"We shouldn't split up," I mutter. "Not again."

My head is in my hands, I'm sitting on the ground with my back against the side of one of our cars. Camp is behind me, behind the car. I hear the little fires crackling. Talking, though not much, never loud. Footsteps and plastic spoons against cans, the crinkling of plastic bags filled with expired food. Over here, it's cold and dark. I'm close but not really. I'm far. I'm bad. Because tomorrow, some of us are leaving the rest of us, going to a neighborhood for people who may not be there, for sanctuary that may not exist. And it's bad, it's bad. And I know all I need to do is stand up and walk around the van and sit next to someone who is real, and make myself be real, too. But I sit with my head in my hands. Muttering.

"Rick, we shouldn't split up, we shouldn't split up, we shouldn't . . ."

. . . . .

Dad brushes his hand over his mouth. "Who you gonna take?" he asks Rick.

"Noah, and three, maybe four others. Whoever wants to come. Not you, I need you to stay here."

They don't know I'm listening. But I'm listening and I'm taking it in and it's setting me on fire. It's a very cold fire, and something is almost funny, and I fade away to somewhere else before they can even know I'm here.

. . . . .

"How can you be so stupid, both of you, both of you? We were apart for so long, for forever – when we split up, things go badly, bad things happen –"

"Sydney," says Beth, and I look up, and she's standing beside a tree like she's back from a nice walk, except that there's blood all over her, "You're overreacting."

"Things go badly, Beth," I hiss. This isn't like me. This isn't like the new me, the positive me, the me that Beth herself pushed me into being – trying to be. "Things go badly when we split up. We are stronger together. People don't die when we're together."

"I did."

That voice comes from right next to me. It's Patrick, my friend from the prison. Carl said he had a crush on me. I shot him with an arrow. It's still in his head, even though he isn't a walker, the way he actually was when he died. He lowers down next to me, and I grit my teeth and dig my hands into my hair and don't look at him anymore, don't look at him anymore.

"No, no, no. You're not here."

"Hey, now," whispers Patrick.

"Shh," I say. "You're not here. You're not here. You're not here."

"Syd."

"You're not –" I take in a fast, cold breath. "You're . . . okay, you're here."

I feel him kneel down. I couldn't feel Patrick kneel down. Owen. He touches my shoulder, lightly, then harder.

"I know I'm crazy," I say. "I know that, and it's easier knowing that, because I know that they aren't here. They aren't real. It's easier, you know? Knowing that I'm crazy. It's easier."

"Okay."

"And they're not here. I know they're not here."

"No. They're not."

"But they're –" I shake my head rapidly, like a dog getting water off herself. "They might not go away. They might always . . ." I rub my bad hand against my forehead. "My dad doesn't know how bad it can get. I think because I've been acting like, like I'm fine, you know? And I've been in worse places, Owen. I've been in worse places. Just because I'm crazier now, that doesn't mean I'm worse. But you can't tell my dad. You can't tell anyone."

His arm slides over my shoulders.

A shout from somewhere I can't point out makes me stiffen up and flinch. "Sydney!" says Tyler, and I don't look to see where he's at, where my mind wants him to be. "Sydney, he killed me! He killed me!"

` "Dear God," I whimper, yes, whimper. "I am insane. I'm so insane."

Owen situates himself in front of me, crouching over me, and takes my arms. "Syd, you know what's real and what's not. That's all that matters."

"Owen, they can't go tomorrow. They can't."

"Oh, Sydney . . ."

I'm trembling, but I don't want him to let go of me, he's holding me here, on Earth, with the living people.

"I think you need – Syd, you need to talk to your dad, okay?"

"I don't want him to know." He's not himself. He doesn't need to worry about me. And if he's not himself, I'm not sure he could help me anyway – and oh, that thought hurts. I need Carl. Carl could make all this go away. Like that night, when I told him my secret, or, all my secrets, all the secrets scratched on my wrists . . . He pushed all the bad thoughts out of my head and heart and his arms stayed around me so they couldn't get back in. My Carl. My Carl.

"He hates me."

"Your dad doesn't hate you, Sydney, that's the most ridiculous –"

"Not him, I don't mean him."

He's a fast thinker, Owen, and his mind drops the wrong answer and snaps up the right one quicker than most people blink. "Oh. No. No, he doesn't hate you, either. He's being an asshole, but he doesn't hate you, and he'll come around."

"I need him."

"I'll go get him."

I grab his jacket. "He won't come."

"I'll make him."

"Owen, please don't leave me. I don't want to be alone with them."

"Sydney. Sydney. There is no them."

"Don't leave me, damn you."

"Okay." He sits down all the way next to me. "Fine. Brat. Fine."

I lean against him. His arms come around me.

"You know all my secrets," I say, and I say it to silence, it's so wonderfully silent, "But I don't know yours."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't know them all, do I? There are more?"

He's quiet.

"You don't have to tell me," I say. I feel dizzy. "I've made you tell me too much, and it wasn't fair. Not at all. I'm so sorry, Owen. For the bridge. I'm so sorry."

We sit alone for a very long time. Eventually, I hear Dad's muffled voice from behind us, calling my name.I press my head into Owen's shoulder. "I'm not here," I whisper.

"Where are you?" he whispers back.

I hesitate. "Cannell Drive."

"Yeah. I don't blame you."