Morning finally comes, after a million tiny doses of sleep.

Dad's shaking as he rewraps my hand. I think. My hand is shaking, too, so I may be getting them confused. This hurts more than usual. Dad washed the stumps. That got some of the pus out of the flesh, but it couldn't get out the red that's creeping up my hand.

"I know it's bad," I say.

"It ain't that bad."

I look from him to Carol and Rick, standing over us. Rick stares at my hand, but Carol meets my eyes and doesn't change her expression, doesn't force her tight lips into a smile, doesn't tell me it's fine. God bless her. Behind the two of them, leaning against a wall, Leah holds her hands in fists and lets her eyes dart all across the barn floor in a way that releases an old familiar dread in me, because her eyes used to dart around like that right before she'd go to the liquor cabinet.

I look at my dad again. His eyes are just bloodshot, even more so than normal. If he doesn't sleep soon, it'll start to have an effect. Stupid me and my stupid hand, adding more problems to the stupid world. This needs to be fixed. "What about cauterization?"

"Why the hell do you even know that word?"

"It wouldn't help," says Carol. "It would only make it worse."

"We'll figure somethin' out. Soon. We'll find somethin'." Rick bends down and takes my shoulder. "Okay?"

"Yeah." I smile, sort of, but it takes a lot out of me and I doubt it's convincing at all. My hand hurts. My dad's scared. And Rick's can't promise me anything. He can't be sure of anything, none of us can.

Across the barn, the double doors creak open and let a light spill in. "Everyone," I hear Maggie say, and adrenaline rushes through me. There's no reason for Maggie to make an announcement to the group, so that's a surefire sign that something's off. I tense as Dad shoots up, Rick spins around, Leah practically leaps off of the wall. I squint towards the light and make out Maggie's shape, and then a stranger's shape behind her, a man's shape.

"This is Aaron," says Maggie, while I stumble to my feet with my hand on my bow, then my revolver. Guns go up all around, feet square off towards the man. Carl moves to me, holding Judith so that his body is between her and the stranger. Aaron follows Maggie all the way in, followed by Sasha, who has a rifle pressed into his back. Dad flies past her to check that outside's clear, and Maggie says, quickly, "We met him outside. He's by himself. We took his weapons and we took his gear." Dad frisks him anyway before taking a step back with his crossbow ready to kill. Meanwhile, Rick angles his body so that his right foot and right hand are in front of him. He holds his gun at his side. Michonne edges up beside him.

"Hi," says the stranger. Pleasantly. There's a tremble in his voice, but he hides it alright. "It's nice to meet you." He takes a step, starts to reach out his hand – that's it. Because as soon as he moved, most of us did, too, tensing up, stepping forward, pulling back hammers. I drew my revolver. Didn't even think about it. Aaron goes still, licks his lips, holds his hands up. Smiles shakily.

"You said he had a weapon?" Rick asks Maggie, voice like gravel. She gives him a little gun, which he studies, smells to see if it's been fired, and tucks into his waistband. "There somethin' you need?" he says, in a way that means he doesn't give a damn if there's something Aaron needs.

"He has a camp. Nearby." Sasha gives Aaron a cold side-glance. "He wants us to audition for membership."

"I wish there was another word." Aaron fights to keep on smiling. "Audition makes it sound like we're some kind of a dance troupe . . . That's only on Friday nights."

I guess that was a joke. No one laughs. Aaron shifts. "Um . . ."

He doesn't have a beard. He has some stubble, but I grew up with enough men around to know the difference between a missed night and a missed week of shaving. This is the first. He's wearing a buttoned-up plaid shirt that could have been washed last night. His boots aren't even that dirty.

"And it's – it's not a camp," he says. "It's a community."

Carl and I look at each other. Terminus. Woodbury. Communities haven't been that good to us.

The prison was a community.

Then it was infested with a virus from pigs and invaded by an evil man with a tank.

Aaron scans the room, nodding earnestly, making eye contact with all of us. "I think you all would make valuable additions. But . . . it's not my call. My job is to convince you all to follow me back home."

Owen snorts.

"I know. If I were you, I wouldn't go, either. Not until I knew exactly what I was getting into . . . Sasha, can you hand Rick my pack?"

Sasha hesitates, but pulls a bulky backpack from her shoulder and carries it to Rick. "Front pocket," says Aaron. "There's an envelope. There's no way I could convince you to come with me just by talking about our community . . ."

I think back to Terminus, how the people there drew us in with pretty signs. But we were lost then, in every imaginable way.

What the hell are we now?

". . . that's why I brought those," Aaron says as Rick pulls out a bulging yellow envelope. "And I apologize in advance for the picture quality." He laughs a little. "Uh, we just found an old camera that still had –"

"Nobody gives a shit," my dad growls.

Aaron swallows, I think. "You're . . . absolutely, one hundred percent right."

I sneak in behind Rick as he shakes the photos out. "That's the first picture I wanted to show you," Aaron says. "Because nothing I say about our community will matter unless you know you'll be safe. If you join us, you will be."

The picture is black and white and blurry, but clear enough to show a huge wall with huge beams to support it. Not wire fencing, like at the prison or Terminus. A real wall.

"Each panel in that wall is a fifteen-foot high, twelve-foot wide slab of solid steel," says Aaron. "Framed by cold-rolled steel beams and square tubing. Nothing alive or dead gets through that without our say-so."

I don't breathe. A steel wall. I don't know what it means for something to be cold-rolled, or what square tubing is or does, but I know steel.

Oh, Aaron, please be telling the truth.

Even Woodbury only had tin walls reinforced by vehicles. For a place to be wrapped inside a steel wall, a fifteen-foot steel wall . . .

But he could be lying, this could be a trick, his people could be more cannibals, more rapists or thieves or murderers. Maybe the picture is fake, or from a book, a snapshot of some wall on the other side of the world. If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is.

"Like I said, security is obviously important . . ." Aaron continues. I massage my temple.

He's lying. No he's not. He's lying. Eenie meenie minie mo.

Shh. I'm trying to listen.

" . . . In fact, there's only one resource more critical to our community's survival – the people. Together, we're strong. You can make us even stronger."

Rick starts towards Aaron. I don't like his walk.

"In the next picture, you'll see inside the gates . . ."

Rick picks up speed, but Aaron doesn't seem to notice.

"Our community was first constructed –"

Rick punches him with a crunch, and Aaron falls to the ground.

If it's too good to be true, it probably is.