It's more than just the words. By one of the windows out back, we find scratches. The kind from a knife, or something else sharp and strong. All around the pane. Like someone was trying to pry it open.

Carl says he'll tell Rick about it all, the writing, the scratches. We agree not to tell my dad unless Rick wants to. Well, actually, Carl says I should tell him if I want. But I won't. At least not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe.

But seeing that – YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS – it's not something I can shake. That had to be a message for Gabriel. I can't think of any other explanation. And Gabriel, he's out with our people right now. When they come back, he'll be with them. I didn't trust him this morning. I sure as hell don't trust him now.

Maybe he won't come back.

That's a bad thought.

Maggie, Glenn, and Tara get back. They found a couple of silencers, which is a pretty big score these days. But the biggest score will come when Rick and the others bring back food. If. If the place had stuff left, and if nothing went wrong there, and if nothing goes wrong on the way back.

Always so many ifs.

I don't do well sitting around. I pace inside of the church, cracking my knuckles, snap-clicking my trigger. I sit down when Carl asks me to but can't for long. I do not like waiting. I do not like feeling useless, either.

"I'm going to go check around outside," I finally tell Carl.

"Your dad's out there with Abraham. And Rosita and Eugene. I don't think we have anything to worry about."

"They're all out back. I'm going to check around out front."

He doesn't argue after that. We both know the perimeter is as secure as it's going to be. We both know I'm too on edge to stay in this building much longer.

And I know he thinks I'm upset with him because of what happened earlier. I'm not. I'm just hiding stuff from him. Which he wouldn't like much more. I guess I'll just have to get better at hiding that I'm hiding stuff. Or tell him the truth.

I didn't notice it was so stuffy in the church, but it's a shock stepping outside, how the air feels in my lungs. Fresh and refreshing, like clean, cold water. I inhale greedily, let it out slowly, and that's when I realize I'm not alone. Rosita's sitting on the bottom step, holding a pair of bulky scissors. The blades catch the orange late-afternoon light as she slaps them into her palm and takes me in. "You okay?"

I straighten, press my back against the closed church door. "Uh-huh. Just – needed some air."

"Sounds like it."

I readjust my bow. I haven't really talked to Rosita yet. Haven't talked to her at all, actually. "Did you guys get the bus fixed?"

"Uh, yeah. Your dad helped a lot. You are Daryl's kid, right?"

I nod.

"He seems like a good guy."

I nod again. Then I point at the scissors. "What're you doing?"

"Ah, trimming off some split ends." She flips the scissors over a couple of times, catching the blades and then catching the handle, blades, handle. "It's a habit of mine. Been doing it ever since I was a teenager. Helps me think."

I touch my own hair, still free from its ponytail, tickling my face and neck. "Got a lot to think about?"

"Feels like it."

"Your hair doesn't look like it needs cut."

"Like I said. Just habit." She studies me for a minute, then says, "I could cut yours, if you want."

My index finger and thumb pinch a strand of my hair and twist all up in it. "No. I like it long."

"Yeah, I do, too. It's pretty. But . . ." She stands and takes the four steps up to where I am, and I cautiously bring my hand down when hers comes out to me. She puts a finger lengthwise across my hair, so it's just a little above my first rib. "See these last two inches here, how they look sort of dry and tangled? They're split ends run wild. If I trimmed them off, it would make your hair look a lot healthier."

My hair. I shouldn't care about how healthy it looks, God knows there are more important things.

But I shouldn't care about how skinny I am, or the ugly scars on my arms. I do, though. I guess wanting my hair to be pretty isn't much of a leap.

What the hell.

"Alright."

I sit on the bottom step, where Rosita was just a minute ago, and she sits on the one above me. I push all of my hair over my shoulders and hold my breath until I hear the first snip. After that, I relax. Once you dive in, you're in. Might as well chill.

My bow's in my lap. I play with the string and just listen to the scissors. And the trees. And the birds. But after a little while, Rosita starts to talk.

"So, Carl. Is he your boyfriend?"

"Yeah."

"Seems like a catch." Snip, snip. Some of my hair flutters onto my boot. It looks like more than two inches. "You guys been together long?"

"A few months, I guess. Well, we've known each other longer. Since right after the turn. But we were just friends before."

"Yeah? What changed?"

I run my hand over my bow. "I guess we did."

"Hm . . . Well. Abraham's my boyfriend."

"Really?" He seems too old to be her boyfriend.

"Yeah. We met after the turn, too. It's tough, isn't it? Trying to be . . . romantic in the middle of all of this?"

Rosita doesn't seem like the romantic type. She seems . . . I don't know, too hard for that. She's really pretty, but she also talks like she's mad a lot and just always seems to be focused on the business at hand. That's not a bad thing, but it's just how she is. Except, that's not how she is right now. Right now she's cutting my hair and talking to me about boys.

I'm pretty hard, too, so I don't really like admitting this . . . but truth is, talking like this is kind of nice. Even if she is a stranger.

"It's weird," I say, plucking my bowstring, moving my toes inside my boots. "He gave me a necklace, though. And some flowers today."

"Mm, that's sweet. Abraham could take a lesson or two from him."

"Is he not a good boyfriend?"

"Ah, he tries. He's just . . . he's got a lot on his mind, you know?"

"Like Eugene. He wants to keep him safe so he can get him to DC. Fix all of this."

"That's right . . . Every couple has their issues. But these days, the issues kind of get more intense. But hey –" She pushes some of my hair to one side, smooths it out, starts snipping some more. "If you ever feel like bitching about your guy, feel free to come talk to me, okay? I'm a good listener."

I decide I like Rosita. "I never feel like bitching about Carl."

"Ha. Believe me. He's a guy. You'll want to bitch about him at some point."

I smile a little, and then, feeling kind of shy, I say, "You can bitch to me about Abraham, if you want."

"Oh, you might want to think that offer over. You may never get rid of me."

I don't think that would be such a bad thing, though.

. . . . .

"You cut your hair," Maggie says when I slide onto her pew. She closes a book and touches it, my hair, and I touch it, too, on the other side. It's strange, running my fingers down it and feeling it end before it should. I like it, though. It's still long, but much softer.

"Rosita just cut it for me."

"It looks great."

I lean against her then. She lifts her arm up for me, and I tuck my hands under my chin and press into her as she wraps me up. She kisses my forehead, I look up at her, and she brushes hair from my eyes and says, "You're gettin' really pretty, you know that?"

I snuggle deeper against her. She's sweaty, but I don't care. I'm sweaty, too.

"Maggie?"

"What?"

"I really missed you."

She starts to rock a little. "I really missed you, too, honey."

I close my eyes.

Maybe I should tell her about Len. She would understand, better than anyone . . . except for LC. But God knows I'd tell everyone in the church before I'd say a thing about it to LC.

That's not true.

But Maggie . . . the Governor, he did something with her. I don't know how far he went, exactly, but it was something bad. So she might be able to help me with this. She'll at least keep the secret, I think, if I ask her, and just getting it out of me might –

But now there's noise from the back of the sanctuary. We break apart and twist to see. Here comes Rick, perfectly fine. Now Michonne, Sasha, Bob. LC. And Father Gabriel. All okay, looks like. And they have food, their arms are all full with it. Glenn and Tara appear from one of the rooms and Rick says something about shopping carts outside. Lots of food, then. That's great, but –

Maggie gets up. My chance is gone.

The rest of our people come in. We blend together. Some of us get out the food, work out the rationing, under the direction of Rick. I'm one of these people. We separate a lot out for tonight, but we still have plenty left. The place they hit, it was stocked pretty good. We got lucky. And I guess we have Gabriel to thank for it, but it really doesn't matter. He moves by me once, and I back as far away from him as I can, and I don't care if he notices. YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS, said the church wall. That means something. Might mean a lot.

Carl took Rick outside right when they got back. So Rick must know now. But we're not doing anything about it yet, I guess, considering he's just here, with the rest of us, dividing up food. I want to do something about it, though. I really, really, want to.

But Rick won't let it slide, I know that for sure. And Rick and me, we agreed – without so many words – to trust each other. So I have to trust he'll handle this right.

The food. We have beans, canned vegetables, soup. It's a good haul, and I'm perfectly content with it, but when Michonne taps my shoulder and presses a little can of peaches into my hand, it officially becomes the best supper I've had in months.

Glenn and Maggie and Tara and Sasha start cracking open cans and propping them up on the table from behind the pulpit, which they've moved closer to the pews. Carl comes to help. I'm standing at the table, wondering if my stomach can hold up to all of this, when he touches my shoulder, very, very lightly. Like I'm breakable. I grab his hand and kiss it and give him a long look. He nods and comes in closer and kisses my head.

"Hey, lovebirds."

Glenn. Naturally, I blush. Carl, though, he does this sheepish sort of grin, and I give him a dirty look when I see.

Glenn jerks his head behind him. "Why don't you guys go see if you can find something that can be used as bowls, or plates, or something . . . Make this meal a little more sophisticated."

"We already have silverware," Maggie says, waving a fork. Rick's group found a box of them on the run, and Maggie's right, they're a luxury. "How much more sophisticated do you want?"

Carl puts his hands on my waist and starts to guide me to Gabriel's office, but when we get around the table, Glenn sort of stiffens and shoots his hand out. "Uh, each of you take a room. Don't . . . go in one alone . . . together."

There's Carl's sheepish grin again. Here's my dirty look again, first at my boyfriend, then at Glenn. "Really?" I say dryly.

His lips kind of squeeze together, maybe with a touch of apology, but not much. "You're the closest thing I have left to a little sister. I'm going to be overprotective. Deal with it."

From down the line, Tara says, "Yeah, but isn't Carl the closest thing you have to a little brother? You should be rooting for him to score, right?"

Carl, he laughs outright, and Maggie lifts a hand to cover her grin. I turn into Carl to hide mine, as well as my burning, burning face. Can't decide if I'm mortified or amused. When I recover, at least from the smile, I look back to see Glenn slouching over the table, bummed.

"Now I'm conflicted," he mutters.

"Sydney, go search the rooms," says Maggie, fighting laughter and glowing with the evening sun, and the candles Sasha is starting to light, and the oh-so rare lightheartedness we've discovered for a precious second. "Carl, go talk to Gabriel, see if he's got anything stored anywhere we could use."

Carl goes still next to me. No more smiles, from either of us. He doesn't want to talk to Gabriel, and I'm about to volunteer to go instead when he takes off down the aisle, to where the priest sits in the back, wringing his hands and watching us all with sweat glistening on his scalp.

I want to follow Carl. But he's fine on his own here, I know that. Logically.

And being logical, that makes me make my legs push forward, until I'm in the priest's office. I'm suddenly aware of how strange this is, me barging in here, preparing to scrounge around like it's open season. Gabriel has been living here, after all – there's a couch with messy blankets and a pillow. A desk with papers and books around it, none of it covered in dust. A few opened cans . . . this has been a home.

But I'm here, and when Gabriel told us he had a church, he accepted these terms – the terms that include a kid searching his office for whatever her group needs. Whether he knew it or not, he accepted. Whether it's right or not . . .

There's what I think is a flower vase sitting by the closed window. It's empty now. I take it, look around some more. There's a purple decorative thing on the desk, bowl-ish, I guess. It can hold stuff. It is holding stuff – paper clips, a mini-stapler, rubber bands. I hesitate, but end up pouring the contents out, though I try to keep all of the stuff in sort of the same place it was in. My mother, she always had her desk exactly how she wanted it – if anything changed about it, she couldn't function until all was set right again. Gabriel might be like that.

Doesn't matter. He accepted these terms. He accepted these terms.

And after what I saw on the side of the church – why should I care about what he wants?

Because you need to still care, Sydney.

"Hey."

Dad's voice makes me jump. He's in the doorway, but masked by shadow, because all of the lighting is pretty much coming from candles now and all of the candles are in the sanctuary behind him.

"What're ya doin'?"

I balance my two little treasures. "Glenn wanted me to find stuff we could use as bowls, or plates. Anything like that."

"Gettin' fancy, are we?"

I smile for him.

He steps inside the room, his shape only getting darker. But it's still his shape. I know his shape. I know his voice. That's even better. I know my dad.

I used to be so certain of that. Now when I think about it a little voice asks, Really? Are you sure? And I hate that voice. It only ever says the stuff that keeps me up at night. Or locks me away in quiet rooms.

"Owen's outside," Dad says.

"Alone?"

"Yeah. Just sittin' on the steps."

I don't know what to do with that.

"You told me you trusted him," he said. "Back when we were with Joe."

Yes, Dad. I remember.

"You still trust him?"

I think about that for what feels like a long, long time. From the sanctuary, laughter. Talking. It's cold outside, but it's warm in here. I'm in here. We're all in here. Except for one person.

"I don't know," I say. "I really don't know."

Dad nods. Then, "Figure it out."

It's the same voice he uses when he tells me to shoot something. He's not giving me an order, really, but he's not asking a question, either. What he's doing is reminding me of what I'm supposed to be doing. Reminding me of my responsibility. Shoot the squirrel. Deal with the stranger I brought into the group.

The stranger who saved me from rapists, who won me food, who helped sneak me back to my people and took a beating as a result. The stranger who grew up down the street from me. The stranger who isn't a stranger, shouldn't be a stranger, but wants to be one. And really, if you're determined enough, I guess there's no difference. Keep enough secrets, and nobody knows who you really are. You're a stranger to the world.

I can't put it off any more. Dad's as much as said it. Owen's in, or he's out. Whether or not he's out, that's first and foremost his call . . . but whether or not he's in, that's mine. It's mine, or it'll be Dad's. Rick's. But like I said. Dad's reminding me of my responsibility.

Do I trust Owen? Can I?

Figure it out.

How?

There's only one thing I can think of to try.