It's a pretty church.

Stained glass windows, up at the front, behind the pulpit. I've always liked stained glass. How it can turn a room into a rainbow. The pulpit, it's behind this railing sort of thing, which is about three feet tall. More of a fence, I guess. It's a rectangle missing a side, the side farthest from the entrance, and it doesn't close the pulpit off or anything. It's like a weird barrier. I've never seen something like that in a church.

Behind this weird barrier-fence-railing thing, there's the typical church podium, just ready for its priest to step up to it and praise God. Behind that, a table with a cross and candles. And behind that, on the floor under the stained glass windows, a good collection of opened cans, their lids stuck out, just begging for a finger to slice. Gabriel told us that his church had a canned food drive right around the time of the turn. Lucky.

There's a door on either side of the pulpit. One leads to the priest's office, the other to a spare room – probably used for Sunday School, or one of those meetings where the wives all get together and talk about how to improve things in the community, in between gossiping about its members. My Nana used to be one of those wives.

And then there are pews, of course. Rows and rows across a wooden floor. Empty, destined to wait forever for people long dead to come in and sit and worship the Lord. Their savior.

Right now, in the very back of the church, Carl is using one of these pews to change Judith. And I'm up here, to the right of the pulpit.

The church has a piano.

I slide my index finger across the keys, my touch light enough to not draw out a sound from this machine built to make them. I lift my finger and examine the dust ball clinging to it, and I rub my thumb against it until the ball crumbles into pieces and those pieces float to the floor. The piano keys now have a stripe slicing through the grime. Like I poured some water onto very dry dirt.

"Wanna play me somethin'?"

I go still, but he can't know. He's joking.

"Hear you're pretty good."

No, he's not joking. He does know. Son of a bitch, he knows. The past six, seven years of my life I've hidden this part of me from him, without any problems, and now. He. Knows.

"LC," is all I say. He doesn't need to confirm it. I turn around and face him, my face blank. Yes, I'm boiling inside, and I feel totally, completely exposed and I kind of want to go find a corner and hide under whatever I can, but no one can do that now. Especially not me. That was me six months ago. Not me today.

Dad's hand is resting on the end post of the fence-barrier, but it doesn't look like he's actually putting any weight on it. "Why'd you hide it from me for so long?" he asks.

I do my best to study him. I can't pick up how he feels, exactly. Confused, sure, that's easy enough to guess just because he asked the question. But is he . . . hurt? He has to be. He shouldn't be, but he has to be.

I kind of shrug. "You hated the recitals." I almost touch another one of the piano keys, but catch myself in time and just keep rubbing my index finger and thumb together, getting the last of the dust off.

"Only ever went to one," Dad says.

"And you hated it. And all the others were pretty much the same."

"You still coulda told me you played, at least." He comes to me. He lowers himself onto the piano bench and takes the crossbow from his back, sets it on the floor. "I don't get why you didn't."

This means I'm going to have to talk.

I sit next to him on the bench, leaving a few inches between us. Carl's still with Judith in the back pew. Tyreese has come over to help. When Rick left to get supplies – there was one place Gabriel said he hadn't cleaned out yet because of too many walkers, so Rick took him and LC, Michonne, Bob, and Sasha to go clear it and find what they can – Tyreese told him he would always be here for Judith. I think he must have bonded with her a lot, and I have no complaints. The more protection she has, the better.

The piano. Dad wants to know about the piano. About me and the piano.

But it's not just me and the piano. It's never been just me and the piano. She was always there too.

"Before the turn . . ." I begin, looking at all the empty pews, imagining what they would look like full, "It was just a completely separate thing from you. Piano. There was . . . Mom. And then there was you. On this side . . ." I flip my left hand out. "Piano. And . . . nice dresses. Dinners at Nana and Papaw's. Her boyfriends. My friends. Church. And on this side . . ." Now my right hand pops up. "A .22. Squirrels. Deer. Dirty boots, heavy coats, tents, campfires." And Merle.

Dad shifts. He's hunched over, elbows pressed into knees. "We did stuff other'n hunt, Syd."

"I know." He's right. We would watch movies until it was way, way past my bedtime. Eat cheap pizza and ice cream. He took me to the drive-in once. I thought it was the coolest thing ever. "But even if we hadn't done different stuff, Dad – I love hunting. I've always loved it."

And when I think back to how it used to be, on Dad's weekends – it's hunting. All that other stuff, that good stuff – it's just studs in the jacket.

"But how I was with you, and the things we did . . ." I can't quite grasp what I want to say, so I just give up and let what's on my tongue tumble out as it will. "It was a completely different side of me than the side of me that came out when I was at home – I mean, with – with my mother."

"You were the same person," Dad says. "There ain't no splittin' you into two halves."

"I guess not. But whoever I was then, it's not who I am now." I crack my knuckles, and the piano, with all its magic, gently pulls my head around to look over it again. It's a nice piano. But the one we had at my old house, that one had belonged to Poppy, my mother's grandfather. I loved that piano. "And this thing just looks strange to me," I whisper.

Dad turns, too, but to me, not the piano. "Bet if you tried . . ."

Billy Joel, Beethoven, everyone and everything in between. It all came into our house, into my room, and echoed where it shouldn't have echoed and just lived, and made every inch warmer, brighter, even when the air smelled like alcohol – hell, especially when.

Truth is, if Dad is hunting, my mother is piano. And all that other stuff, dinners, friends – more studs. Piano. Sing us a song, you're the piano man . . . That is my mother.

So how can I let it even be a part of me again?

"I just . . . I can't play right now, Dad. It's not in me."

He sighs, and I realize – well, it's confirmed for me – that he wasn't just curious. He really wanted to hear me. That sends guilt coursing through me, but I check my face again to make sure it's as blank as ever when Dad stands. "Alright," he says. "But don't let me die never havin' heard my piano prodigy daughter play."

"I'm not a prodigy. And don't die."

He sort-of chuckles. It's the kind that really only has the smallest bit of a laugh. Not even worth it. Kind of makes me feel worse, actually. But Dad picks up his crossbow, slings it back over his shoulder. "Got a job for ya anyway."

And here he is, all-business Dad, back-in-action.

"Carol and me're goin' to that stream Father Gabe was talkin' 'bout. Gonna get some water. He's got some jugs he fills up, plenty of 'em. We could use a couple extra sets of hands."

I get up. My bow's never left my shoulder, but I hook my fingers onto it. That comforts me. "I'm in. You want Carl, too?"

"Nah. He'll wanna stay with Judith. Abraham and his two are out back, workin' on the bus, and Maggie and Glenn and that, uh, Tara girl are lookin' through a phonebook, seein' if there's any place nearby worth checkin' out. That leaves us with –"

But I already know who it leaves us with. "Owen."

Dad gives something between a shrug and a nod. Like, He's the best we got. "Know where he is?"

I point my chin at the door on the pulpit's left side. "Gabriel's office, I think."

"What's he doin' in there?"

"Tryin' to find a book, probably. Or cigarettes. Can priests smoke?"

"'Bout as well as anybody, I'd say." He's heading for the door already. "I'll talk to him."

I start to go after him. "Want me to do it?"

"No, I got it." He passes through the open doorway, leaves my sight. Just him and Owen in there.

I could eavesdrop. Like, really easily. Just take seven or so steps across the pulpit, lean against the wall by the door, kid stuff – kid stuff that works.

But why should I care what my dad says to Owen? And how interesting could it be – he'll just ask him. Owen will say yes, I'm sure. Well, almost sure.

Hell, I don't know.

I know I'd rather have him with me than leave him with Carl and Judith.

Carl has Judith in his arms in the back pew now, and she seems to be fully clothed. Safe for me, in other words. So I leave the piano. The air seems to freshen as I move away from it. I walk up the aisle – my footsteps echo, which bugs me – and swing into the row. "Hey. All good?"

"Yeah." Carl attempts an annoyed expression. "You are going to have to learn how to change a diaper eventually, you know."

"Why?" I sit, curling my legs underneath me. Tyreese is gone, probably doing a perimeter check. "You goin' somewhere?"

Carl cocks his head to the side, half-smiles. Get real.

I grin. The guilt, and the more-bitter-than-sweet memories, they cower. I brush my hand over Judith's and then touch Carl's shoulder. I play with his hair, unsticking it from his neck and shirt. "Speaking of going somewhere," I begin, "Dad and me, and Carol and Owen – if Owen's up for it – we're gonna head down to the stream. Get some water."

Carl doesn't answer right away. "I can't go with you," he eventually says. "I promised Dad I'd stay here with Judith."

"And you should stay here with her. I'll be back soon."

His head falls back, his hat dutifully remaining in place. I keep on with his hair, twisting it, smoothing it. "Is it just me," he says, "or is it you leaving me ninety percent of the time?"

"You make a better housewife than I do."

His head rolls around and his eyes land on me, unamused.

"I'll be careful," I promise. "It's a low-risk thing, and you know it. You just . . . keep an eye out here."

"Yeah, my dad already gave me the speech."

I wrap my arm all the way around his neck. "I love you," I say into his ear. I figure that'll make everything okay, for a little while, at least.

He twists so we're face-to-face, and I know I'm right. "You, too."

We kiss. And we kiss a little more. One of our mouths decides to open and then the other one's mouth goes along with it, and I reach to find his face, and that's when I hear someone drawl, "Careful, kids, you're in the House of the Lord."

I break from Carl, drop my hand, make it meet the other in my lap. Carl's face burns red, but knowing him, he's just as irritated as he is embarrassed. Maybe more. I'm about the same way, and I rub my forearm over my hot face as Owen strides closer to us, smirking. He tosses something big and white into my lap. I snap onto it, but it's just an empty jug. Owen lifts his arms halfway and widens his eyes. "What would Jesus think?"

I grip the jug's handle too hard and get to my feet. My glare is answered by Owen's grin, and now Dad's here. He was behind Owen, not far . . . How much did he see? Probably more than he or I would have wanted him to.

I swallow. "Guess this means you're coming?" I say to Owen, flatly.

"Got nothin' better to do." He winks at Carl and heads for the door. "Let's roll . . ." He looks back, points at my dad without stopping. "Or is that your line? You seem like the kinda guy who'd say somethin' like that . . ."

Then he's out the door, and if my dad's fazed – by Owen, or by my boyfriend and me – he doesn't show it when he passes by our pew. Just gives us one of those unreadable looks he mastered a long time ago.

I grip the back of the pew as he leaves the church. To Carl I say, "I swear Owen's not a total jackass."

"Right."

"I said not a total jackass. He's definitely, I don't know – half of one."

"So," I hear a smile creeping into his tone, "Just an ass?"

I laugh. "Be nice."

"I'll be nice if he'll be nice."

"He's never been nice." But I know what Carl means. And I know what I worried about yesterday, walking alone with Owen. The good feelings Carl put in me are starting to fade, maybe because my brain knows I'm about to leave him and then I'll be on my own.

From outside, "Syd, c'mon!" My dad.

Well, not on my own, I guess. But Dad . . . God knows Dad and me aren't back in fighting shape.

I smooth back some flyaway hairs, escapees of my ponytail. No more fun time, no more flirting, no more kissing. It's time to be serious. "I know the priest went with your dad and the others, but he could have people of his own. Don't let your guard down."

Carl chuckles.

"What?"

He rubs his thumb over his sister's little fingers. "You just sounded like my dad. Like, scarily like him."

I nod at the floor. Makes sense. "He and I have some things in common. Like the way we both want you to stay alive." I squeeze his shoulder. The back of my hand brushes his cheek. "See you soon." I tap a finger under Judith's chin. "Bye, baby girl."

I go. I feel like I'm leaving behind some unsaid words, but . . . I think we both understand that this is just us. How we are, how we have to be. Sometimes we get to be together, and sometimes we have to be apart. It's always been that way, I guess, with grownups. It's just that now the stakes are a lot higher.

Once I'm out in the sunlight, I touch the rose hanging from my neck. It's cool, but it'll warm up. One thing it will never do, though, is grow. And for some reason – some irrational reason – that makes me sad.