"It doesn't," I breathe.

Liar, liar, pants on fire . . .

I brush hair from my – no, my fingers just press into the side of my head, press and my head presses back, like they're working together to pull all the information that makes sense to that side of the brain so it, my brain, it can gather everything together and understand all of this, and aren't those walkers? I hear them behind me. Dad and Carol, up ahead. Dad's moved toward us some. He can tell. He can always tell.

"Then why do you look like that?" Owen asks, and he sounds so sorry. Mournful. Regretful. A bunch of other bad stuff, too, but most of the bad stuff is in my head, and not now, not now.

"Hey!" it's an echo from my dad. It means Come on, it means Whatever is going on, let's pretend like it isn't so things don't fall apart but, oh, can't he see? Too late . . .

No, no. Shh. Come back. You're here. You're you. Come back.

"I –"

Fingers, head, press, press, press.

He didn't say it. He didn't say I killed Tyler. I said that, I said he did it, I jump to conclusions, I do that. But Sydney, what should you do now? Be reasonable, be smart, like your mother, when she's sober. Be strategic and quick on your feet, like your father, when he's . . .

"Just give me a straight answer," I mumble. Not strong enough, Sydney. Gotta do better.

"Sydney. Tell me to stay or tell me to go."

"I'm not asking for the whole story. I'm asking for a straight answer to one question. Did you kill him?"

Dad calls my name. "The walkers are coming," says Owen.

Mom's told me before that she had to sometimes get aggressive in court. I've seen Dad get aggressive plenty of times. And I just told myself a second ago to be stronger, I know I can be strong, so I'm not out of bounds when I shove Owen with everything I have, when I snarl – because that scares people, that makes them know you're serious, yeah? – when I snarl, "Just give me a straight answer! Just a yes or a no, you son of a – that's all I need!"

His eyes connect so hard with mine they almost knock me off my feet but I stand strong, tall, I'm Sydney Rose Dixon, I don't break, me? No. I'm tough. Daddy's tough girl. "Tell me to go," he says. "Or tell me to stay."

Tell him to go.

His eyes flicker behind me, and I need them back, because I don't want Owen to go.

"I swear, Owen!" I scream. "I swear!"

I don't know what I'm swearing to, but I mean it, by God. Listen to my voice. Feel my heart pounding, furious.

"Swear away." Then he pulls out his gun and shoots.

I twist to see, watch the walker fall, see the dozens, hundreds, thousands, millions coming after it, they'll keep coming, I know, never, never never never stop.

The BANG has barely hurt my ears when my arm is grabbed and yanked too hard, yanked hard enough for Owen to get me in front of him, for my dad – Hi, Dad – to grab me and take custody of my life, and we're running – I guess I'm running, yes, you're running, come back, now, Sydney –

Oh, but everything is so much clearer up here.

No. No, no.

"No . . ." comes the breath, just for me and the God I don't believe in.

Carol and the white van. Oh, this doesn't look safe. The bridge has rails all along the side of it, and the van has crashed through one. Its nose is hanging out in the air. Tilted towards the ground, like a plane trying to land. Dad lets go of me. Owen's here. I nail my eyes into him and try to peel it all back, the skin and the lies and the secrets and memories so I can find Tyler, every picture of Tyler, every second of how he died and who was there and who was bloody. Someone is always bloody.

"Is she okay?" I hear Carol ask while I'm peeling back Owen.

"No," huffs out Dad, and he steps to the back of the van doors, pulls them open. It's a mess inside, as messy in there as it is out here, but, wait – Owen, I'm supposed to be figuring out Owen, only when I turn back to him it suddenly hurts, and I cringe and put my hand to my head again.

Someone grabs my chin roughly and tears my eyes from Owen, and now I'm looking at Carol, she's leaning down to me. "Sydney. Now is not the time and place. We can work everything out –"

"You don't care," I shake my head until her hand is off me. "You don't care, stop pretending, please." I turn to Owen again, and his eyes are closed. I need to get him to talk, need to pull it all out of him, because my eyes alone, thinking alone, none of that will work without the right words – words are in me, but I can't tell what they are. They're flipping and fluttering and screaming around in my head like in that – oh, like in that scene from Harry Potter, the movie, not the book, the first movie, the Sorcerer's Stone, where Harry and Ron and Hermione are going through all these obstacles to find the stone, and Harry has to get on a broom and fly through a million different wild flying vicious keys until he can catch the right one –

Carol – I've moved away from her, and I won't look at her again, even if she tries to make me – Carol says, "What are you doing? It's not stable, I'm lighter."

Dad's getting into the van. He pulls himself up, swings his legs in, ignores Carol. Going on, going on. He stands, I see him with his hands out, balancing his way towards the front seats, and the van creaks. Carol goes in after him, and the van creaks more.

Owen touching my shoulder is disgusting and when he does it I jump away, but I forgot that I was supposed to be peeling him back and choosing my words, catching the right key, so it's my own fault. "Sit on the back with me," he says. "Balance the van out as much as we can."

He carefully lifts himself onto the edge of the van, pushing one of the doors aside, and the van groans like a walker. Or maybe that was just a walker. I lift myself onto the edge, too, but at the other end, my back against the wall, and I eye Owen, of course, I need to really see him. I won't look away, that's my plan, until Tyler says, "You need to find out."

He's sitting to my right, my Dad and Carol just beyond him, but they don't notice him. I know they won't. Neither will Owen. Tyler's here just for me.

He looks the same, and I'm glad, because I was beginning to forget the details and that scared me. There's the scar on his forehead from when he didn't wear a helmet and fell off his bike when we were eight. His hair is short, shorter than his brother's, but still a little shaggy, and his eyes are wide, wide, wide, long eyelashes and dark outlines, innocent, my friend, my best friend, only it makes me sad, because he isn't my best friend anymore. He was then, he's not now. But I still love him, and it still hurts to see him and know that it won't last long.

"You need to find out," he repeats, earnest, he was always so earnest, and my arms are hugging my knees and so are his, even though his head is towards me, eyes sharp – peeling me back now, getting into me, until I know he's right. "You need to find out if he killed me, Syd."

I nod. Just a little, and slowly. I get it now. What I need to do. And Tyler, he nods back. Then he lifts his hand. His little finger sticks out. "Promise me."

I'm moving my hand to meet his when Owen says, "Sydney."

Just like that, Tyler's gone. Running from his brother, like he always had to. I lower my hand. I stare for a bit at the empty space Tyler left, before I follow Owen's voice to Tyler's eyes, his exact eyes. I just look . . . well, for a look. I don't try to dig into Owen anymore, to peel him back. That won't work. Words won't even work. He knows I saw something, I can read that without trying, and I don't really care. His expression is . . . wary, that's a good word for it, wary and just a little concerned. Concerned, concerned. He's not wrong to be. It breaks my heart, knowing that he really does care about me. But he was right, he was right, Dad was wrong. The past matters. History repeats itself. And we remember the dead. I'll remember the dead.

I link my hands together, curling one little finger around the other. I promise, Tyler.

Owen licks his lips, glances past me, and calls, "There're more comin'." He positions his gun on his knee. I clip my trigger onto my bowstring.

"Yeah, I see 'em," I hear Dad growl. He's leaving the front seat. He stops on his way out to shove over one of those things they used to use to wheel dead or injured people around. I let my eyes leave Owen to go to him. I can't just stare at Owen anymore. I have to be smarter than that.

"GMH," Dad reads off, loudly and breathlessly, because they're closing in on us. His head whips around to Carol, some sweat from his hair flies and stings my face. "What's that, a hospital?"

"I don't know, Grady Memorial, maybe?"

"Grady, the white crosses – might be where they're holdin' up!"

Carol jumps down in front of me and I jump down, too, and my bow starts to work. Dad and Owen are to my right, Carol is to my left, and I've shot one arrow before I remember than I have a limited supply of those. I notch another, but it isn't worth it. There are too many walkers closing in. Not very close yet, but all around, and we're not going anywhere. I don't know where that leaves us – well, yes, I do. Here.

I've heard a lot of gunshots so far. Carol has probably used up the three bullets she had left after the stranger stole our stuff. She shouts Dad's name. Dad shouts Go go go, and makes a grab for me, but misses, because I dodge. And I look. Time slows down. Carol is leaping into the van. Owen is almost doing the same. His hand reaches to the door for a good hold to hoist himself up by. As that hand goes up, the other goes back. He doesn't have time to put his gun under his belt, so he just slips it into his pocket. I see Dad start to turn, ready to try and catch me, to drag me where he wants me to go. But I'm fast. I fly from him. Fly to Owen. I put my bow over my shoulder so it won't get in the way, and as Owen pulls himself up, I'm right there. Right there to pull his gun from his pocket, and it's just that simple.

I take three strides back and lift the gun and point it at Owen. Dad yells my name. Carol rushes back to the van doors.

Owen, squatting on the edge of the van entrance, lowers himself down and jumps to the asphalt. He puts his hands up by his shoulders. He isn't afraid. I didn't think he would be. He looks sad, though.

"Did you kill him?" If I shoot, the bullet will hit his chest. That's not because I want him to turn. I'll make sure that doesn't happen. I just don't trust my aim enough to hit him in the head with the first shot.

"Sydney, put the damn gun down!"

That's Dad, and I see him heading for me, so I take another step back – and yes, the walkers are still coming – and I say, "Dad, stop or I'll shoot him."

And Dad stops. He could get to me in three steps, so I take another step back, for extra safety. But I know that he won't come closer. I know that he knows if I shoot Owen I'm not me anymore. I'm not his daughter. And I guess he isn't ready for that. All that's happened, but he's not ready for that last step.

Only Owen says, "She won't shoot me." Says it like it's fact. I don't know how he's so sure that I won't . . . but he's right.

Consciously, I didn't know he was right until this moment. But why else would I have stolen his gun, instead of just using my bow to threaten him? So I could have a Plan B, that's why, and it's time for it, so I press the barrel of the pistol under my chin.

Carol's the one who screams my name. Dad – I think he screams No. Or, cries it. Something mangled comes out of him, and yes, it finds the tenderest part of me and sets it on fire. But I have a job to do. I promised Tyler.

Owen's crouched down. His eyes are round, I see his lips move like he's speaking but his teeth don't part. One hand back, one hand forward, just like he looked when he pulled me away from imaginary Len.

"You?" I call. "No, I won't shoot you. But me? I got some serious issues with me."

The dead are closing in. If I did it, they would tear my body to pieces and I would be gone, like Lori.

"So tell me," I say. "Tell me . . . Owen, tell me!"

He snaps. It's a strange thing to see. His face gets tight and his fists form and all of his muscles go rigid and either he's not Owen anymore or he's Owen absolutely. "You don't want to know!" he screams. "I swear on his grave, on my mother's, you don't want to know!"

"No, you don't want me to know! Just tell me! Just tell me!" The barrel hurts, pressed into that tender part of me, under my chin but above my neck, but I can't ease up, truly can't. "Did you kill Tyler?"

"Sydney, put it down!" cries Carol, as Owen shakes his head, as a million things flash through his eyes – there's all the black and the suffering swirling around, it's a storm, what a storm.

"Sydney, please!" he growls, cries, begs. "You idiot, please!"

"Tell me if you killed him!"

I know the walkers are almost on me. I hear them. I feel them. Owen sees them, I know, until my Dad tackles him. He rams Owen's head into the side of the van and then holds onto his collar, pulls him to him, shouts, "Tell her!"

Owen hits my dad in the stomach or chest, I can't tell, then shoves him away but falls back, too, and he looks at me, stumbling, with tears falling like crazy.

"He slit his wrists!"

The walkers stop coming. I know because of the silence, the absolute silence of everything, except the words that keep falling from Owen's mouth. Rolling off his tongue like corpses.

"He slit his wrists! He slit his wrists and he turned, and he goddamn waited for me! That's how it happened, Sydney! That's how he died! That's how he died, you bitch, now get that thing away from your head and get your ass in the van!"

I don't decide to lower the gun so much as my arm drops because it can't hold itself up anymore. My grip on the gun is so loose it probably would have fallen if not for my dad's instant presence, his snatching the gun away and pointing it over my head and blowing something away.

Then I'm in the van. It's a rough landing. I catch myself on something, the van trembles. Dad kicks away a walker and then slams the doors, and it's dark.

I'm on my back. I stare at Owen. He's staring out the windshield, wiping his face.

Hands slam on the back of the van, and on the sides. Too loud, too loud.

"What?" someone whispers, oh, it's me. I cover my eyes. "What?"

Dad and Carol shouting back and forth.

Wrists, slit, waited – waited for me. Died.

My name.

"What?"

He slit his wrists –

"Get in the front seat –"

– he turned –

"Sydney!"

"What?"

- waited for me!

Hands, rough on my back, and shoving, so hard I stumble. "Get in the front seat! Owen, you too!"

Carol's hand on my elbow, and I'm crawling over stuff and now I'm in the front passenger seat, staring down at asphalt. There are bodies down there. One is fresh and has blonde hair and lies in a pool of blood. It sits up and snarls at us, reaches for me.

Hands on my head. First one, then the other. Owen's next to me, behind the wheel. I curl up. "What?" I murmur. I hide, pressing thumbs into my eyes.

Dad says something, then Owen. Carol next. Someone's on top of me. Carol. She's whispering things, probably to me, but all I hear is Tyler, telling me I have to find out, but why? Why would you do that to me, Tyler? Why –

It's you, Sydney. All it ever is, is you.

You just put a gun to your head and threatened to shoot.

BANG.

"No. No, no, no . . ."

I hear walkers, I hear so many walkers.

Something comes over my eyes, blocks everything out. I gasp and fight it, Carol says something, and I realize the thing is soft and lets me breathe. Carol adjusts herself over me. There's the click of a seat belt. I grasp the thing covering my head and tug. It's thicker than I thought, and it's not over my head, it's just against it. I reach out to Carol, feel, feel, until I find her head. It's on the other side of the thing. What is it? A jacket? I don't know. Why?

Dad talking. Carol holding my hand. I'm trapped here. I struggle. Carol squeezes my hand and says something, and I stop.

Then my stomach leaves me and I fall.

I've fainted.

That's what I think until we hit the ground.

. . . . . . . . . .

Dad and Merle took me sledding once, when it snowed on Dad's weekend. I can't remember what I used for a sled, some sort of disk thing I could ride down a hill on my knees. It was fun, really fun, until I picked up too much speed once and went off course and flew over this little hill. For a little hill, it put me farther in the air than I might have guessed. The disk was gone from under me, and I slammed down on the ground, and for a few seconds, I was just numb. The pain set in after. But even as the pain came in, a deep ache in my neck and back that had me fighting tears, I felt an odd sort of ease. Peace. Like all of the bad stuff had been jolted right out of me.

So, now, years later, I come back to me. After we land on the ground after falling off a bridge in a church van. I come back to me, because – for now – I can. I feel free.

Not necessarily a good thing.

Dear God, we just went over the edge of a bridge in a van.

Dear God, I pointed a gun at Owen.

Dear God, I threatened to kill myself.

I try to push myself up and remember Carol is on me. But she's moving, I hear her sigh. "We're okay," she says. "We're okay . . ."

I reach up and tug down the thing in between our heads. It's my dad's vest, all folded up. "Dad?" I cry, twisting around.

"I'm fine." He's in the back, gripping Owen's seat. He didn't have a seatbelt or anything. He falls back onto his elbows and just stares at me. My mouth is open. I'm trembling. Dad closes his eyes and rolls over until his forehead is resting on his arm.

Meanwhile, walkers start raining down on and around us. The first one lands right on the van's windshield, staining it with blood. Others come after, of course, walkers will do just about anything for a meal. They fall on the roof, they fall on the ground around us. Chasing us, even now.

Owen. He has one hand on the steering wheel. He isn't moving. Not at all. He didn't jump when the first walker fell. He doesn't watch the others fall. He just doesn't move.

Until, finally, after we haven't been hit in a while, he unbuckles and leaves, slamming the door behind him. Three seconds later, after Carol has released the seatbelt that was crossed over both of us and she's sitting up, our door opens. Carol turns, her face washed over with gray light. Owen steps aside, she steps out. But not before giving me a hard look. I don't know what it means. But I follow her out, it's cooler out here than I remember, and Owen grabs my shoulders and shakes me, and I mean shakes me.

"What the hell were you doin'? What the hell are you trying to do?" He shoves a hand up and into my hair, our faces are very close, his eyes are red and he shouts, "Are you happy? Are you happy now that you know? Does it make you feel good, did putting a gun to your head feel good? Huh?"

Carol's the one who gets him off me. She doesn't have to use much force. One touch, one look, that's all it takes, and he lets me go and gives me this look of complete despair and shakes his head and spits and rubs an arm over his mouth and walks away, over the fallen walker bodies, some of which reach for him, but none of which are blonde and in a pool of fresh blood.

And Carol, she doesn't say a word. She only looks at me, and I understand that I've been wrong, that she does still love me, the second right before she slaps me. I've been hit worse. But, then again, I haven't.

"That was the single most selfish thing I've ever seen you do," she says. Then she presses her hand into the side of the car and uses it to support her way around to the hood. Something's happened. Her leg's hurt. Me, I'm fine. But her leg's hurt.

Owen has found a nice pillar to lean on. He's throwing up.

I was wrong. About everything, I was wrong.

"No . . ." I touch my head, and someone else touches my shoulder. I swing around, lose my balance. Dad. A fresh streak of blood coming from his nose. He falls to his knees. Literally falls. His hands come out to me. Pull me down to my own knees. He presses our heads together, and he starts to cry.