"What the hell?" Rosita's crossing the camp as soon as we break from the forest, Carol in the lead, Owen still in her care, my shirt still catching his blood. I see a flash of light at Rosita's hip – the sun against her machete, out and ready. "What happened to you?"

"Where're Glenn and Carl?"

That hoarse voice belongs to Maggie. She's sitting next to a simmering campfire, cooking something in a rusted pot, and even though she hasn't stood up, her eyes are alert – really alert – for the first time in days. In spite of everything, I feel a soft goodness because of that.

"They're back in the woods," Leah answers as Carol takes Owen to the van where I myself get regular medical attention, "Carl and Owen – well –"

"Carl hit him," I say.

Maggie looks at me, bewildered. I shrug a little. "It's a long story. Glenn's getting Carl to . . . cool down."

"Why were you two yelling? That was you and Carl, right?" Rosita asks. She still has her machete out, but I don't think she remembers it's there. She's squinting at me, but not in a mean way, not even in a judgmental way. She's . . . concerned.

"Did you all hear what we were saying, too?" I mutter weakly.

"No. Just the shouting."

"We didn't hear . . . specifics until we got pretty close to you," Leah tells me.

"You couldn't have heard everything, then," I say, and almost instantly regret saying that, because even I can hear the desperation in my voice, the need for Leah to tell me that they really didn't hear anything that significant after all. But her expression tells me I'm wrong, so wrong, and I drop my head into my good hand. "Great."

A few seconds of silence. Eugene coughs, practically stating out loud the awkwardness of the moment.

"Okay, so you fought with your guy," Rosita finally says, quietly. "No big deal, it happens."

I look up at her, and I realize so quickly that she's become my friend that I almost miss that realization, almost slide right past it and straight into friendship without missing a beat, and the beat that I do miss is a tiny and not unpleasant one. But tears are back in my eyes. "Not like this," I say.

Leah leans down to me. She doesn't have to lean far. "Maybe you should go lie down for a few minutes. Only if you want to. But I think it would help . . ."

"I was fine when I was up in that tree," I say. "Now you want to put me in time-out?"

Her head tilts to the side, her eyes close and open too slowly for it to be just a blink. "You know that's not what I'm doing."

"No, it's not." I leave her and Rosita and their badass machetes. The only place I can think of to be is with Owen. Not even because I want to be. It's just that when someone gets hurt and it's your fault, you should – I don't know, see the healing process through. Or just stay with them. And tell them you're sorry, even if you're not fond of saying it and they're not fond of hearing it, because, damn, sometimes you just do things because you're supposed to.

"Bleeding's almost stopped," Carol says when I get to the van, with its back open and its messy medical station offering its meager supplies. Owen's lying down, though his legs hang off the edge so his boots still touch the ground. Ready to go, always. "We have a couple of ice packs, but he won't take one, so really, I can't do much of anything for him."

"I've been punched, kicked, or otherwise assaulted seventy-two times in the past two years, and in those two years, I've used exactly zero ice packs. I'm fine." Owen says all this past my shirt, in a nasally tone that I bet he hates and that draws out a weak bit of humor from me.

"Seventy-two, huh? You just pull that number out of your ass?" I ask.

He takes the shirt from his face and rolls his head over to look at me. "Well, not all of us keep diaries," he says, and I incline my head with a sharp inhale. Of course he knows about the Book. Well, he doesn't know what it is, but of course he knows I'm writing something in something, because his boundary issues – well. They know no bounds.

At least it doesn't feel like it when it comes to me.

I turn from him. "Carol," I say, barely above a whisper, and without looking straight at her. "The yelling. I'm sorry."

"You know better," she says simply.

"Yes. I do."

"Everything you've been through. The things you've survived. To be killed by a walker because you and Carl had a teenage lover's quarrel –"

"It was more than that!" The words shoot out like knives, and I'm apologizing before I can even take a new breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to . . ."

She's facing me completely, and I want to hunker away, but I won't. Can't. "If you really heard what we were saying," I begin, "You know it was more than some spat between two . . . teenage lovers. And if you know anything about me, and him, and about me and him, you know – you have to know –"

– Because it has to be true –

"– that even though he and I are kids, our relationship isn't some . . . shallow, hold-hands-on-the-playground kind of thing."

"What you and Carl have," Carol says, "is profound and rare."

I do look straight at her then, because I didn't expect that at all.

"Whatever it is," she adds.

"Whatever it is?"

"Whatever it is, however important it may be to the both of you, it loses all of its meaning if it gets you killed over something stupid."

"What do mean by whatever it is?"

"Are you even listening to me?" she snaps.

"Yes, and I want to know, what do you mean by whatever it is? It's a relationship, that's what it is, it's that simple."

Carol looks away, lips tight, shaking her head in tiny jerks, but then her eyes snap forcefully back onto mine. "I'm not arguing that point. I'm not arguing at all, it's a waste of time. Just don't get killed for something stupid, Sydney. You're too smart."

I turn away as she leaves. I curl my good hand into a good fist and press it into the worn fabric covering the van's floor.

"Hey, Syd?" Owen's taken the shirt from his nose again. His poor nose. It's a dangerously deep red. Carl can throw a punch – who knew? Owen starts to push himself up, I think, but seems to change his mind, lowers down with a flinch, relaxes again, and sighs. "If you want everyone to treat you and Carl seriously, as a couple, you can't jump to its defense like that, kid. If it's a serious thing . . . It's gonna speak for itself."

I don't need your advice! I almost say. But exhaustion is starting to weigh me down, and so is the sense – the common sense, I can almost say – that Owen's right. So, instead of starting a brand new argument with a brand new opponent, I lick my lips and ask, "So what's it saying to you, Mr. Intuitive?"

"Big word," he says with a twitch of the lips.

"Owen."

"You don't need my approval, Sydney, you don't need anyone's approval. Except maybe your dad's and Rick's, but that's a whole 'nother issue."

"I'm not asking for your approval, I'm asking for your opinion."

"My opinion is that I agree with Carol. What you and Carl have? It's intense. I know. I've seen how you two get when you're apart. Like . . . starving freaking wolves." He closes his eyes, dabs his nose with my shirt, and then rests the bloody bundle on his chest. "But if he thinks he can get away with treating you like that . . . Sydney, no guy should ever treat you like that. Especially not after the shit you've been through."

"He's been through shit, too."

"Yeah, well, in recent times, you had your fingers bitten and then chopped off, you got kidnapped, and you watched your friend die. You came out of that hospital soaked in her blood. And then you went –" He stops with a swallow.

"Comatose," I say. "That's what you called it."

"Maybe I should have said catatonic. Maybe that's more fitting."

I don't really know the difference between the two, but I won't say that.

"I think Carl's a good guy," Owen says. "I really do. I think he loves you and he loves the group, but he is out of his mind if he thinks he has any right to treat you the way he's been treating you, and frankly, I'm sick of it, I don't know why no one else is doing anything about it, and I don't know why you've been taking it. And if you meant what you said to him, that you were done letting him treat you like that, then Sydney . . . Good for you. Just – good for you."

I don't know what to say. I kind of want to hug him. But more than that, I want to ask him this –

"What'd you say to him?"

"I don't even remember."

"Owen."

"Quit saying my name like it's some magic key that'll unlock all the deepest secrets of . . . me."

I wait, and stare.

He sighs. "I asked him if he really thought he could get away with making you cry."

"What does that even mean?"

"Well, assuming you wouldn't kick his ass . . . There's your, uh, slightly protective father. Glenn, he loves you. Rick, it's a little complicated, what with Carl being his son, but . . . he loves you, too, and men get all defensive when it comes to the females in their lives, so I think he would probably side with you, especially once he saw . . . tears. And . . ." He shifts and groans. "Then there's yours truly."

"My knight in shining armor," I say dryly. Only it doesn't come out as dry as I wanted it to, really, and I cough a little. "Which you kind of are."

"Oh, please . . ."

"Don't, Owen. You . . ." I pause. There's a lot I could say to him here. But what comes out, the first thing to drop from mind to mouth, is, "Thank you. For not hitting him back."

He peers at me for a while. A dark spot creeps out of his right nostril.

"You're bleeding again."

He presses my shirt over his nose and sighs through his mouth. One arm winds up and backwards, and his index finger pops out. "Dracula."

"What?"

He takes the shirt off his face. "Dracula. In the glove compartment, there's a copy of Dracula. Bram Stoker. Will you get it, please?"

I do, and when I return to the back of the van and hand it to him, he shakes his head and hands it back. "Read it to me."

"Are you serious?"

"The lighting I have down here kinda sucks, and I don't really feel like sitting up right now. And I like your voice. C'mon, I haven't started it, we'll – read it together."

I bounce the book in my hand. It's in surprisingly good condition, a Barnes & Noble Classics print, so the copy's probably pretty new. There was a Barnes & Noble about a half-hour's drive from Nana and Papaw's. They took me a lot. I loved it. Nana would get a coffee and Papaw and I would get hot chocolates and then Nana would go to the cookbook section while Papaw and I browsed around, him letting me lead the way, and even though I always ended up in the kids' section where I guess I was supposed to be, I liked looking at all the grown-up books because they had better titles than the kids' books and it made me wonder exactly what kind of things happened in an adult's world, and oh, it made me want to grow up and see for myself.

"Why do you like horror novels so much?" I ask Owen.

He gives me a sort of odd look. Then he smiles a little, but it's a sad one. "You really don't know?"

Before I can answer, a harsh buzzing makes us both jump and turn towards the source – a walkie talkie propped carefully in the back corner of this space. And from the other end – Rick's end – comes screaming.