk. Also, I usually add honey, but Dad doesn't know I brought honey, because I hide the more luxurious things I bring him beneath other, less-luxurious things so I don't have to listen to him tell me not to bring him stuff like that.

Truth be told, I don't really mind the bland porridge. I'm eating by a campfire with my dad. The river runs, the birds sing. Smoke stains our clothes. The trees whisper.

It's a good moment. Kind of feels like an old moment.

When he's not looking, I study him. I do that a lot when I'm here, can't help it. He looks healthy, overall. Strong and muscled, like he's supposed to look. It's reassuring. I worry about him eating enough – he'll feed Dog before he'll feed himself, I'm sure of that. And I love him for that. But it scares me a little, too.

I draw a circle in my porridge. "Judith's gonna be disappointed when I come back without you. I tell her every time I come here that I'm only coming to visit, but I think she always suspects I'm bringing you back as a surprise."

"Ain't been that long since I've seen her."

"Four months?"

"Nah."

"No, it's definitely been four months. Judith told me. Multiple times. She keeps track."

Dad huffs out a breath. He's drawing things in his porridge, too. "Course she does."

Dog has flopped on his side by Dad's feet, stick pinned between his paws. Behind me, Rabbit snorts.

"RJ asks about you, too," I say after a minute. "Granted, that's ninety-percent because he hears Judith doing it, and whatever Judith does is kind of his main focus right now, but still . . . that other ten percent, that's somethin'."

"I'll come by soon."

That's what you said last time, Dad.

That's what you said the time before that, and the time before that, too.

I take a bite, swallow, and ask, "Carol been to see you lately?"

"Been a while. You probably hear from her as much as I do."

"Doubt it. Not these days."

He eyes me, chewing. "Things still that bad?"

I open my mouth, close it, try again. "They're not bad, with the Kingdom. A few of us go there, or some of them come to Alexandria, every couple of months . . ."

Every few months, really, would be more accurate.

". . . just to check in, mostly."

More often than not, it's the second scenario, them coming to us. Michonne's more comfortable letting their people into Alexandria than she is sending our people to the Kingdom. Which isn't saying much.

Them, us. Our people, their people. These are the terms we use nowadays.

I don't think about it much. I try not to, anyway. I should be grateful it's not worse, really – I am, I am grateful it's not worse. If Michonne had her way – if there wasn't a Council, if Alexandria weren't full of people with different desires than hers – I'm not sure we'd still be in contact with any of the communities at all. With any of the people at all.

Even though so many of them used to be our people.

Used to be.

Carol. Maggie. Tara. Enid.

And . . . others.

I reach for my coffee, take a big gulp. Bigger than I should, with how hot it still is. It burns on the way down. "Now, with the Hilltop . . . Yeah, things still aren't good with the Hilltop. A few of us, we still . . ."

"Still what?"

Still communicate with them. Except we don't. Not officially. "We still think things'll get better, between our communities. Me and the other Council members. Some of them." I make it sound natural, I think, like that really is what I meant to say all along. In other words, I cover well.

Begging the question of why I felt the need to cover at all.

"Some of them?" Dad repeats.

"Michonne's still . . ." I don't know how to finish that.

"Right." Dad scrapes his spoon along his bowl. "Well. She's got her reasons for wantin' things like they are. Closed off."

"I know her reasons."

"I know you do." He sets his bowl in front of Dog, who sniffs it, gives the remaining porridge a quick, careful lick, and politely turns away.

I still have a few bites of porridge left. I take one, but the conversation's caused my organs to tighten up, and I don't really have it in me to take anymore. I set the bowl at my feet and hold my mug in both hands. "Thanks, by the way. For breakfast, and the coffee."

"Don't thank me, you brought it all."

We stare out at the river. Or, I do – no, I was right, we do, a quick check of Dad shows me he's doing the same thing. But I'm too slow, and he glances over before I can look out at the river again, and our eyes connect, and . . . I don't know.

I go ahead and look out at the river, but it's too late. Something's happened, he's seen something, that much is proven when – after a minute – he says, "Sydney, I know I've been out here awhile."

Six years, Dad, I hear myself saying. You've been out here for six years, more or less. Judith didn't have to tell me that one. I've kept track all on my own.

But when I hear myself saying that, I'm saying it through gritted teeth. And I don't want to talk like that to Dad. Not about this. Or about anything, really, I don't think he deserves that.

I don't think. I might feel differently. But . . . sometimes feelings are stupid.

So I just say what I should say now. "It's okay, Dad."

I feel his eyes on me. "Is it?"

I turn to him. And there's something on his face, something soft, the sort of thing Dad's never been great at showing to anyone but me and a few, a few other people, and that something, that dissolves the gritted-teeth feeling from before. "I know why you have to be out here," I say. And that's it. I don't have to say the other thing, the rest of the thing, and Dad doesn't, either. We both know. We both hear it in our heads.

Because we never found a body.

Which means we never found proof that Rick Grimes is dead.

And until we find that – until Dad finds that, sees that – he won't really believe it. He can't. Not totally, not in his bones.

And I have no right to blame him, because if it had been Carl on that bridge, no force on Earth could have dragged me away from this fucking river.

. . . . .

"Sure you got everything?" Dad asks as I swing my leg over Rabbit's back, arrows rattling in my quiver as I do so. We're outside of his camp – what with the walker traps, I always lead the horse in and out of the camp on foot, just to be safe.

"Yep." I wrap my right hand in the reins and use my left to pat Rabbit's neck. Dad's eyes catch on it, my hand, and stay there for a beat too long. That happens sometimes. With him. Well, with others, too, but I mostly notice it with Dad. My hand – my mutilated hand – means something to him that it doesn't to most people.

I pull the stupid hand back in what I hope is a casual way and settle it on the saddle, tucked beneath my right wrist. "Any messages you want me to give anyone?"

"Like what?" Dog trots up to Dad and takes a seat, nudging his hand, and Dad obligingly rubs his ears.

"Like . . . Hi?"

"Course I say hi."

"To anyone in particular, or to everyone, or . . . ?"

"I say hi to everybody you think needs to hear me say hi."

I grin a little. "I'll pass it along."

Dad strokes Rabbit's neck, starts to say something, but then just exhales. It's the sort of exhale that has a hint, just a hint, of a growl to it. "Hey, that thing you told me about last night?"

That thing. I take a deep breath.

"If I didn't seem . . . happy about it . . . It's just 'cause it caught me by surprise, that's all." Dad squints up at me. "If you're happy, I'm happy."

I breathe out. He's trying. He really is. "Thanks, Dad."

He nods once, looking back at his camp. "Well. Give him my best." He reaches up and squeezes my forearm. His grip is strong. Then it's gone, and Dad's stepping back from me. "And tell him I'll kick his ass if he don't treat ya right."

I huff out a little laugh. "Tell him yourself," I say. Pointedly. I tap my heels against Rabbit's side, steering her in a quarter-circle, towards our path. "Love you."

"Love you, Little Bit."

I kick Rabbit into a trot. "I was talking to Dog!"

I always try to get Dad to smile right as I leave. I never made a conscious decision to start doing that, but that's how it's come to be. I don't always manage it. He's not an easy guy to get a smile out of. But this time, I hit the mark.