It was too crowded; that much was clear as soon as he was pressed up against Rick and T-Dog in the small RV. And when Dale finally shut the doors, just in time as three walkers slammed against it soon after, the older man's back was right in his face.

There was a reason he went off hunting alone, sometimes gone for days; and it wasn't just for the food. The forest was probably the best home he'd ever had; the solitude, the silence, a wonderful sensation when compared to the violence and commotion of his childhood – and only – home. When Merle wanted to get away from it all, he'd get high than spend some alone time locked up behind bars; Daryl, he would just escape into the woods behind his house, crossbow and some sandwiches all he carried with him as he'd spend days, maybe a full week, sleeping in trees and shootin' squirrels. He hadn't ever truly been alone, 'cause after a while Merle would always come finding him, or he'd run into some neighbors or fellow hunters – not that he was buddies with any of 'em – but he'd take whatever feigned sense of solitude he could get. "I'm better on my own!" he'd told Dale. It'd been a half lie, half-truth. He was rather used to being with just Merle; he had no idea if that made him any better or not.

At the moment, he'd give anything to get out of this damn RV and back out into the open air, geeks or not. Because there was the breath of five different people raising the hairs on his neck, and there was not a single inch of him that wasn't being pressed against something. Or someone. He looked around desperately, squirming. It was pitch black in there, and he could really only see the tip of Dale's hat in front of him, and the gleam of Rick's old police badge beside him. He could hear whispers all over though, Sophia's little sobs, what sounded like Lori talking to Carl, and Rick was conversing with Shane. Maybe the claustrophobic atmosphere wouldn't have been too bad if the entire back of the RV wasn't stuffed with supplies and suitcases – most of it junk too, like extra clothes and non-essentials people had dragged from various scavenging sites. Books and crap. Hell, Daryl only had the clothes on his back presently, and he mentally cursed anyone who had dared to take up precious space with their loafers and paperback issue of Lord of the Rings. Or whatever shit these people read.

He tried to get himself more elbow room, but only succeeded in jarring Shane in the ribs and kicking Dale where the sun didn't shine. Perfect. He had absolutely no-fucking-where to go, and he wasn't sure how long he could take having a group of total strangers touching him all over, even if it was unintentional and just with knees and forearms. Shit, shit, shit. He tried ducking his head lower, seeing if he could maybe make it to the dashboard where he could just perch up there; but there was the driver's chair was in the way. Shit, shit, shit. Already the air inside the RV stank of sweat and dirt, and it made the chips and beans they'd had for dinner roll queasily in his stomach.

T-Dog, who was pressed up against his left shoulder, looked him over with lack of anything better to do. "Man, you okay?" he whispered, his breath hot against his ear.

He managed to send a glare his way, though turning his head proved difficult. " 'm fine, just too gawdamn tight 'n here," he growled, fidgeting.

Behind him, Rick's voice suddenly rang out – quietly, but with the confined space, it seemed to boom. "Lori, get Carl, Sophia, and Carol, and see if four can make it to the bathroom. Try to give the kids some more space."

"Got it," Mrs. Grimes replied, and soon enough there were the sounds of shuffling feet and moans from those that they had to climb over and push past to get to their destination. "Everyone else," Rick continued. "Let's try to make this work. We'll probably have to spend the night like this, least 'till we're sure the walkers have wandered off."

That brought a whole chorus of groans and complaints, and the sounds made Daryl's head swim. Didn't help the killer headache he had going on either; he could feel the bump rising from where he'd hit the ground, and his right shoulder throbbed right where Shane's back was pressed against it. He was barely aware of Rick telling Andrea to hop onto the table, he was trying to focus on not completely blacking out at the moment. He sure as hell wasn't 'bout to drop down right in the midst of all these people, who'd have to catch him and haul him somewhere where he wouldn't be smothered; he wasn't no pussy, and he took several deep breaths, managing to get his arms free enough so that he could press his palms against his eye sockets. Damn, his forehead was already dripping with sweat, and he wondered if they'd left the windows open, because the air tasted stale and rancid in his mouth.

"Daryl?"

He merely hummed in reply, not bothering to try and figure out who dared to talk to him because his head hurt too much. Fuck, he couldn't even tell if it was a man or one of the women talking to him.

"Daryl?" the voice repeated. "Are you alright?" There was shifting in front of him, and he could sense eyes staring at him even with his own face covered by his hands. He could always tell when someone was staring at him; it'd happened to him often enough.

When he failed to answer, there was more rustling; and then the air seemed a bit clearer directly in front of him. A hand grabbed his shoulder; he jerked away, but there really was nowhere for him to go, and he couldn't really stop the hand from leading him forward, where space seemed to have just magically appeared. He nearly tripped when the floor suddenly dived downward; the hand steadied him and pushed him down. The small three-step stairway in front of the door, that's where he was. He was now sitting on the lip just below the floor level, and whoever had led him there was now crouched down next to him, thick but gentle hands running through his hair. He jerked away, but the hands kept feeling for bumps and bleeding, and the voice hushed him. "You have a pretty nasty bump here, son. Just try to relax – I'm just making sure you have nothing more serious than a nasty headache."

So it was Dale. Of course it was Dale. The older man seemed to be completely obsessed with making Daryl Dixon his new fix-it project; irritated, he once again tried to flinch away, but the old geezer was horribly persistent. He ran his hands through sweaty, dirty locks of blonde hair until he was satisfied the younger man hadn't cracked his skull; then, and only then, did he pull away and lean back to look the archer in the eyes. "You alright, Daryl?" he asked softly. At least the man knew enough to not make a scene.

"Said 'fore, I'm fine," he huffed in reply, taking deep breaths, tryingto straighten his posture and regain his composure. C'mon, Dixon, man up! Merle'd kick your ass if he saw ya like this, fussed over like some kinda chick bitch. Get a grip.

Dale, thank god, seem to get the message in his words and glare, and backed off a bit. He sat down on the nearby sofa, directly across from him, and then they both waited in heavy silence as Shane and Rick talked to each other nearby. Daryl lowered his forehead to his knees, slowly ebbing away the ache in his head. The extra space helped too; and he pondered whether he should be thanking Dale for the extra room or not. Probably. But it'd been so long since he'd been in a situation where manners had been appropriate that he couldn't bring himself to say it. Actually, thinking back on it now, the last time he'd thanked the bartender at his usual pub, the man had taken it as sarcasm and he'd gotten a splendid bruised jaw. Then, he'd been a dumbass and had gone tellin' Merle, who'd shoved him into a bookshelf for being a "pussie with her pansies in a twist."

Nah. No need to thank Dale and risking all sorts of problems; he was sure the man was already filled to the brim with others' gratitude anyway. What the hell would an awkward thank you from some stupid redneck be to him in the first place?

He was snapped out of his mental monologue by the realization that Rick was standing over him, calling his name. He looked up, cocking an eyebrow at the older man. "What?"

Rick jerked his head over towards where Shane was waiting, pressed against the RV wall, arms crossed. "We were just wonderin' whether ya managed to catch a glance at the road goin' north while you were leadin' us on your bike earlier."

He had. "Yeah, got myself an eyeful. Watcha want ta know for?"

Rick crouched down, his back pressed against the back of T-Dog's knees but not seeming fazed by the uncomfortable position. Heck, he was a cop, probably used to stake outs in tight places. "We can't stay in Atlanta, that much is obvious to us all," the man said stated, casting another glance back at his partner. "Shane thinks our next best bet is Fort Benning, up north quite a ways. Think we can take the road outta Atlanta and get there if ya keep leadin' us on your bike?"

It took a moment for him to realize Rick was asking his opinion, asking him to keep leading the group on the roads, trusting him to get them the hundred or so miles to Fort Benning. Clearing his throat, he looked at Shane, who was also waiting for an answer, and then he glanced at Dale, who gave him a barely noticeable smile. The old coot looked as if he'd known all along that Rick would come to him, sly bastard.

Still, he wasn't completely peeved as he looked up at Rick and gave a small, affirmative nod. "Yeah. I can git ya'll there."

Rick actually flashed a smile in his direction, one had quickly patting his shoulder. "I appreciate all your help, Daryl." He didn't say more, but his eyes continued on. We got off on the wrong foot at the quarry; I hope we can move past all that now.

Nothing changed the fact that Rick Grimes had left his brother on a rooftop in the walker infested city. Nor did it quell the wretched assumption that the former deputy might do the same thing to him, should a problem within the group arise. But, maybe just a bit, a little of Daryl's contempt towards the other man cracked open. He shrugged. "Shit's all passed, now. No need to bring back up all that crap."

Rick looked almost relieved at the words, and smiled again before standing up, shoving his way past the others to Shane.

Daryl went back to resting his head on his knees, avoiding Dale's twinkling gaze, and conjuring up a picture of Merle in his mind. Rick may have been the one to handcuff ya ta that roof, he told his brother's image. But ya probably asked for it, ya asshole.

Funny. The RV didn't seem so small anymore.

He saw Rick again in the morning, after the walkers had gone off and the group was able to stumble out of the RV and stretch their legs. The former sheriff's deputy had a knowing smirk on his face as he waved the younger man over. "Daryl! Wait up!"

The redneck stopped from where he was heading back towards the abandoned retirement home. "Be back in a sec," he replied, on hand on the knife hanging from his hip. "Somethin' I gotta do."

"Place is full of walkers," Rick warned, shifting the duffle bag he was carrying off his shoulder. "You, uh, ya might wanna rethink headin' back in there."

"Left somethin'," he answered simply. "Gotta go back. I got it covered."

The other man nodded, saying nothing until Daryl had turned back around. Then, "Well, if you're gonna do it, might as well be armed with more than just thet huntin' knife." The sound of something unzipping, the bag, and then the rustle of metal against thick, heavy cloth as something was extracted from said-bag. "Might as well take this with ya."

He turned, expecting the cop's gleaming silver Colt – instead, he laid eyes on his crossbow, the surface more spotless than it had been in a long time. Rick held it out and he grabbed it greedily, corner of his lips twitching upward as he examined his weapon. When had been the first time he'd ever held its weight in his hands? He couldn't remember, he'd used the thing since he was eight; and to feel its smoothness once more against the callouses of his hands took away some of the exposed nakedness he'd been feeling all morning.

"T-Dog picked it up after you dropped it ta jump out that window," Rick explained, smiling slightly. "Sophia… she cleaned it all up for ya last night as a sort of thank you." A pause. "You saved her life. She and Carol… they're grateful to you. We all are."

The man looked so sincere, as if he were not just showing thanks but also trying to make amends for the rift between them. As if he were trying to create some sort of bridge between them, no matter how small or unsteady. Drawing on each other, the judgment, the pointless hostility… Rick wanted that to end, right now. Maybe because he'd saved Shane yesterday, or because of his quick thinking with the window and Sophia last night… whatever the reason, Daryl saw the wary ice vanish from Rick's eyes, replaced by…. Something. He wasn't sure what, but it didn't hold any threat. Yet. "I've been thinking," Rick said. " 'bout how we started off at the camp." With Merle, he didn't add. "We… I… got off to a bad start. We handled things the wrong way, and I think that, given the circumstances, we can't risk any more tension, especially not among ourselves."

He wasn't sure what to say in reply, so he just grunted, "No shit," and then lowered his gaze, spitting at the ground.

There was another brief moment of silence before Rick ducked his head down and reclaimed eye contact. "Regardless of what's happened in the past, in order to survive, we need you." A hand was stuck out. "And I hope, after everything that's happened…." His voice trailed off.

Daryl stared at the hand for a few moments, Rick's word sinking into his head. Rick Grimes actually saying he needed Daryl Dixon? Once again, he thought back to Dale's words, and pondered on them. He'd never gotten along well with cops – his father and brother's reputations had spread through their entire Georgian neighborhood – and even though all the shit had hit the fan, the awkwardness churning in his gut hadn't eased up. You locked Merle onto a rooftop and left him there to die, he accused with a tiny glare, trying to justify the weakening fury that was quickly dying inside him. Trying to convince himself that he couldn't be friends with this man, this man who'd pretty much killed his brother, his blood, the only man he could ever count on.

But reason wormed its way to the front of his mind. Merle had it coming. The group really couldn't take anymore tension. And Rick Grimes was… not exactly growing on him… but he wasn't irritating the crap out of him either.

"Cause all this world's ever done is fight me."

That's what he'd told Dale once. So how could he be sure that Rick Grimes wasn't the same as everyone else he'd ever met? Unreliable? Always hurtful, always painfully undependable?

He must've taken too long to respond, because Rick held his hand forward more. "I'm not asking us to be best buddies or anything," he added. "But I want ta give working together a chance. Are you on board with that?"

He couldn't very well say no, could he? Slowly, hesitantly, he took the man's hand and they shook. "Yeah… we're okay."

Rick's smile broadened into a grateful grin. "I appreciate that," he said sincerely. "We all do." He dropped his hand. "So… I'm guessing you won't be needin' to go back in there now?"

"Reckon not," he replied, snorting. "Best go get the bike out 'ere then."

Rick nodded at him, looking pleased and relieved. Daryl watched him go, allowing the other man to walk about three steps away before he finally managed to call out, "Yo, Rick?"

The deputy turned, eyebrow raised in question.

Damn stupid conscience. "He stared at the ground, fingers fiddling with the crossbow as he looked for any real damage. There was none. "Erm… thanks," he finally coughed out, inwardly cringing as he waited for the mocking laughter or cussing. He doubted Rick would resort to blows, but it was always a possibility, no matter how small. He could almost hear Merle laughing in his ear, cussing his "wussy ass of a brother".

But Rick, instead of looking bewildered or scoffing, beamed even brighter. "Your welcome," he stated. "And thanks to you too, Daryl."

He wasn't sure how to deal with this new, unexpected response, so he once again spat at the ground and chose silence. Even when Rick walked off and he was left alone standing by the broken brick wall, it took him a few minutes to clear his head and wander over to where his bike – Merle's bike, actually – was still parked, untouched by walkers.

Preparations were being made as the morning dragged on. The smile was swept off Rick's face as he wandered off to talk into that radio of his, hopin' against hope that there was a man listening on the other end. Every time Daryl looked up while prepping the bike, Rick was crouched on some rooftop with the walkie talkie, and Shane kept shooting looks at both his partner and Lori Grimes. As he rode out towards the front of the group, Merle's bike humming beneath him, he caught a glances of Carol and Sophia, the little girl staring at him with an unreadable expression. He stared right back, ignoring Rick finally joining his family. He continued staring until he pulled up in front of the RV, where Dale was waiting for him with some kind of leathery bunch of cloth in his hands. Thinking back on it now, the coot had been holding that same thing the night he'd almost sho… the night they'd had their 'heated discussion'. He slammed the brakes and waited for the older man to jog over.

Dale glanced the archer up and down before clearing his throat. "So, um, you're our official trail blazer, then," he remarked, trying to sound lighthearted despite the fact that the entire group was wired. His face drooped and darkened as he cast a wary glance at the road ahead. "Do you think we'll make it all the way to Fort Benning? Shane's determined to, but Rick is still worried about all the dangers on the highways…"

"I'll get ya there," Daryl interrupted, chewing on his lower lip as he straightened on the bike. "Don't ya worry 'bout any of 'em dangers. I'll tell ya 'fore they get anywhere near us."

He got nodding in reply, wrinkled fingers nervously twisting the leather thing. "I, uh, I also wanted to, well, to give you this." He held the cloth out, eyes urging him to take it. "I meant to give it to you the night before, but didn't get the chance."

He stared at the foreign object with old suspicion. "What is it?" When had been the las time he'd been given anything besides dirty looks or a beating? And why Dale, the same night he'd nearly shot a bolt through the fool's heart?

Dale unfolded the bundle. "Well, see, before the apocalypse hit, I was heading down south more to my nephew's birthday celebration. This was his gift, but seeing how the town he'd lived in was overrun almost immediately… I doubt he'll ever get it. And also seeing how I wrecked your shit…" He looked at the crude stitching holding the side of Daryl's clothing together. "…I figured you should have this as recompense. It'll just sit in the RV wasted otherwise. Looks like it'll fit ya."

Daryl stared at the vest with more fascination than he would usually allow to show. It was made of soft, dark leather, durable but light. Dale was holding the back towards him, so he got a good eyeful of the white, masculine angel wings stitched onto the surface. "Zack had always loved the cool, biker stuff," Dale added slowly. "He'd wanted a jacket with skulls and blood and other grisly things. 'Like hell,' I'd said; this seemed like a decent compromise."

It was a good vest, and did seem like it would fit damn well. Still, though, accepting it would put him in debt to Horvath, and he'd learned a long time ago that debt was the same as dead. But he'd said he'd ripped your shirt, friendly old reason whispered. This is an action of getting even, squaring off. Just take the damn thing and stop starin' at it like a child drools over candy.

Before he could accept or refuse the token, however, Dale was already shoving the thing in his hands, patting his hand as he drew away. "Keep it," he said firmly. "You'd be doing me a favor."

He felt the soft, flexible leather, and twisting his lips in thought, finally nodded. "A'right." Takin' charity from 'em like a homeless fag, baby brother? Merle taunted in his mind. He quickly shoved the voice away, coughing into his fist. Shut up, dumbass. I know ya would've killed for somethin' like this back in the day. His brother had always had a fetish for black.

They both shared a short look of mutual understanding, lasting only a fleeting moment before Dale yelled over to Shane that they should get going, and they were off.

Slowly, with each yard their tires crossed, Atlanta became smaller and smaller, until it simply vanished from view. No one spoke when it happened, nor did they comment on how now, they only saw walkers every fifteen to twenty minutes. Nobody spoke about how blue and cloudless the skies were, how warm the sun shown down on them. To do so would jinx them, let them slip into a false sense of security. Would trick them into thinking they were safe, when they never really were.

Dale, hands locked onto the steering wheel of the RV, noticed how suddenly Daryl slowed down when passing a certain stretch of the woods nearby. He too eased up on the gas when passing, only to see what was happening. When he spotted a certain tree, a circle of flattened grass underneath it, memories flashed in his old mind. Images of a man with dark hair and strange dreams and, eventually, a gaping wound in his side. A man doomed to be a walker, who'd begged the reset of the group to leave him under the shade of the trees where he could be at peace in the end. Jim's memory filled Dale's mind until the elder forced the thoughts away. Just focus on the road ahead; looking back won't help at all. He glued his eyes to Daryl's bike's bumper, and drove the RV in an automatic manner until noontime, when everyone pulled over for a quick break. They were about eight miles fromt eh tree with the flattened grass.

They all parked at an old abandoned rest stop, everyone flocking over to the little picnic areas with the worn, wooden tables and pathetic play set. Carl and Sophia sat limply on the swings, the chains creaking miserably even though the children did not move; Glenn offered to push them, and received weak little glares in response. Dale watched the short interaction with a grim frown; they were all tired, hot, and frightened. Reality had settled in now, and the weight of the threat all around was suffocating.

Fort Benning seemed such a long way off.

He sat down at one table, sighing when Andrea, beside him, glared at him; sighing even harder when she stood up and walked off. He looked to his right to see that T-Dog had joined Glenn and both were halfheartedly pushing the kids on the groaning swings, with Carol and Lori watching, and Shane pacing nearby. Watching them all suddenly made him realize two particular were missing, and he called the black-haired man over. "Shane?" He waited until he had his attention before voicing, "Where are Rick and Daryl?"

Shane quickly pointed to the rest stop building, which looked surprisingly unharmed considering the present apocalypse. "Went in to clear the place out and grab whatever they can get their hands on," was the reply. "Should be back in a few minutes 'n we'll hit the oad again. So enjoy the sun while ya can. Ain't gonna bask in it for long, that's for sure."

Dale couldn't tell whether he was talking 'bout being back in the cars, or getting eaten by walkers. He figured it was a bit of both.

The walker dropped with a wet thud onto the dusty tile, the arrow protruding from its skull gleaming with black and red cranial fluid. Another ravenous corpse stumbled over its fallen companion, a single growl escaping its wounded throat before a bullet put it out of its misery – if the geeks could even feel stuff like that. Daryl doubted it, as he yanked his arrow out of the body's rotten skull. He looked over to see Rick bashing the last monster's skull in with the butt of his gun, the older man grimacing as a few red droplets splattered across his face.

After the third one fell, the building was quiet. Except for the three geeks, the place seemed undisturbed, candy bars still lining the shelves, a broken vending machine filled to the brim with soft drinks. The smell of the dead was still rank; but if you overlooked it, you could actually enjoy the place. In fact, that was exactly what Daryl was doing until he realized Rick was mumbling. He turned to face him. " 'm sorry, didn't catch that."

Rick gestured to the walkers. "I was wonderin' how they turned, 's all," he remarked. "Doesn't seem like there was too much of a struggle here."

He tried to feel the same curiosity as the other man, striving for the two of them to hold more common ground between them. But honestly, he could care less. "Don't go botherin' 'bout what's been done a'ready," he replied, licking his lips. He tasted sweat and rotten blood. "Won't do these sonsabitches any good anyhow."

Rick reluctantly nodded. "Yeah… yeah, you're right. Let's grab what we can, maybe go back 'n get Shane to help carry some stuff. We should get back on the road as soon as po…"

He was cut off by a gurgling snarl from behind him, as the kitchen doors swung open and a grey, ragged body flung itself forward. Before he even had time to spin around, Rick was on the floor, pinned down as his gun went sliding across the floor out of his reach. "Daryl!"

Daryl was already flying forward, knife in hand, crossbow flung aside for the moment of this close encounter. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed inside the kitchen was a back door, where the walker must have entered from. He then refocused his attention on the geek trying to take a chunk out of Rick; with a pissed off growl of his own he stabbed the thing in the back of the skull, the knife sinking in all the way to the hilt before Daryl pulled the thing up off his companion and cast it aside. It landed on its back, face up and frozen with a slack jaw and dull, milky eyes. That's when they both stopped short, gaping, a chill setting into the atmosphere. Daryl unwittingly shuddered, all warmth seeming to leave him as Rick stiffened on the ground.

They stared at the thing that had once been Jim for a long time, before finally Rick stumbled to his feet and wiped a dirty hand over his equally dirty face. "Not a word of this to the others," he said shakily. "They don't need ta know what happened to…" He couldn't bring himself to say the former human's name.

"I's not like they don' know that he was bit. We all knew what was gonna happen…"

"Daryl," Rick said, voice louder, firmer. "Not a word. Understand?"

He bristled at the rebuke but slowly nodded. When Rick started heading for the snack shelves, he paused. "Ya just gonna leave 'im here then?"

Rick swallowed thickly, lowering his head. "We don't have time ta dig a grave," he answered, sounding truly dejected and regretful. "Hear that?"

They both listened, and through the open back door they heard a growing chorus of monotone groans and gurgling snarls.

"We don't have time," Rick repeated quietly. "We need ta get movin', now."

So they grabbed what they could – some pop and candy bars – and cursed when they saw bugs in most of the food. No water either, all the bottles gone, and they decided not to stay and look for any. "We'll make another stop 'fore nightfall," Rick decided, and they jogged out of the building after dragging Jim's mutilated body over behind the counter, draping it with an old towel and curtain.

The sounds of the approaching dead was still distant, carried forward by the breeze, so there was no panic. But when the group was all together again, Rick told Shane they should get moving along, and they all cleaned themselves up quick and began getting back in their cars.

Daryl threw a plastic bag of Hershey bars and Milky Ways onto the back of the bike before he heard Glenn call over, "Daryl! Wanna borrow a shirt?" He turned towards the chinaman – Korean, corrected his little mind voice – and frowned. "What?"

He sounded a bit more snappy than he'd intended, because he could hear the groans coming closer and they needed to hurry, and Glenn hesitated before adding meekly, "Your, um, well, your shirt is ripped…"

He glanced downwards, only now just realizing that there was a thin but notable tear in the shoulder of his shirt, near the collar. Must've cut it on that nail stickin' outta the doorpost. He chewed on his lower lip 'fore shaking his head. "Nah. I got somethin'." He picked at the tear, waiting until Glenn wandered off, before reaching into the bike's satchel bags and pulling out Dale's – his, now – vest, eyeing it for a moment before slowly slipping it on, raising an eyebrow at how well it fit, covering the tear nicely and completely. Comfortable too. He accidentally caught Dale's gaze, the man's eyes twinkling, before turning away quickly, buttoning the vest, and climbing onto the bike.

They hit the highway once more, Daryl leading, Dale driving the RV directly behind him, and Rick taking up the rear. And they drove another two hours before the RV broke down. Before a herd passed through, forcing everyone to hide under the cars. Everyone dropped to the ground, T-Dog slicing his arm on an old rusty car door. When Daryl stumbled over to the man, the man who'd been partially responsible for his brother's fate, he hadn't thought. Hadn't had time for grudges or past prejudices. He'd lunged forward, saved Theodore Douglas from a walker, and hid the man from any more harm. When the heard vanished, he'd bandaged the gash, dragged the man back towards the others; and for once his applauding conscience drowned out Merle's ringing mockery. He shoved T-Dog into the RV, not exactly feeling terrible with himself, when he noticed Carol crying into Lori's shirt and Shane cursing up a storm. He straightening, wincing in the scorching sunlight, about to ask what the hell was going on when Glenn walked over, face ashen.

"Sophia's gone," he said; and that's when hell broke lose all over again.