I promise myself I won't cry.

Carl leads me to a large tree with browning leaves rooted a significant distance from camp. A small red wagon rusted with orange sits half buried in the dirt and vines crawl up the sides, littered here and there with white flowers, and two comic books lay on the surprisingly clean inside. I picture Carl sitting here in early morning, the light of the sunrise shining pink in his engrossed eyes, comic clutched in his hand and sheriff hat lying in the wagon beside him. I file it away for a later drawing and focus on the boy in front of me as he sits with his back against the trunk of aged bark and looks up expectantly.

It's not until I join him that I fully realize that I don't know where to start. There's so much screwed up stuff that I can tell him. I could describe how I felt when Mason's face dropped as I mentioned Mom or when he pulled back his shirt to show me the reason why his skin was so pale. I could say how helpless I was the days I was alone, following the bank of water skirting through the forest like the monsters that destroyed everyone's lives. I could go into exact detail on how it feels when the reality of all I've lost comes crashing down on me like a wave at times where I'm so numb; when I'm stuck in a never ending desert then suddenly drowning under an ocean.

But I'm scared. It's been so refreshing talking to Carl because he reminds me that I'm just a kid and the second I open my mouth he'll realize that childish is one thing I'm not. He'll look at me differently after I peel away the last piece of tape holding my smile together and I don't want that. I want to talk about favorite colors and what the cake looked like on our ninth birthday. I want to ask him questions that I found annoying and stupid at first but soon grew fond of.

"Hey," His careful voice brings me out of the depths of my mind and the gentle smile he gives me when I blink at him sends my thoughts flipping. I think back to yesterday when he dropped the subject of my family's deaths without hesitation and moved on like it was nothing. Would he really treat me differently?

"You don't have to tell me anything, you know. We could just read comics. You still need help reading them anyway." He's trying to cut the heavy air with the joking lilt in his words, but it doesn't really succeed in changing anything.

I take a deep breath and make the decision. I'll speak to him about the beginning: where the water first started to gather and where my hope commenced its draining. It's been gnawing at my strength since before all of this began and I know I need to get it off my chest in order to begin to pick myself up at all. I want to be strong and power through like Beth does with one of those bright and distracting smiles.

So I shake my head and say, "No. It's fine. I need to tell someone and...I trust you." I know it's true as it leaves my mouth but the actuality of it leaves me shocked. I've only been here for a day, but with how the world is now, a day is a lifetime.

"Really?" Carl asks, wide eyes crinkling with the force of the smile he's sporting. I can't help but notice the way his freckles stand out more when he does that and I'm momentarily distracted in absorbing his features. It's something I did a lot. Before. I haven't been able to give up the habit yet and with someone like Carl walking around, it's not going away anytime soon.

"Yeah." I mumble back to him. I feel my cheeks heat up with how vulnerable I just made myself and I duck my head to hide it, sending my fingers into the grass to pick at the yellow dandelions standing proud on tall stems. They make small snaps as they're broken and twisted together in my palms. "I do."

I pluck up another flower and begin, "My Dad was my best friend. We were a lot alike, and we never really were father and daughter because he treated me like an equal. He was the owner of this big deal photography company and when I was little, I always wanted to take pictures like he did. But since my parents didn't trust me with cameras, I taught myself how to draw. We used to go to this place called Millie's and sit for hours. I'd draw people and he'd just take pictures of anything and everything. The owner was my favorite to draw. She was Millie's granddaughter and her name was Beck. She had the prettiest eyes. Blue, just like yours. She didn't mind posing for pictures so there was an entire folder of her on my Dad's computer. He had a lot of those. Most of them were of my Mom, though. They loved each other more than I've ever seen anyone love before." I pause when the memories hit the exact spot I don't want them to. "That's why it was so hard."

Carl scoots closer to me so that our arms make contact with each other and I feel the warmth of his skin through Mason's jacket. It helps send the shake in my breath back to where it came from and brings more tears in my eyes simultaneously. No crying, I remind myself as Carl plucks the hat off of his hair and lets it fall onto his thighs. I make the mistake of meeting those serious and dark rimmed eyes. "What happened to him?"

I follow the invisible lines that connect the small dots of sienna on his pale skin and try to distract my thoughts from hanging on to what I'm about to say. Even when I know it's inevitable to veer them away. "He traveled a lot for business. He was never gone more than a month, but it was still hard. He was on a flight back from Greece when...when something happened to the plane..and, and," I bite down on my wobbling bottom lip in frustration and squeeze my eyes shut.

The fragile petals protruding from the flowers crinkle under the force of my grip. The loud pounding drowning all sound from my ears is too distracting for me to notice. "No one survived the crash."

My chest is tight with the emotion that's molded together in the back of my throat. It's fighting to escape, hurting, and I'm trying my hardest to not let it win. Carl brings his knees to his chest beside me, sending a shine of gold into my eyes as his hat falls to the ground and catches the sun. I watch as he places his chin against the material of his cargo pants and looks out into the distance to distract me from how hard it is to breathe right now. "I know how that feels." He mumbles quietly and before I can scoff at the comment he continues, "I thought my Dad was dead in the beginning of all of this. Shane said he'd died in the hospital."

"But he hadn't." My voice is croaky and the fragility laced into my words has me giving up the goal of seeming strong to Carl. It's time that I accept the fact that I can't pretend to be something I'm not around this boy. He breaks down my barriers faster than my mom ever could and she was really good at it.

Carl shakes his head against his legs, lips lifting in a melancholy smile. "It probably doesn't make you feel better, but I just want you to know that I know what it feels like to lose your dad."

I was wrong about him. Turns out he did understand, even if that understanding was no longer lingering. I nudge his shoulder with mine to capture his attention and when I do so, I find that the tension affecting my rib cage has eased away. My eyes feel tired, an effect caused by my crying into Glenn's shirt earlier, no doubt. "It helps. Everything you've done so far has helped me."

His eyebrows furrow but a shine that has me feeling light sparkles in his irises. "Even the questions? I thought they annoyed you."

I break another stem and weave it into my contraption of yellow and green without looking down. "They do. But, they also remind me that everything isn't completely gone. We still have the memories of before and that's…," I trail off when I realize that what I'm about to say is ingrained into my brain from nights ago. "That's what counts."

The wave crashes over me and this time I'm determined not to let it drag me down. I shut my eyes tight and breathe. Just breathe.

You're gonna beat it. All of this.

They wouldn't want you in pain over them.

Fight with everything you have.

You can do it without me. You only need yourself.

I love you, kiddo.

The frantic beats sounding from my heart slow gradually. Exhaustion creeps up on me as I let out a sigh that I'm not sure strikes as being relieved or tortured. I want to sleep for a long time, but I know nightmares will block my path of torpidity. It's pointless, as it has been for the past four nights. The demons in them have come since this all was initiated, but they were softer. Dreadful, but not so atrocious that I'd wake up screaming and covered in droplets of sweat. The newly developed ones are agonizing, so much so that I'm afraid when I shut my eyes at night. People are ripped apart, body parts are strewn around dark backdrops and the undead's decaying fingers crawl around inside of my stomach to satisfy their hunger. The detail that ruins me the most is being alive while they tear me apart and having to stare into their milky white eyes. Eyes that once belonged to my mom and brother.

I believe that there is nothing worse than seeing someone you love become a monster.

"You need to stop thinking about it."

Carl's amiable tone brings me back again. I've been staring at the flat and worn wheels of the wagon beside us, lost in the dark change of my mind. I turn to him. "Thinking about what?"

"Your family."

I try to morph my expression into the definition of innocence and not show how right he is in his assumption. "How do you know I'm thinking about them?"

The way his eyes move when he looks at me shows that he doesn't buy my facade at all. A freckled hand moves to touch a part of my jacket. "There's a loose thread right here. When you were telling me about your dad, you were touching it. And you were just doing the same thing, so I guessed."

I realize he's right. One hand was busy with flowers while the other was playing with the frayed section of camouflage. "You're very observant." I remark, running the green string between two of my fingers. I wonder how long it's been there; how long I've been unconsciously messing with it.

"Don't think about your family." His face scrunches up after the words leave his mouth. "No, think about them, but not about the bad stuff. Think about the fun things, like what you told me yesterday. The beach, the fireworks, the cotton candy. With my dad, I thought about how he used to help me with my homework and talk to me about all the cool stuff he did at work before I had to go to bed. I tried not to think about how or when he died, but sometimes I did. I didn't like doing it, though, so I stopped. You should too."

I nod absentmindedly, processing his words and how wrong I've been going about coping. Glenn was right; the way you cope does decide how you survive. You can sit and mull over it until you tear yourself apart or you can move on and choose to be better than that.

I choose better.

"You're right." I admit firmly, holding up the line of interwoven flowers I've created. One glance at the boy beside me gives me an idea. I quickly lace together the first and last stems and place the newly constructed circle onto his head of brown hair. Carl crinkles his nose at the sudden action, eyes rolling upwards to get an impossible view of the flower crown resting above him. An exuberant grin forms after he realizes that what he's doing is pointless and he lets out a small chuckle. He looks like the embodiment of summer; blue and yellow and bright.

"What's this for?"

I shrug and tuck a chunk of curls behind my ear, briefly focusing on the fact that I need to find some hair ties. "Being so observant, I guess. Without that, I never would have told you anything." I'm good - at least I think I am - at hiding what I feel unless someone makes an effort to peel away my shield. Force made it shatter like glass and Glenn and Carl both own hammers.

"So you're thanking me...with flowers?"

The tone he uses brings out a chuckle from the part of me that's still luminous. "I don't have anything else. Plus, they make you look happy." They really do. With the smile I've already memorized for drawing purposes overpowering the scowl he's trying to showcase and the delighted gleam shining in that light blue-gray, Carl represents everything I miss and want to be.

He represents everything I'm not.

Carl collects the plants from the top of his head with considerate hands, delicately placing the ring on the foundation of his kneecaps. The pads of his fingers touch the feeble yellow of the petals for a moment before they're reaching for the rim of Rick's hat. Maybe the piece of apparel means the same to him as Mason's jacket does to me. It's a warm blanket that you habitually cuddle into for solace; for strength when you're drained and need it more than you ever have before. Or maybe he wears it because it's a symbol of endurance. Both of its owners suffered through wounds that are difficult to come back from and are now living through an epidemic that seemed impossible before. Carl could admire showing it off because it reminds him that he's a survivor and can be as strong as his dad is, or even more.

It's weird how something as simple as clothing could give us courage.

"You could have shown me your sketchbook." He murmurs, eyebrows raised and expression innocent. The playfulness emanating from his eyes brings on the snapping of the band I didn't even know was wrapped tight around my stomach and the relief that's been waiting for freedom fills the space instead. He's still treating me as if I was a friend he'd met on the school playground. Pity was absent from every part of him.

I laugh longer than I should following his statement and I know it's because of the reprieve of the dread that's been clandestinely festering inside of me. "Nope."

"But-"

"It didn't work." A new voice, annoyed and bitter cuts off what Carl was about to argue back with. The both of us search for the owner and Carl unabashedly lets out a small laugh when we find him.

I, on the other hand, reserve the shakes of laughter wanting to bubble from my lips with a hard bite to my bottom lip. Glenn journeys the last few steps needed to position himself in front of me and wipes the hand not occupied by the hat with cloudy liquid gradually crawling down the rim and dripping down onto the overgrown grass, against his forehead to stop the substance from entering his miffed eyes.

"It's not funny." He defends, but it sounds more like a whine.

I cough to hide the chuckle I couldn't hold back and push myself up from the support of the trunk, not being able to repress a small grunt from the soreness left over after yesterday. I scan his body and the humor of the situation almost gets to me again. The tear stains created by my small breakdown earlier are now replaced with gooey spots of yellow and jagged pieces of light brown lying on his shoulders. "Did she…" A giggle slips out and I cast my hand over my mouth to stop it from further escaping. Glenn sends me a glare, but it's clear by the twitch of his mouth that he's slightly amused as well. "Did she egg you?"

Carl's resistance fails from behind me and his chortles bring an unstoppable smile to my face. Glenn appears both wounded and entertained by mine and Carl's admiration of the hilarity presented with the large puddle of goop sitting in a nest-like burrow in his midnight hair. "I asked her to talk to me."

I can't keep the shake out of my voice as I nod and interject, "That clearly didn't go as planned."

The man sighs, swiping at the part of yolk gathering on the hairs of his brow. "She asked me for my hat, which I obviously gave to her and...she put an egg in it. I think you can guess what happened next." A distant look clouding his eyes follows his description and the grin that's been building on his lips gets pulled downwards with the force of his futile attempt to get the girl.

The comedy of what has happened is suddenly drawn from me at the sight. "Here," I mumble, my tone softer and heavy with guilt. "I'll help you clean up since it's technically my fault this happened to you." Glenn sends me a thankful smile that turns solemn the longer it stays. I doubt he really needs help, but I think he's smart enough to know that I wouldn't take no for an answer.

I promptly turn to obtain my sword that I'd laid on the grass before my talk with Carl and meet his eyes. They've turned to the light grey they were yesterday when we were walking to meet his dad; when he'd first found me. My fingers twitch against the strap connected to the wakizashi. It's an involuntary action that had begun when I was five and got the incredible urge to draw. To this day I haven't discovered how to stop it. I offer up a departing smile that's not as hard to make anymore. "Someday I'll show it to you. Maybe." At the moment I'm content with the sketchbook being stashed away in the tent Andrea and I share. The woman may irritate me by seeing me as a kid and only a kid, but she isn't nosy enough to go snooping through my bag.

His face lights up and he nods, clearly pleased with my assurance. I know that he'll never get to see it though, because by the time I'm comfortable with opening up about all the faces of my past, the pages will be filled with him. I won't be able to resist drawing him when I'm comfortable enough to let my guard down here and take out my pencils.

And him seeing how much his face triggers my artistic side is something I'm almost positive I will never be complacent with.

Happy New Year!

Wow, I actually updated in less than a month this time!? This chapter is small, but I really wanted to get something out today so soak this all up.

Writing this is really making me miss Glenn, but it's so fun to develop a relationship with Nevaeh and him.

And the Carl and Nevaeh dynamic is strong!? Or maybe that's just me thinking my writing is good when it's actually crap like I do all the time until like a day after I publish it.

So let me know what you think if you feel like typing on whatever technological device you're on.

And, as always...

HAPPY READING