I tuck the Book and the pen in my back pocket and stand. I'm shaky. I run a hand over my forehead and back over my hair, holding it down against the wind, before I walk across this field, this truly lovely field that we've found for Tyreese's grave. Tyreese, who I barely saw this morning because I wanted to be up in a tree instead. That's not the kind of mistake I will make again. Never again.

From now on, there always has to be a goodbye. Always.

But you've always chosen your own goodbyes, Sydney. Remember? That's why you don't go to the funerals.

That's true, I don't. So what am I doing walking across this field, over to the grave, to my people, saying goodbye how they need to? It's not how I need to. So I turn and walk back to the rock I was sitting on. It's one in a long line, a crooked line that eventually turns into boulders, all of them buried deep in the ground. They disappear into the woods a ways away. My guess? Follow the line long enough, you'll come to some bluffs. That's usually how it goes. Maybe some nice bluffs with a really pretty view. But this is a pretty view, too. The green field, the clear sky, the trees brushing against each other and making that special crack-whisper-crack sound they make when they do that. The air's warm enough. The breeze is nice. And I'm not at a funeral.

"So when was our goodbye, Tyreese?" I say out loud. Not to him. He hasn't come to visit me yet, though it won't surprise me if he does. Well, I mean, it will. But then it won't. My guess? It's only a matter of time. And that's a very scary thought, but also kind of a comforting one. I get to see people I love after they've died. They don't get to see me, I know that, I know it's not really them, and sometimes they even say mean things, but – at least I get to see them. I don't have photographs of anyone anymore, but sometimes, I still get to see their ghosts. The ones that live in my head, at least.

I pluck three blades of grass from some that are brushing around my feet, do a quick scan all around me, and then start braiding. It hurts and it's hard, but I figure it's probably a good exercise for an eight-fingered girl to do. "Our goodbye . . ." I murmur. "Our goodbye . . . was the other night. When you . . ." I take a deep breath. "When you told Carl you would change Judith's diaper, and you did, but then you brought her straight to me after." I smile a little. "And you winked. And I could have hugged you. I guess I should have."

This braid isn't going very well. I've somehow managed to just tie a knot, but I tighten it up, and it actually looks kind of cool. Three blades of grass, all connected together by one knot almost in the direct middle of them. I hold my creation up to face and let the wind blow it against my cheeks, the blades tickling me. I close my eyes, sending out a tear. "Yeah, Tyreese," I say. "That was our goodbye."

I let the knotted blades go, and they fly farther than I thought they would. They land, of course, eventually. But it's right in a patch of wildflowers that should be dead this time of year, so I'm okay with it.

. . . . .

Dad makes his way across the field to me when the sun is ten, fifteen minutes from setting. I don't know what he'll say, so I don't know what to prepare myself for. I don't like that feeling.

He sits on the rock next to me. He sits there for a while, and we watch the sun sink, like we might have on a hunting trip, a long time ago.

"I don't know if shooting Dawn was right, either," he finally says.

I close my eyes. "Dad," I whisper. "You were never meant – I never wanted to say that to you."

"Then you shouldn't have screamed it out in the middle of the forest where Leah and Carol could hear ya."

I jump up. He grabs my arm before I can go anywhere. "No, girl, you sit down and you listen to me."

I don't sit down, not right away. I give him a hard look that probably loses some of its severity when the tears flood my eyes. "Now?" I say. "You wanna do this now?"

His grip loosens. "I wanna get some things straight with my daughter."

"Now?" I repeat.

"Yeah. Now." But he lets go of my arm. After a moment, I sit back down.

"I don't know if it was right," he says. "I know it felt right. That's all I can say for sure. It felt right . . . right then."

I swallow. I wipe my eyes. "And now?"

He doesn't talk for a long time. It's definitely, officially sunset, all orange and red and purple, when he does. And of course he's in shadow. "I didn't know you and Carl were fightin' as bad you are."

I have to swallow harder.

"Wish you'da told me."

Now it's my turn not to talk for a long time. "I guess I just assumed you knew," I finally say. But of course he didn't. That's what I should have assumed. Because he's busy going off hunting alone. Avoiding eye contact when he gets back. Keeping conversations short, physical acts of affection shorter.

"How can I know when you don't talk to me, Sydney?"

Because you're Dad, and you're supposed to know!

"You said we would talk," I say into the fading light. "After we . . . nose-dived in that van, in Atlanta. You said after we got out, we would sit down somewhere and talk, and work things out." I rub my thumb across both cheeks. "Is this how you imagined it? Because it's not how I did."

A hesitation. No, a silence. A hesitation is when you're sure someone is going to say something eventually; a silence is something that can last forever. That's why there's that expression – silent as the grave. It doesn't get much more forever than that.

But, Dad does talk. Eventually. "I want to work things out with you, babe," he says. "But I can't do that till I got stuff worked out with myself."

I look at him, no more than a shape, his hands clasped together, head pointed towards the empty field, as still as any one of the boulders behind him. "Daddy," I whisper, and he breaks away the stone to rub his eyes, "Let me help you work things out. I can help, I bet, if you'd let me. I'm better, Dad. I'm not sad all the time. I can help you, and you can help me – help me keep getting better, we can do that together."

"You sound like your mother," he says suddenly. "You sound so much like her, back when – back when you were a baby."

"Did you listen to her?"

"I tried to. But she didn't know as much as she thought she did."

I look up at the moon. It's a half-moon, a half-moon exactly. "And I am my mother's daughter, right? So what do I know?"

"You're puttin' words in my mouth now."

"Well," I say, "At least you'd be talkin' to me. Really talkin'."

He's quiet for a while, and then, "Even grownups need time, Sydney Rose."

"Yeah," I say. "But you ain't always got it." I get up. He doesn't stop me this time. I walk across the field, not towards Tyreese's grave, camp's east of there. Dad could stop me here, but again, he doesn't. He could catch up to me. Just call my name. I'd come back. But he doesn't. And I don't.

. . . . .

Typically, these days, we all sleep outside, with the sometimes-exception of Judith and someone to stay with her. It's sort of an unspoken rule that we all sleep outside. Even though we have the cars to stay in, there's not enough room for us all to fit comfortably enough to sleep, and so it's just better for us all to sleep outside, because that way – that way we're all together.

But tonight, I break the unspoken rule, because I'm not sure if I'm going to cry more or not, but I am sure I don't want anyone to see, because I'm supposed to be optimistic now, damn it, optimistic. So I sneak into the van. I get in from the front but climb over the seats to the back, where I can sit and see camp if I want to, or lie down and see some stars. I do the latter. After about a minute, one of the doors opens. I'm caught.

"Syd."

I press my face into the dirty fabric of the van's floor, then raise myself up. "Hey."

Owen leans in against the passenger-side backseat, one foot propped up like he might be about to come in. Even in the dark, I see the bruise splattered across the center of his face. It's spreading to his eyes. "I know you probably want to be alone," he says, "but I don't think you should be."

"Why not?"

"Because your boyfriend wants to make up with you, and I think that's a better option."

I open my mouth, close it, shake my head and then rub it. "You've been talking to my boyfriend?"

"He told me," Owen says slowly, "That he was sorry that he hit me – which, you know, was all I really cared about – but he went on to say that he knew he was being – and these are his words – an asshole. And that he was going to stop."

I don't know what to do, so I end up doing nothing.

"Thoughts?" Owen prods. "Feelings? Questions? Concerns?"

Slowly, I take off his jacket. My arms and shoulders feel so bare, and I'm kind of cold, and damn if I don't love this jacket, but I know taking it off is what I need to do. I get on my knees and hand the bundle over the tops of the seats. "Here."

"Looks better on me anyway." He takes it and pauses. "He sent me here to see if you wanted to see him."

I smile a little, but my heart's pounding. "Wow. You guys are like besties all of a sudden."

"We're men. We punch each other one minute, we hug the next."

"You hugged him?"

"It's an exaggeration, Sydney, an exaggeration." He rubs a hand over his jacket. "What do you want me to do?"

"Send him in," I whisper, and he pauses, but goes without another word.

I take a deep breath, turn towards the window in the back of the van, and lower myself down. I brush through my hair with my hand, then stop. I hear a door open. I hear someone climbing over the seats. I feel him sit next to me. If Owen hadn't told me he was coming, I would have known it was him, anyway. I know how he moves, how he breathes, how he smells and feels. I can feel him now as much as I can the fingers I no longer have.

He settles down next to me. "Sydney," he whispers, and I close my eyes to listen better. "I'm sorry. I've been . . . wasting time being mad at you, so mad, and I never should have been mad in the first place. And I'm sorry."

I almost ask what made him decide to be sorry all of a sudden, but then I decide not to. Because asking too many questions could ruin this, because this is so fragile.

"Beth . . . that made me lose my mind. But now, Tyreese . . . and after today, with Owen, and with Glenn, I talked with Glenn, and . . . and pretty much everyone thinks I'm being an idiot, and I know they're right. I swear I do. And you were right, you don't deserve that. And I . . . Syd, I need you. I need you, okay?"

All's quiet in the van. I wait for him to say something else. He doesn't. His breathing is tight, ragged. I want our bodies to touch, I want us to mesh like we always have, but something is missing. Something else needs to be said, or done, or . . . proven.

But sometimes you have to deal. Make do, go without. And this is fragile.

"I need you, too," I say quietly. Making do.

After a moment, he finds my hand. I look down at our hands, his tight and mine loose. I take a breath and clasp his back. It feels like grabbing a rope as I'm dangling from a cliff. Like downing water after days without, or gasping for air as I break the surface of a wild river. Carl and me, we lie here in the dark, very still, totally quiet. Just hanging on.