I'm sitting on a hard desk, looking out at a broken, burned-out shell of a city, holding a canteen of old water instead of something to warm my hands and my insides. Probably for the best. Having that sort of warmth while looking out at all of the cold would be like cheating.

I doubt it would have warmed me up much, anyway, a cup of cocoa or coffee or tea. Not the way it counts.

Dad is sitting in one of the fancy chairs to my left, in the alcove of the room. His forehead's resting on the butt of his crossbow, which he's planted in the carpet like a crutch. He hasn't said anything, not since Carol took Owen to search out the rest of this place. I haven't said anything, either. Just been sitting here, sipping my water, resting. Recharging. Searching for somewhere stable inside of my head.

There probably aren't too many places left.

Look at that city. Ruins, now. Like from an ancient people, long dead.

Claimed.

Owen. Owen was the one who grabbed me and guided me back down to reality and then held me there. Literally, he held me. And I didn't mind. Hell, I needed it – I hate that, but I know it. Owen was the one who led me back to this room. Who made me sit down and breathe. Who gave me water.

If someone asked me where Dad and Carol were during that time, I wouldn't be able to answer. I know they were there. I felt them, I guess. Or can feel them, thinking back, now that my head's clearing up. They just . . . didn't matter. Not then, not to the demons in me. Owen was what mattered.

Owen.

"How far did he get?"

Dad.

And so it begins.

I lift the canteen to my lips, and right before I sip, say, "Not far." The water goes down as easy as air. I miss ice – so cold, I complain about the cold, and yet I miss ice. Look out at the city, Sydney Rose. See how cold it is out there?

"Did he . . ." Dad stops. No details. Probably doesn't want me to start screaming and running again. But I don't think that's going to happen. I feel . . . I don't even know how I feel. Just tired, mostly. But not so much scared.

"He didn't get far," I say. "Owen jumped in both times. Before things got bad."

With a word, with an arrow, he jumped in and saved me. Why? Why save me, why come with me, why try to leave?

Why was he the only one there who cared?

I haven't looked at Dad, not full-on, but he's in the corner of my eye. His head is up. I see his hand rise and fall, hear the little smacks as he taps or slaps or whatever on his crossbow. His next words begin with a growl, or, maybe, a sigh. A growl-sigh. There should be a word for that. "You shoulda never left that house when Rick was still in it. Shoulda stayed put."

I consider that, sipping my water, then I do look at him full-on. "Sorry. If I'd known getting pinned down by a dirty strange man would upset you so much –"

"Stop." His head falls onto the butt of his crossbow again. He rubs his forehead against it. "Stop. That was dumb of me to say."

I'm holding up better than he is. Strange but true. Dad's voice, it's all low and hoarse, but I keep hearing the tiniest crackling noises hidden inside of it, too, and I know what those mean. But I've been in on this secret for a lot longer, I guess. He needs time to adjust to the idea that his daughter was almost raped. I imagine it's a tough thing to come to terms with when you love your little girl so much. More than anything.

"I woulda killed him," Dad tells the floor. "If I'd known, I'da done whatever it took to kill that sonbitch . . ."

He jumps up, slinging his crossbow up with him, and begins pacing the room. I don't turn to watch where he goes, I just listen to him going back and forth behind me, and say, "That's why I didn't tell you."

"Yeah, well, you shoulda told me. He needed killed."

"He got killed."

I felt his blood pour out onto my hands, over my fingers and Len's own knife. Warm, wet, then sticky.

Scream, bitch.

I shut my eyes, kind of twist my head. Where am I? In an office, with my dad. Up high. Safe. Len is dead. And I'm claimed. By Owen Wells. God, he'll never let me live this down. Owen . . . he's with Carol. He's close. Here. Claimed.

Keep talking, Sydney. Act normal.

Act? You are normal. Just fine.

"And we stayed in the group as long as we needed to," I say. "I made the right call."

"Wasn't your call to make!"

I twist, find him halfway across the room. "The hell it wasn't."

He stops. Stares. I stare back. I don't feel . . . afraid? Not the right word. Intimidated. I don't feel intimidated by him. Like I said – I'm mostly tired. Gotta get past that. Not an option to be tired right now. Gotta be tough. That's me, the tough girl. Dad's tough girl.

Dad asks, still pinning me with his eyes, nearly desperate – my dad, desperate? – eyes, "Were you ever going to tell me?"

Not supposed to lie to Daddy. "Probably not."

His shoulders lower a centimeter, I swear. I hear the smallest of sighs slip from his lips before he asks – sounding as exhausted as me – "Why?"

"There wouldn't have been a point."

"I'm your father, Sydney."

"What does that have to do with it?"

He stretches his arms out, kind of shrugs, like it should be obvious. But I cut him off, calm, before he can tell me why it's so obvious. Because he'll be wrong. Whatever he says, he'll be wrong.

"Len attacked me. I killed Len. You weren't there for any of it. You never needed to know any of it."

"Oh, but Owen knows? Some kid you ain't even sure you like?"

"Owen knows because he got Len off of me. Both times. Like I said." I let my body ease back into a normal sitting position, so I can see the dead city again.

. . . . .

"Claimed!"

"Aw, you gotta be kiddin' me . . ."

. . . . .

"He claimed me, that first time. That's why . . ."

I don't have to say it. You know, don't you, Dad? Owen claimed me, and that's why he was able to tap into my head and set it back on track. That's why, that's why. He knew the secret password. And you didn't, Dad. You didn't know what to do with me.

"So him declarin' you his property? That's what calms you down, huh?"

"Would you rather him have let Len have me back in that house? Would you rather I have kept on with my breakdown out there?"

That's what it was, no point in denying it. A breakdown, a breakdown . . . like seeing Merle at the prison, and Dale at the garage, and those fingers in my bag the day the Governor ruined everything, and Merle again, at the stream, trying to play nice . . .

Breakdowns, all of them. Even hiding away at the prison and slicing, burning myself up. I heard things, didn't I? My imagination, or my mind crumbling away, bit by bit? Is that why I am like I am now?

Am I crazy? When do you know – when do you know that you really are crazy?

Owen. Claimed.

"He's the reason I'm still here," I drop my voice again, relaxed, easy, mature. Thinking, but thinking about the right things, the real things. "If anything, I would have thought you'd be grateful."

A few seconds, then, "You know I am," all soft and . . . gentle. Special gentle voice. I can still remember when that voice made everything okay.

You know what? This isn't the time or place. Not for memories, not for heartfelt talks. More important things to worry about. Get on it, Sydney Rose . . .

I screw on the lid of the canteen. "We need to get going. We need to find Beth."

No immediate answer, but then, "I'm takin' you back to the church."

"No."

"'Scuse me?"

I put the canteen aside. I've prepared for this. "You'd have to find a car. You'd have to drive me back. You or Carol or Owen."

Listen to me. Cool as a cucumber.

"You won't send me with Carol," I tell Atlanta, "because she's as valuable here as you are. You won't send me with Owen, because you don't trust him enough. Overall, trying to figure all that out would be a big waste of time, time we could be using to save Beth. If she's still alive. Maybe you could set up camp for me somewhere, maybe here, but we both know I'd follow you. It's a given by now. Can't leave me with Carol. Can't leave me with Owen. Won't stay with me yourself, because you're the tracker here. If anyone can find Beth, it's you, and we both know it." And now, because it feels like the most important thing I've done in a long time, I turn and find his eyes and say, "You or me."

I've done it. Stumped my dad. His mouth's kind of open, his eyebrows are pushed together. And all I'm doing is being honest. And really, really, it feels good. All these lies, shoved inside me – must get pretty cramped.

"I can track, too, Dad," I remind him, almost whispering. "Got pretty damn good at it while I was with Joe's group. He said I was one of the best he's ever seen . . . and only twelve years old."

A long time. I mean, probably not more than five seconds, but it feels longer. And it's the heavy kind of long time, the heavy kind of silence.

But we don't. Have. The time. We don't have the time for the heavy kind of long times. Or the silences. "What?" I say after I've had enough of him standing there, eyes going from my feet to my head, kind of squinting. Eyebrows still together. Mouth closed, though. Thinking, thinking.

But all he says is, "Nothin'."

And it sure as hell isn't nothing, and we both know it. But neither of us says it. Because there are more important things right now.

Or because we just don't bother with talking about shit that matters anymore. Maybe I just ruined any hope we had, when I went ballistic in a strange place and could only be calmed by my childhood bully, not my father. Or maybe, really, the hope was ruined when I saw him on that road, or later, at least, when I realized what he had looked like. Maybe the hope was ruined sometime before that, even, when my dad was without me. When I was without him.

Or. Maybe there are just more important things right now.

I look back to the windows. So tired. Me and you both, Atlanta.

But when my eyes catch what they catch, I perk up instantly.

"Where's the rifle?" I say.

"With Carol . . . Why?"

Dad hasn't perked up. Dad and me. A team, remember those days? Remember when it was for real, maybe – maybe a year ago? Before the Governor, before Merle? Before LC and before Joe, Len, and Owen? Remember, Dad?

Right now. More important things right now. Like . . .

"I think I see somethin'."

I jump down from the desk, move to the window, right up to it. Is it . . . ? Yes. And Dad's next to me now, so I point for him, my fingertip going flat against the glass, the cool glass . "There. White van, white crosses on the back windows." Hanging off the edge of a bridge, looks like, but it's way, way far away, so I could be wrong. But, then, knowing our luck, it's probably hanging off the edge of a bridge. "Could use the rifle's scope."

Does he nod? Probably. I don't check. "Alright . . . wait here. I'll go get 'em." And he goes, and I listen to him go, and then he stops, and I listen to him say, "I'm sorry I wasn't there. None of it woulda happened . . . I'da kept you safe."

He does sound sorry. He sounds really sorry. Secret's out, and I was right – no point to it.

Not for him, at least.

"Well, you weren't there," I say. "Things happened how they happened. I'm alive, so I guess I kept safe enough. Nothin' either of us can do about it now." I turn, tilt my head at him. "Are you going to get the scope? We have to find Beth. We love her. So we have to find her."

And that's it. That's what does it. The straw that breaks the camel's back, you could say.

I see it in Dad's eyes. The shift. Something giving. And – oh – horror dripping out. He does his best to hide it, but I see.

Did I want this to happen?

I pushed too hard. I pushed just enough.

One less secret. It feels good.

Seeing that horror he's fighting, it feels good, too. God help me.

Oh, God help me.

Where do we go from here, Sydney Rose?

To find Beth, that's where.

Because we love her.

We look for the people we love.

"Dad," I say. "The rifle?"

His face is like I've never seen it before. Like water, a million tons of water, hiding under a thin sheet of ice. And the water wants through so bad. And you can see it moving, swirling, only a matter of time before it comes crashing through.

And then Dad rubs his jaw and spins and gets out, maybe before the ice can crack.

Me, I turn back to the window and look out over Atlanta.