"Ah. Ah."

I'm trying to stop saying ow. That word is more noticeable then the little sighing sound a well-measured ah makes. So, when I have to let something out of my mouth to carry a little pain away, that's the noise I go with now, ah. Tonight, with insomnia smothering me like a scratchy blanket, I curl up and press my bad hand against my face, as if it might stop hurting if it hears just what a good job it's doing.

That plan's not working.

So I curl up tighter, get as small as I can, and shut my mouth so to listen to what's going on around me, focus on everyone else, search for some sweet distraction. There's Eugene snoring. Gabriel murmuring. Someone coughs – Tara? Rosita?

And my hand aches, and burns, and pounds on the inside.

I roll over and press my free fist on top of my palm, squeezing the deformed hand between my good knuckles and the ground, and the wounds hurt, but pain feels so much better when I'm in control of it, when I can tell it when to stop and when to get worse, when I know what the problem is and how to fix it – when I want to. I take a deep breath and put more of my weight into squashing my screaming hand, grinding my teeth as I do –

Someone touches my shoulder. I flip like a pancake. Dad's crouching over me. He puts a finger to his lips and looks over at my bad hand. I lick my lips. Dad's eyes flicker to mine, and he gestures to someplace away. The edge of camp. There's an old, thick tree there, the same one Glenn was sitting under the last time I was conscious. Dad's on watch, then. If it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have noticed me over here – not even doing anything serious, not running off to have hallucinations in the dark, just self-medicating a little. But it wasn't anyone else.

Dad pulls me up and leads me over to the tree. He holds my hand, my good one. He never did that much, even when I was little, crossing the street or going through a crowded place. He would usually either grab my shoulder or just pick me up, because, he said, that was faster and easier for him.

I sit by the tree. Dad scans the camp, scans the woods, and then sits beside me.

"Gimme your hand."

I do. He unties and unwraps the bandage, then pulls something from his pocket. I flinch when an orange glow bites at my eyes. A lighter. Dad lifts my hand and holds the flame just close enough for my skin to feel toasty. The holes are wet with new blood. He puts the lighter down. "What were you doing? Lying on top of it?"

"Pressin' down on it with my other hand."

He rubs my palm a few times before tying the bandage back on. "It ain't gonna heal if you do stuff like that, Sydney."

"I didn't plan it. It just made it feel better."

"New pain took your mind off the old pain?"

"I guess."

"Isn't that kind of like when you were cuttin' yourself?"

"No."

"How's it different?"

"I didn't cut myself because it took my mind off the pain. I've told you before, I did it to punish myself. I'm not doing this to punish myself, I don't have anything to punish myself for, do I? Or do you think I do?"

"Little Bit, calm down."

I suck in some nice night air. Air's better at night. And right in the morning. The longer the day, the older the air. "I am calm."

Dad lowers my hand, but keeps his around it.

"You just don't need to bring up me cutting myself," I say. "Why would you bring that up? That doesn't even matter anymore, and it's so different from this."

"Alright. Sorry."

"Do you think I'm glad I cut myself? Do you think it's ever been something – something I wanted to do, hurting myself, in any way? Sometimes it just makes sense. Sometimes it's helped."

"I know."

"You do?"

"Why else would you have done it?" He stares out at camp. "Doesn't mean I like that you've done it. I hate it. But I get it."

He's never said anything like that before. I take a deep breath and look at our hands. The gashes in mine throb like they know I'm looking. I inhale a little too sharply at the fresh wave of pain.

"What can I do?" Dad asks.

"Take me hunting tomorrow."

He's gone hunting almost every day since we left Georgia – how long has that been? Seven, eight days? Nine? However many, he hasn't given a single one of them to me. And he needs to. After all, back in Atlanta, after I did That Stupid Thing and then we dove toward asphalt in a hospital van, Dad was the one who said we needed to go find a spot in the woods somewhere and sit, talk, and get back to someplace good. So much has changed since then, we're different because of that, but we still need to get back to us. We need to . . . forgive each other. And help each other.

And for Dad and me, everything's easier when we're hunting.

"Please, Dad."

His head is still turned towards everyone else. I can't tell where his eyes are. Shadows love my dad. They never miss an opportunity to wrap him up.

"We'll talk," he says eventually.

I look down, but then fall forward and make a place for myself against his chest, trying to get as close to him as I can. Two or three seconds go by.

Hug me, Dad. Please.

His arms fold across my back. His chin comes down on my head. I squeeze my eyes shut.

I'm scared, Dad. I'm trying to be brave, and positive, and be better than I've been, for Beth, for you, for me, but there are times still when I just want to stop . . . I'm scared that I will. I'm scared that I'll never shoot my bow like I used to. I'm scared that someone will die, and I could have saved them if I could have used my bow. I'm scared of all of the things that I know are going to be harder now that I only have eight fingers, I'm scared that I won't be able to handle it, that I won't be as good at anything as I used to be, that I won't be good at all. I'm scared that Carl can't get over what he needs to get over, I'm scared that I'll lose him, and what will I be if I lose him? I can't lose him . . . And Dad, I'm scared because this is the first time you've really held me in too long. Dad, I'm scared for you. I'm scared for us. I'm so, so scared.

"Help me."

He shifts. "What'd you say?"

"I said I love you."

He sighs.

"Dad, you're supposed to say it back."

"Sydney, you know I love you."

"Say it anyway."

"I love you."

"Thank you," I say, but that's not something you should have to thank someone for saying, and I want to cry, but I don't. Not because we don't get to cry anymore – for all Beth was right about, I don't think she was right about that. I don't cry because even if we get to, we have the responsibility to pick the right moments, and this isn't one. If Dad doesn't want to get vulnerable right now, I won't make him. So I can't let myself get vulnerable, because either he'll accidentally get vulnerable trying to comfort me, or he won't comfort me at all. He doesn't want to do the one. I couldn't handle the other. And so I'll sit here in his stiff arms. You have to take what you can get, you know.