My wakeup call comes in the form of fingers brushing hair from my forehead. These fingers pull me from a nice cool nothingness into an even cooler, gray world, and into that foggy time between sleeping and being awake where you don't know really anything, and so when my eyes open they're looking for Owen, telling me I slept in late and Joe's ready to go. But it's Dad I see, kneeling next to my head, and the past few days snap back and tumble over me and burrow back into my body and mind. Dad. Carl. Everyone. Terminus. DC. A silver rose necklace and a boy's jacket.

Dad jerks his head and I know what he means. Hunting time. My head's in Carl's lap. I get up easily, slowly, and he doesn't stir. Find my loaded bow. Pull my quiver over my shoulder. Just four arrows in it, that quiver, plus the one on the string. Low number. I don't like the low number.

Rick's up. He's the only one. He's crouching by the embers of one of our fires as the rest of our people and kind-of our people sleep in bundles around him. "Show your dad how it's done," he murmurs as we go by.

"I'm tryin'. He's a slow learner."

That gets a huff of a laugh from him.

Dad presses a strip of beef jerky and two peanut butter crackers in my hand as he leads the way into the woods. Quiet steps.

After ten minutes' worth of those quiet steps, we shoot at the same squirrel at the same time, which isn't like us. My arrow hits its chest, his hits the eye. Dad glances at me and then goes and rips the thing from the tree it's pinned to.

"Since when do you get first shot?" he asks. He's playing around.

But I shift my weight and my tone doesn't come out as light as his. "Figured it was about time."

He meets my eyes, something happens there, and then he gives a sort of half shrug, pulling the arrows out of the squirrel's body. He gives me mine. "Fair enough. You get the next one."

I restring, he reloads, we move on.

And I watch him. We weave through trees and bushes and listen, look, but my gaze keeps slipping back to Dad, again and again. Can't help it. When we hunt, I watch Dad, that's just how it is. Every detail. How he steps, in that perfect heel-toe way that lets him sneak up on pretty much anything he wants. How his eyes dart around when he catches movement in the trees, and he always catches it, I think, like a hawk. The way those same eyes make frequent trips down to the ground before us, just in case there's something there for them to snag on, a hook for us to bite onto.

But this morning, something's different. Because we're most definitely squirrel hunting – we don't have time to track a deer God knows how far, let alone haul it around or skin it or even cook it – but Dad's eyes are on the ground more than they're off of it. And there are no tracks, none that I can see, and I'm a damn good tracker. Maybe not as good as he is – or maybe so. I don't know. We haven't had a competition in a while, like we used to, in the old days. Point is, no tracks here. No time to bother with a deer. So –

"Why're you lookin' for tracks?"

His eyes immediately flick up to the trees. "I ain't."

"Yeah, you are."

"Just like bein' aware of the stuff around me. You oughta do the same."

"I do. Always."

"Right." And now his hunter's eyes come to me. I know exactly what they catch on and reach up to touch it just as he says, "Pretty necklace."

The silver is lukewarm, a perfect medium between the heat from my body and the chill of the air. "Carl gave it to me."

Dad nods just a little. "I know." He turns and moves. I follow. Like always. We head north ten paces – his eyes are on the ground almost the entire time – and then he says, "How's your side?"

"It's fine. Doesn't hurt much anymore." I'm not lying. A good night's sleep did me good – it doesn't even feel like it's bleeding much, this gunshot wound of mine. And those chills from yesterday are almost completely gone. I never told him about those, but they kind of worried me, after we got out of Terminus and I had time to worry about them. My mind kept going back to when T-Dog got blood poisoning on the highway, and Dale said it could kill him without meds . . .

Oh, Dale. T-Dog.

"Really?" Dad says. What? Oh. I told him I was fine. So what, he doesn't believe me?

"Don't know why you think I'd lie," I say, casually.

"'Cause you're too tough to complain. You always been that way."

It's a compliment, I guess. But he says it like it irritates him. Can't tell if it's a teasing sort of thing or not. He looks down at me now. "Remind me to take a look at it when we camp tonight, alright?"

"Alright." I'm not going to remind him.

A few more minutes of walking silence, but then we take a break, lean up against a big tree, so we're facing different ways but my shoulder sometimes touches his arm, or his arm sometimes touches my shoulder, depending on who moves. Neither of us do, much. This is a pretty good way to hunt sometimes. Just hang around and wait. My favorite way to hunt squirrels, though, is to walk around and scare them out of their hiding spots. That's how Dad likes to do it, too. That's why I know that we're here against this tree mostly because he wants to talk. Which makes me nervous. I listen to the leaves whisper and whistle, listen to Dad's breathing and compare it to mine. I take two for every one-and-a-half of his, or so. I try to breathe deeper. It makes my chest hurt, so I stop.

"So," Dad says before too long. "You and your boyfriend gone public now?"

I take a long inhale, long exhale. "We were never keepin' it a secret. Just never had much of a chance to tell anyone."

"Well, you told 'em now." He checks something on his crossbow, lifting it up to his eyes, dropping it down again. He spits away from our tree, and then, "I don't like the two of you sleepin' next to each other."

I roll my head up to the sky and then away from him, out into the part of the woods he can't see. I had hoped, vainly, that this conversation wouldn't happen. But I knew it would, really. Of course it would. Carl and I even talked about it last night, when I crawled over to him in the dying firelight.

Your dad won't let you stay here, he said as I laid my head on his outstretched legs.

Well, until he says something, I'm staying here. If that's good with you.

He smiled and started playing with my hair, freed from its ponytail and recently untangled thanks to a half-hour of my dedicated fingers combing through its thousands of knots.

Dad hadn't said anything, not then. I could feel him watching, don't get me wrong, but he let us be. But now he's bringing it up, when we're alone, and probably will be for a good few hours. Smart plan.

"We slept by each other after the prison," I tell the forest.

"I wasn't there to disapprove."

No. You weren't. "I slept next to Owen – under the same blanket – for a lot of nights." I shouldn't bring up Owen. He doesn't belong in this conversation. But now here he is.

"That was different and you know it."

"Well, what're you worried about?" I strum my bowstring, feel it vibrate, ready. There's a walker, way, way off in the woods. I don't think it's coming our way, though. "Carl and I aren't about to – try anything in the middle of our camp."

"I ain't worried about things now. I'm worried about when we find a new place to stay, a place to hole up for a while. A place with rooms. Nooks and crannies."

I snort. "You really think you have something to worry about?"

"I was a fourteen-year-old boy once."

Carl's closer to fifteen now, but I don't say it.

What time of the year is it, anyway, exactly? Is it September yet? Am I thirteen now? I'm sure someone would know, someone wise enough to keep track of dates. Maybe Dad would know. But that question doesn't belong here anymore than Owen did.

"Carl would never do anything I didn't want to do. And I told you before, at the prison – I'm not about to do . . . that."

"Good. Hey." He elbows me, I look at him, he nods above us. "You gonna take that shot or what?"

I follow his eyes. A squirrel is up a tall oak, munching on a nut. So much for being aware. Well done, Sydney, I tell myself as I shoot the thing down, Keep it the hell up.

I go pick up the corpse, pull out my arrow, toss the kill to Dad. He brought along this long thin rope, and he tied the first squirrel to it and he ties this one to it, too. "I still don't like you sleepin' by him," he says.

And I say, "Well, sorry."

Now, there's something I haven't done in a while. Said something . . . snarky to Dad. I have a bad habit of saying things without thinking them through, but usually not things quite so likely to make my dad give me that dangerous look he's giving me now. He lowers the string. The dead squirrels dangle, spinning a bit. "You really wanna have a power struggle right now?" he asks, voice low.

I don't answer. Truth is, I don't. But I like sleeping next to Carl.

Truth is also that I haven't lived under my dad's rules in a while. And getting back to that, after basically being my own boss for a good chunk of time . . . Well. A few power struggles might be a given. Should probably accept that now.

Dad stares me down, and I stare back, until I guess he's decided I've decided to back down. Which I haven't. I just haven't pushed the issue, either. Not now. Not yet. "You can keep doin' it for now," he says, wrapping the string around his arm. "In camps, without a blanket. But once we're under a roof, you can say adios to that arrangement." He walks past me. Like that's that. Any objections? Any arguments? Too bad.

My hands curl into fists, and the question, it just comes out, I swear, it just comes out.

"What arrangement did you and LC have?"

And now I can't take it back.

Dad stops. I hear him. I hear him turn, I hear him take one, two steps back to me, not all the way back, just closer. Then, "What?"

I turn, too. Gotta. And we're in another stare-down now. I want to cross my arms but don't. That would be childish. "You two were on your own for a while, right?" I say, keeping my voice under control. Or, trying to. "After Beth got taken?" That's what Dad told Maggie had happened, I heard him. Beth was taken, kidnapped, by someone in a car with a cross on the back. And then it was just Dad and LC. He didn't say anything about that time. How long it was. What they did.

Dad steps closer.

"What happened with the two of you?" I ask. I don't know if I want to hear the answer. But I think I might have to. Yeah, I need to. I really do. Because there is a big difference between the Dad who hates LC and the Dad who doesn't. One is on my side. The other I don't know. At all.

Oh, whichever Dad he is, he can't believe I'm saying this. He's mad, he's caught off guard, too. But it could be a cover. Is it a cover? "Look," he starts, "I don't know what you think you know –"

I plant my feet. I cross my arms, gripping my bow in my sweaty left hand, which is pressed against my right bicep, pressed hard. "I know you and Mom slept together after the divorce. More than once. Maybe a lot more."

Nope, the anger and disbelief, they're not covers. They come full-force now, and I don't think you can fake that kind of stuff. And what's that, Dad? Is that – the slightest, slightest blush? Or maybe just the fury kicking in?

He spins away for a minute. His hand comes up to his mouth and falls. I just stand waiting, trying to swallow. I've never done anything like this before. Not with Dad.

But there are a lot of blanks I need him to fill and this is just one of them.

Dad's done a full three-sixty. He's facing me again, and he points. Nothing good ever comes from him pointing at me. "First of all. What your mom and me did or didn't do, ever, ain't none of your business."

I give a dry smile. An Owen smile. A Merle smile. I say, "Right," and that's too far.

"Jesus, Sydney – watch the damn attitude!"

Too far, definitely too far, and I'm staring at the ground. I feel hot all over, which is maybe where the expression in hot water comes from, but I also feel like I'm rolling down a hill and just picking up speed, more and more, can't stop till the hill ends. And it's a big hill.

Dad's voice goes deep. "I know you been through some sh – crap since the prison. So have I. So has everybody else. It don't mean you get to act like a five-year-old."

"Dads don't worry about five-year-olds sleepin' next to boys."

Now he comes right up to me. His eyes are knives, they hurt, literally hurt, even before I make myself meet them, and when I do, with my jaw nailed closed, they only hurt more. Deep down, makes-me-want-to-cry hurt. But I don't. Cry, I mean. Like I said. My jaw's set. And I'm on that hill.

I think, if it were two years ago, Dad would have at least given me a swat or two by now. Told me to straighten out or else he'd give me something to really cry about. He was a lot different back then, and so was I. I'm older, and he's mellowed out some, in ways like that. But what does he do these days, when he decides I've stepped out of line? Ground me? Hah. Tell me how disappointed he is in me?

What're you gonna do, Dad?

I don't think I'm in the wrong.

It takes him a while, but he goes from glaring to speaking. Scary voice. Oh, scary voice. It still has an effect on me, I won't lie.

"You'd best quit backtalkin' me, girl."

Shit. Those eyes.

"You want me to treat you like you ain't a kid? Act like you ain't."

Act like I'm not a kid. Act like it. Okay, Dad. Here – What if I kill a couple people? Would that do the trick, would that be not acting like a kid enough? Or what if I got drunk, smoked cigarettes, ooh, almost get raped – twice? That grownup enough for you, Daddy? Or what if I survive for weeks without you? Without you!

Oh, but I shouldn't blame you. No. You were looking for me. Of course you were.

"Did you sleep with her?" I ask.

Hear the wind blow. The leaves rustle. The animals run. The twigs snap. My heart beat.

Eyes on eyes.

"No," he finally, finally says. "No. Satisfied?"

I don't answer.

"Better be. 'Cause that's the last time I ever answer a question like that. You hear me?"

A squirrel runs up a tree behind him. I don't say anything. I look away.

"I love you," he says. "But I ain't your friend, not first. Nah, first I'm your dad. Your father. And I decide what you do and don't need to know 'bout me. 'Bout what I do . . . 'bout what I've done."

But my life should be an open book to him. Oh, that's fair.

"We clear?"

It takes me a second, but I say it. "We're clear."

He lets out a long breath. His shoulders go down a few inches.

I nod over his shoulder. "There's a squirrel there." Because it's his shot. That's fair.

He bags it. We move on.

One day, maybe soon, he's going to ask about all that time from my open-book life that he missed. He's going to want to know about when it was me and Rick and Carl, when it was me and Rick and Carl and Michonne, and all the time that followed after I ruined that. All that time when it was me and Owen and Joe and Len and all the other assholes. The assholes I survived. Without him.

I don't know when he's going to ask. When he'll decide it's the right time. But when he does, the book's closing. Because I decide what he does and doesn't need to know about me. What I do, what I've done. Whether he likes it or not.

We don't talk much more. I ask him once, after morning's in full bloom, if the group's going to wait for us. He says he and Rick agreed to meet three miles east of the campsite by noon. Then there's more silence. More squirrels. They're thick here. I know I must be hungry, even though I don't feel it. I don't think my body understands hunger very well anymore. It vomits too much. But now, now that I'm back with the group, maybe I'll start eating better again. Keep more stuff down. Make the bones in my stomach and hips jut out a little less. Start cooking squirrels before I eat them.

We walk. We hunt. The sun crawls up and up over our heads, the air gets warmer, but it doesn't melt the tension between Dad and me.

I've finished rolling down that hill. I'm on my ass at the bottom now. I'm tired.

I don't want there to be tension between Dad and me.

But . . . damn it. Things have changed.

One thing that hasn't changed is that I watch Dad.

Like I said. Can't be helped.

And when I've watched him scan the ground for the thousandth time, it hits me, what he's doing. And I tell him. Blurt it out.

"You're checking for tracks, aren't you?"

"I'm a tracker, ain't I?"

"You're not tracking a deer. That wouldn't make sense."

"Just a habit, Sydney."

"You're checking for human tracks."

He doesn't answer.

"What were they, Dad?" No attitude this time around. My voice has gone soft, all on its own. I've thought about it a lot, what those people might have been, what plans they might have had, and all the answers I've come up with scare me. Unsurprisingly. But if I know the truth, then maybe I can get used to it. Or maybe it won't even be as bad as I'm thinking it could be.

Maybe it's because my voice did that, got softer, that Dad stops. He just stands there for a while. Finally, he looks me in the eye. Nicer this time. But no, nicer isn't the word. His eyes have gone soft like my voice went soft. "People ain't always people no more, Sydney."

"I know that." The Governor taught me that lesson. Joe and his group drove it home.

I think Dad might try to leave it at that, but he doesn't. He swallows hard, clears his throat, checks around us, brings his gaze back to mine. Then down. Then up. "That meat they were cookin', when we first got there? It wasn't from no animal."

That takes a very long time to register. Then my spine curls a tiny bit, my gag reflex tries its hand at bringing up my little breakfast but I fight it back, no, I throw up enough as it is, remember how much better I'm going to start doing – ?

But that meat. That meat almost touched my lips. Or did it touch my lips? I try to remember. I can't. Oh, God.

"They were going to eat us."

"Don't matter now."

"That's why Rick wanted to kill them all." We should have.

"We're gettin' away from 'em. That's what matters."

"You're lookin' for their tracks."

"I'm lookin' for anyone's tracks."

"But if you find any, they're most likely theirs."

"I ain't found any. They ain't around. They ain't comin' after us, and if they did, we'd take 'em on. Take 'em down. We can hold our own, you know that."

My own eyes dart across the ground. He should have told me this. I could have been looking all this time.

"Babe, there ain't no tracks. We're fine."

Fine. Cannibals running around, but we're fine.

"Come on. Still plenty of time before noon. Lotta squirrels to shoot."

Cannibals. Cannibals.

But if I freeze up, he'll remember it. He won't tell me anything like this again. And it'll be one more reason for him to treat me like a little kid instead of a half-grown woman who has to act twice her age most of the time.

So I go on with him. I hunt some more. Shoot squirrels.

Look for human tracks, look for human tracks, look for human anything. See nothing.

But some people – some cannibals – had to get out of Terminus. And they're out here in the world. Maybe in this forest. And in that scenario, they're the hunters. We're the squirrels.

No. No. We are not squirrels. Just because someone wants to make us prey doesn't mean we aren't predators. Walkers try to eat us all the time. And we kill them. We win.

Unless we don't.

People ain't always people no more, Sydney.

No. Sometimes they're dinner.