The rifle's scope blows up what I saw so it's even clearer, that white van with its front hanging off – yes, I was right about that – with its front hanging off a bridge. It's definitely some kind of lead, says Dad, and soon enough, the decision is made. We're going.

I keep my eyes out the window the whole time this decision is being made. It's a decision, really, reached by Dad and Carol and no one else. Us kids, we don't chime in. Would it matter if we did? Maybe a little. Not much.

Anyway, we do need to go check out the van, that's obvious.

As for what happened with me, running around the floor screaming at nothing, that's not mentioned. Well, not directly. But there is this one piece of conversation:

"Let's head down there." Dad.

"All of us?" Carol.

"Yep." Dad.

I'm only guessing that, somewhere in there, a little question passed between them, a little confirmation. I don't blame them. Not for that.

Maybe not for anything, maybe it's all on me.

No. Not everything is your fault.

We leave down the same staircase we took to get up here, to this floor of nightmares. We exit into the hallway that leads to the skywalk and all its happy campers.

Owen walks next to me the whole time, and the air between us is thick but fragile all at once.

You know your life's gone off the rails when you find yourself putting so much trust in a guy who pulled your hair when you were a kid, killed five people in the past two years, and has more secrets than an old-time spy. Who won't tell you a thing about his dead brother, your old best friend. But, right now, and maybe for just right now, I feel like I can depend on Owen . . . more than Carol. More than Dad.

That's crazy.

Owen, he brought me back down when I was up high, the bad kind of high – in the clouds during a storm. He knew what to do and he did it and he saved me, from – complete insanity? A terrible showdown of some sort with Dad, or Carol, or both? From killing myself?

Accidentally killing yourself or . . . ?

He saved me from something bad.

But thing is, my little breakdown – it didn't have to happen. And it wouldn't have happened if Owen hadn't said the word, said it right to my father, spat it out like tainted meat.

Rapist.

I glance over at him, with just my eyes and the slightest turn of my head. His chin's up high, his stride is loose. No problems in the world, right?

There's no part of him that isn't made up.

That's not true, that's not true. He's shown me real parts of who he is. Raw parts, even . . . That night outside the church with the questions and the wine. Talking over Len's body. When he was on the ground, bloody and looking up at Joe. And Claimed.

Yes, Claimed was real.

But I know enough real parts of Owen to know that nothing about Owen is simple. Not the things he's made up, not the things he hasn't. He won't let any of it be simple.

And he's smart. He's very, very smart. And of all the things he could have said to my dad about how he protected me while we were with Joe's group – he chose to bring up Len. He could have said that he always made sure I had food, or that he slept beside me every night, or that he – on the rarest, rarest occasions – made me forget the hell I was in long enough to get me to crack a smile.

But no. Owen. Brought. Up. Len.

And I'm ninety-nine percent sure that's not the kind of thing that would just slip out of his smart mouth.

So, basically, the person I trust more than anyone else around – I'm pissed as hell at him. Because the person I trust more than anyone else around shared a secret that was not his to share.

Claimed, he shouted, to save me. But that cleaned up his own mistake, didn't it?

He's lucky his only competition is a dad and an almost-mom who both abandoned me.

I owe him. But he owes me. God, I'm like Glenn – conflicted. Only I'm not feeling nearly as lighthearted as I know Glenn was when he said that. Me, I'm heavy, in heart, body, mind. But that can't slow me down. Because Beth. We have to find Beth.

Because we find people we love, right, Daddy?

Dad and Carol mutter something ahead of Owen and me, grownup talking. They turn a corner, Owen and I turn the same corner three steps later. And here they are, the chained double-doors, and the moans from the dead campers warn us to enter at our own risk. More muttering, more grownup talk, then Dad holds the doors apart for Carol, and she slides the rifle and one of the bags into the hall before sliding herself through, too. Last time, I went right after her, but now it would be even worse to be in a room alone with her even for just two seconds, so I turn fast when Dad looks at me and blurt out at Owen, "Did Tyler turn?"

The skin around his eyes stiffens. His head tilts back just a tiny bit. "Christ, how random can you be?"

"Sydney," I hear Dad say, in his special gentle voice. "Ain't the time."

I swallow, glance over my shoulder. I widen my eyes . . . like a puppy. I used to do that with him a lot. It usually worked. "Could you go first, please? Two seconds. I'll be through right after you, promise."

I see his jaw set right before I twist back to Owen. But I hear the clanking of chains behind me, so pretending I'm a puppy . . . well, guess I still got it. But that's not important right now.

"You said he died slowly," I whisper to Owen. "Now, I don't know what the hell you meant by that, and I know you think you're not gonna tell me how he died, but I need to know if he turned. I need to at least know that."

And saying it – it makes me realize it's true. I do need to know. God . . . I brought this up to give me an excuse not to crawl through after Carol, because I'm a self-centered little bitch. But whether or not Tyler turned – that matters. I mean, Tyler? With his sweet, shy smile, and his superhero T-shirts? Dead . . . fine. But the walking kind of dead? I can't even picture that. The closest I get is seeing the Walker Without a Doll, and the idea of Tyler like that makes my chest suck together in an awful ball, with fear and sadness and anger, anger, anger.

And Tyler's older brother, the person I trust – more than some, at least, and God knows reluctantly – licks his lips and opens them, and he gets one or two words out but they're whispered and so they're drowned by the shout from the other side of the double doors.

"Daryl, don't!"

It's not the words that make the ball of crap in my chest explode into fight-or-flight, instinct-not-thought adrenaline of an animal made to survive. It's the tone Carol used when she said them. It's the tone that rips my eyes from Owen's and brings them to Dad, on his knees with his head and one arm through the double-doors, out of sight, and right after I take that picture in, I hear a sound as familiar as Carl's heartbeat and Judith's cry – a gun being cocked.

And now, now my trigger is snapped onto my bowstring, and I'm hearing a stranger snap "Get up! Hands up . . . Both of you . . ." as I'm moving forward, but – naturally, naturally – my knight in shining goddamn armor grabs my arm and pulls me over next to the doors, even as my dad disappears completely through them. I rip myself from Owen and almost do – something. But Owen, standing between me and the doors, presses my shoulder into the wall and shows me the palm of his hand. Wait.

"Owen –"

"He doesn't know we're here." He's whispering straight into my ear, and I want to hit him, get him away from me – not because his hold is reminding me of anything, but just because he has no authority, none, over me.

But I don't hit him, I don't get him away from me. Because, in my head, I know he's right. I know we should stay out of sight if we can. Until we have a better understanding of the situation, at least. I know, I know. I just hate it more than I can explain.

So I shove his hand off of me but don't move. I keep my bow positioned in my hands, though. I could have an arrow through a skull in less than a second, if need be.

Speaking of arrows –

"Lay down your crossbow." The stranger's voice. A man's, deep. Out of breath . . . nervous. The complete opposite of how Joe would be, taking something he wanted. He would have enjoyed it, Joe. He loved games like that.

"You got some sack on you," my dad says, all dark and scary.

"Look, nobody has to get hurt! I just need weapons, that's it!"

His voice, his voice . . . Nervous, yeah, but ready to back down? Hell no. Desperate, maybe. Aren't we all?

I hear someone – him – clear his throat. "So please lay down your crossbow." And he sounds so professional, like a person from the old world – a teacher telling you it's time to put down your pencil, even though you haven't finished the test yet, even though you know the right answers –

Owen is statue-still, head twisted away from me and towards the small opening in the doors. I missed it, but he's drawn his gun, the one that used to be Billy's – a Beretta M9. Owen called it a badass gun, and it looks the part, I have to admit. It fits perfectly in his scarred hands . . . I haven't see him with a gun much, so I don't know for certain how good of a shot he is, but he's told me before that he's good and I don't have reason to doubt him. But me, I'm a damn good shot – and if one of us pulled the door open – if Owen pulled the door open, and I got the thief's head in my sights fast enough –

How many people have you killed?

From the other side of the doors, a soft thunk. What – Shit, Dad's crossbow. Had to be. He gave in. He didn't have a choice, though. I know that, I know that.

"Where are the others?" asks the stranger.

"What others?" says Dad.

"There were two others with you! A girl and a guy, just – teenagers!"

Owen's head snaps to me. Our eyes catch on each other's and stay. For some reason, that makes me feel a little stronger.

And yet –

Damn it, Owen, you son of a bitch . . .

"There were walkers upstairs." That's Carol, spinning a story, writing Owen and me out of the one they're living. "We tried to clear them out." Here her voice goes down, it's weighed down. "There were more of them than we thought."

"So what?" says the stranger. "They were bit?"

Dad answers that, voice flat. "Torn apart."

A lovely image.

"Why isn't there blood on you?"

Dad sighs. "They were clearin' out one room, we were clearin' out another . . . They picked the wrong room."

A pause, then, "You two don't seem very broken up."

"We barely knew them," says Carol. "They weren't our kids."

I close my eyes.

It's only a story, a story, a story.

"Just picked 'em up about a week ago," Carol explains . . . Good stories need good details.

Only a story.

"Why?" asks the stranger.

"They seemed like they could handle themselves well enough," says Dad. "Guess we got 'em wrong."

No, you didn't.

He knows that, he knows that, this is just a story, what's wrong with you? What's wrong with you?

You are not in your right mind at all, Sydney Rose. Not at all.

You little bitch.

"Shut up," I mutter, and I do mean mutter, so Owen can't even hear me.

"You gonna take our shit, or what?" I hear Dad say, sounding grumpy, like he forgot to pick up beer from that convenience store close to his house, the one we would always stop at for junk food on his weekends.

So, you gonna take our shit or what, Stranger? Really, you could have more. All you would have to do to turn this into something so, so different is shout at Owen and me . . . I know you're behind there! Slide your weapons out, now! Then what could we do? Only two choices – listen and give our weapons up . . . nice and peaceful . . . or try to get a shot in . . . dangerous and bloody.

But, done right, better for us.

How many people have you killed?

Shh, Rick, not now.

Why?

The stranger doesn't call out for us. No, his next words, after what I guess is time he takes to think, are "Back up." Dad and Carol must listen, because before long there's some rustling, metal clacking against metal, that sort of thing – him getting the crossbow, maybe one of the bags. And shit, that gun he's using is probably our rifle. So what does that leave us with? My bow, with its five arrows, and Dad's knife, and Owen's and Carol's pistols, with however much ammo they have. Are we defenseless? No. But our two most powerful weapons are gone, and I'll be damned if that doesn't matter a hell of a lot. This guy could be killing us.

"Sorry about your friends," the stranger says.

Sorry you're an asshole.

"And sorry about this . . ."

This? Every one of my muscles tighten.

"But you two look tough . . . You'll be alright."

Then there's the high-pitched cry of a knife sliding from a sheath. And something getting sliced, sort of ripped, something soft and easy to cut through –

The moans from the campers. They get louder.

My mind has to put two and two together, but it manages that pretty quickly, and I'm around Owen like a shot. I look out at the skywalk, but from this angle I can only see half of Dad and the glint of his knife, and I turn my attention to yanking at the doors, and they fight against the chain with a rattle and thunk, thunk!, but what am I doing? They're not going to snap free, you idiot –

Owen shoves his way in front of me and then shoves his arm into my neck. I stumble back, but bound forward as soon as I can, teeth tight together and fury, fury boiling inside of me, because How dare he.

The two gunshots that echo out at us and vibrate all through me don't much help Owen's chances of survival.

I grab for his bruised face, get hold of some hair, lose it, but when my hand slips away I slam my fingernails into him and draw them all the way down his neck, tearing skin. If it hurts him, he doesn't show it, just pushes me off – again – and opens the doors wide enough to try and look through, and I'm going to jump him, I'm going to figure something out, whack him with my bow if I have to, but then –

He looks back at me and says, "It's over. They're fine."

My anger takes a backseat, at least for now, just like that – cool water over a burn. But my senses take over again –

Always gotta watch Syd, but ya gotta listen, too.

Footsteps, fast, two pairs of boots running away.

"They're goin' after him . . ." Owen mutters, and then, without me having to ask or threaten or whatever, he opens the doors as wide as they'll go and nods at the floor, but I don't need a nod from him, I'm already on my hands and knees and I slide through the opening with ease, find my footing, and take it in, fast, gotta be fast sometimes –

Two walkers down in front of me. Fresh kills, I can tell by the blood on the floor. The tent closest to me has a long tear in it, a parting gift from the stranger – Free the Walkers! someone shouts in my head, laughing.

Dad and Carol, where are Dad and Carol?

The skywalk is empty of living things. I fly down it – racing through the woods has made my feet great at dancing around stuff like logs and rocks and camping supplies and bodies. I hear pounding sounds now, and they get louder as I run. I skid around the corner, see the door to the stairwell, and the pounding sounds have me with my bow half-raised, but it's only Dad and Carol, trying to get through this set of double-doors. The ones we got through with ease an hour ago. But now, now they won't open, even as Dad and Carol shove themselves into them with all they got. The doors stay shut. No – they open a little, then clang back together, just like the ones I just slipped through.

"He chain it?" I say breathlessly.

My dad, he slams his hand flat against one of the doors. "Yeah," he mutters, "He did." He falls away from the door, sweat gleaming on his skin, hair stuck to his forehead.

I remember the gunshots and scan Dad and Carol for blood – new blood – then scan the floor, too, but there's nothing fresh anywhere. "Did you shoot both walkers? Or –"

"Carol shot one walker, tried to shoot the kid – missed." Dad heads back for the skywalk, passing me without a look, and I back up to get a little out of his way and then watch him go, my tongue moving but coming up short on words. Owen's standing in the middle of all the lumpy, gory sleeping bags, eyeing us with his head tilted down, and Carol, she follows my father, and Owen's eyes follow them both as they pass him by, but he stays turned towards me. He's put his gun away.

I should go, go after Dad and Carol, but I don't. I just watch them. My skin is prickling, my throat is dry. Dad didn't look right at me, Carol didn't look right at me. Is that where we are now? Who put us there, me or them?

It could all be in your head, Sydney Rose.

I like this. This distance from them. I could stay here, in between these chained doors and the skywalk. Just sit down and close my eyes and let the world spin on, while I live in a nice soft gray. Nice soft gray. Peace.

Through my daydream, I hear Dad ask Carol if she knows any other way out of here. She says no. He says Gotta be somethin' . . .

Yeah, Daddy. Gotta be something.

As if he heard my thoughts – God, wouldn't that be just what I need – Dad stops and turns and finds Owen and then me. Eye contact! That's good. Are you my best friend again, Daddy? Like we always were, before the turn and even after, for a while, at least?

Let's be best friends again, Dad. We could give it a try.

Just that easy, huh?

"What're you two doin'?" Dad almost-snaps. I think he holds back some because he's afraid I'll crumple if he gets too harsh, a delicate little flower. "C'mon! We hurry, we might can find him!"

I press my whole palm against my temple. Dad pulls open those chained doors for Carol, and I start to go to them, boots too heavy to believe, but I go, always go, Sydney, keep moving and going through the motions and fighting, fighting, fighting, because what else are you supposed to do? What else are you?

Carl's. You're Carl's.

I touch the little rose on my neck, warm from my skin. It's so small, delicate, how can it survive this world? But I won't take it off. I can't. I have to wear it, because Carl's with me when I do.

Thinking of Carl makes me homesick. So, so homesick. What I wouldn't do to be in his arms. To brush back his hair, to smell him, dirt and sweat and all. Curl up into him and sleep, sleep feeling completely safe, and completely loved.

Oh, God. My eyes are burning.

And as I walk by Owen, he says, "My neck's on fire, in case you're wondering. If you wanna kiss it, make it better –"

There's really no conscious thought about what I do next. Remember that adrenaline I talked about, the animal kind? It faded after I reached Dad and Carol and saw they were safe, but it didn't drain out completely, it takes a while for that to happen, and Owen just flipped a switch to tell the adrenaline we ain't done. Just like that, it's back with a vengeance. As is the boiling fury.

So I spin on my heel and slap him. The sound is louder than I expected it to be.

"Sydney –" comes Dad's voice, too far off to matter. Then again, maybe it wouldn't matter coming from anywhere.

Owen's head snapped to the side when my hand made impact, but he rubs his cheek and slowly turns back to me, eyes cool.

"Never try to hold me back from anything ever again," I snarl.

You're being ridiculous, you're being so ridiculous – you're being CRAZY –

I hear someone coming up behind me but Owen only has eyes for me as his hand drops and he says, "Well. Somebody has issues with gratitude."

This time I punch him. I've never punched anyone before. Which is probably why something cracks in my thumb when I do it. But that pain is distant, meaningless, and Owen's head snapped back a lot harder and farther this time, so, hey, it was worth it.

He's the one you can trust, he's the one who saved you, oh God, what's wrong with you, what's wrong with –

He's a murderer! He's a liar! He's not his brother, he's not his brother, for all I know, he KILLED his brother! He doesn't get to claim me! I'm not his! I'm not his, I'm Carl's! Carl's! Carl's . . .

Oh, Sydney, please come back.

I'm hauled off my feet. I'm spun through the air by strong arms and then placed kind of roughly on the floor. My legs are weak but my heart's strong, but that doesn't mean anything, because I can't do anything with a strong heart when what's making it strong is a thousand different emotions, all of them different, all of them telling me to do something else. Ripping it out would be a relief.

"Sydney, baby, what the hell?" A hand on my arm, I'm turned, there's Dad. Angry? No. Shocked and confused. I'm so damn good at making him look like that.

I don't have an answer for him. My breaths are coming in long, going out short. I don't think that's good. I look out one of the windows. I see the sign that says HELP.

Dad turns on Owen. "What you say to her?"

"He didn't say anything," I tell the sign.

Dad looks back at me, only half-turning his whole body. That way, he can swivel his head back and forth to get views of me and Owen both, if he wants. But it's me now.

I sigh, sliding my arm through my bow. I love the weight it adds to me. No, it's more like I'm not complete without it there. It's a necessity, not an accessory. "He didn't say anything. Except a stupid joke about how I clawed some of his skin off while I was trying to get out of those doors to help you and Carol."

Dad's eyebrows come together. He huffs out a breath. "What woulda been the point of that?"

I only stare at him. The deep ache blooming inside of me like a black rose? That I can hide. I'm good at hiding things, oh, yes.

"Daryl," comes Carol's voice. "We need to go."

Dad's eyes lift over me. One second, two. Then he ducks his head. "Take Sydney. Try to find an exit. We'll catch up."

"Daryl," Carol says, and I can't say if it's a question or a statement or a signal or what.

"Take her." Does Dad glance at me? If he does, it's fast as lightning. Next thing, he's looking at Owen. "Me and you gotta talk."

Owen inclines his chin. The corner of his lip is bloody. His face was already cut and bruised from the fight with Joe's group. He didn't need another injury, no matter how small. I'm an idiot. I'm an ungrateful, illogical, out-of-control idiot.

Oh, so we like Owen again, do we?

I swallow. "If you're talking to Owen, I'm staying." Because it's the least I can do.

"What'd I just tell you?" Dad says.

I clench my fists. "If you're pissed at someone, be pissed at me, Owen didn't do anything, I did."

"Sydney," Dad says, not raising his voice, which makes it all the more worse, "Don't make me tell you again."

So that's how I end up following Carol out through those chained double-doors – the ones we dealt with first, I mean, the ones that we got through to get up to the top floor. That's how I end up alone with her, in spite of my determination to not let that happen. That's how I leave Owen alone with my dad, wondering how that could possibly turn out okay and concluding that, well, it won't.

Walking down the hall in heavy silence with my once-good-friend who now wants nothing to do with me, I can't ignore how my palm stings, how my thumb aches. I examine my hand, but the only mark I see is a small scrape on my middle knuckle. A thin layer of blood makes its way to the surface.