"He ain't comin'," Merle stubbed his cigarette out on the arm of the old sofa that had been rotting away on their front porch for more than half a decade. The sun-bleached fabric had gone crusty with age and moisture over the years and Merle had been using it as an ashtray since he started smoking at ten years-old. At almost twenty now, Merle had already had a few stints in prison and was waiting for his trial date for his latest drug charges. He'd bought himself a motorcycle, an old chopper that he'd been fixing up in the driveway. He'd promised to take Daryl out on it when it was ready.

"He's comin'," the six year-old insisted from his seat on the top step, his hands twisting the father's day card he'd made in school. He'd drawn a picture of Merle's new motorcycle on the front, though his teacher didn't have the right crayons so it'd come out looking stupid because it was black, not silver. Daryl placed the card next to him on the step and smoothed his hands over his hair, making sure to gel it out of his eyes with spit. His daddy was taking him to see the races today; he'd never seen a real horse race before.

"'Cept he ain't," Merle taunted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He cleared his throat and spat, the glob of saliva making a clear shot across the porch to land on the grass. "When'd he ever come before?"

Daryl ran his hand over his jeans and fixed his shirt and jacket. He'd wished he had a proper suit to wear, and some black dress shoes, his eyes flicked down to his worn out high-tops and he sighed. "Shut up, shit head," he muttered, picking up his card again and looking it over.

"Watch yer goddamn mouth or I'll wipe it clean off yer face," Merle threatened, tossing the butt of his cigarette at the back of his younger brother's head.

Daryl swiped it away and went back to looking down the road for his Dad's Park Avenue. "He'll come," he whispered, tucking his crossed fingers under his thighs so Merle wouldn't see.

"Yeah, well, he ain't comin'," Merle pushed himself to his feet, kicking over a pile of stale beer cans and scattering them across the porch. A few of the cans rolled off the porch and clattered to the dried out grass that was their front lawn. "Sit there 'til the cows come in. He's a piece o' shit and he don't wan'chu. Best get used to it."

Daryl waited until the sun ducked out of sight and the fireflies came out to dance around the clapped out mustang that sat rusting on their side property. He got to his feet, tugging at his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his shirt. The card he'd made was left on the step, its edges dog-eared and worn from being manhandled through the day. He stooped down and picked it up, his eyes flicking over the drawing of himself sitting proudly on top of Merle's Chopper. He considered tearing it up, but instead he leaned it against the broken leg on the railing in case his Dad came after he'd gone to bed. Turning his back on it he sighed and shuffled inside.

He woke later feeling fuzzy and disoriented but rested for the first time in weeks. The

Sun told him of the passage of time; the bright thin rays had been replaced by a fat muted glow that warmed the room. He rubbed his crusty eyes and looked towards the sound that had eased him out of his sleep. Judith had draped her wet nightshirt over one of the desk chairs to dry and he cringed at the bloody marks that stained the material. The little girl sat on the floor next to the desk sorting the contents of a jar into two bowls. She had dressed herself in a pair of pink jeans and one of his sweaters, the neckline hanging off her left shoulder. He frowned at her bare feet.

Slowly, Daryl sat up, his hand immediately moving to his injured side. Judith caught the movement and looked up at him, her face impassive. She looked down at the Styrofoam bowls before her uncertainly, catching her lower lip in her teeth.

"C'mere," Daryl motioned with his hand that wasn't holding his side. "Bring them socks from yer bag." She pushed herself to her feet and padded across the room, though he noted that she kept glancing back at the food. "Hungry?" He asked, wondering how long he had been asleep.

Judith remained tight-lipped as she approached him, both her hands wrapped around the small ball of socks. He took them from her and motioned with his chin for her to take a seat on the couch. She climbed onto the couch and settled on his shins. "One time, in the winter, there was a boy, and he went outside without no shoes. A snake come up on him, slitherin' real quiet." Daryl told her, lifting her feet into his lap while he spoke. "He was fixin' to bite the boy," he looked up to find Judith watching his hands as they eased the socks over one of her heels. "But then the concrete stopped him. It said, don't bother. I'll get him."

Judith looked up skeptically. "Ain't no snakes can't talk," she frowned.

Daryl let go of her feet and reached out, sliding his hands under her arms. He lifted her and pulled her to sit on his lap. "It's a story. Means you gotta keep yer feet warm," he explained, closing the blanket around them. The small smile that he offered her went unreturned and he felt concerned at her slumped posture.

"Is snowing 'gain," she informed him, pushing back her bangs and looking over her shoulder towards the window. "Beanie'll get losted," Judith sighed, looking down at her lap, her small hands twisting around themselves nervously.

"Watcha got over there?" Daryl asked, attempting to change the subject. He jutted his chin towards bowls on the floor.

Judith looked over at the bowls. "Is veg'ables," she explained, climbing off his lap, her eyes fixed on his exposed side. Daryl looked down too to see that the skin had taken on a reddish inflamed look around the edges of the glue. He watched her step closer and grasp the hem of his shirt then work it down until it covered the injury. Her eyes flicked up to meet his for a moment before she turned around and made her way over to the bowls of food.

While she was occupied Daryl pulled his shirt up again to inspect his side more carefully. He considered that if he'd been in the right mind he wouldn't have taken the time to clean it out the day before. He hadn't gotten a good look at the knife that the boy had attacked him with, so he wasn't sure what kind of risk for infection he was looking at. He felt the wound and didn't find any heat, so he deduced that the inflammation was likely due to irritation from the chemicals.

He looked up to see Judith making her way over to him, both her hands occupied by holding a bowl of food. Her face showed her concentration as she tried to balance the bowl without spilling any of its contents. She finally looked up at him when he accepted the bowl from her once she was close enough. His hands were stained red with blood that had dried around and under his fingernails, mixed with dirt. The little girl tilted her head and then silently went over to the trailer door. She rose onto her toes to unlock the bolt and then eased the door open slowly, her eyes scanning the surrounding camp. The cold air whipped through the crack and whipped around the room. When she turned around her hands were full of snow, which she promptly brought over to him and laid in his hands before returning to the door to lock it again.

A small smile touched his lips as Daryl used the snow to clean his hands off. When he was finished Judith was already back over by the desk, sitting on the floor, eating the assorted vegetables.

"Gonna go on a hunt later… see what I can find," he told her, watching her shove the food into her mouth with both hands, peas and corn raining back into her bowl in her haste.

She looked up at him then and swallowed. "Beanie?" She asked, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth.

"I'll head back the way we came so as I can get her," Daryl assured her.

Judith suddenly leapt to her feet and ran over to him, colliding with his chest, her arms thrown around his neck. Daryl let out an 'oof' as she jarred his side and held his bowl out to the side to avoid having his food scattered. His knee-jerk reaction was to scold her, but he bit back the tongue lashing; she'd seen enough of his temper today. "I comin'?" She asked, sitting back on her feet to look at him, her knees jabbing into his stomach.

"Nah," Daryl shook his head. "Best you stay here," he decided. He didn't want to take her back out into the cold in case she got sick again, not to mention if he had a run-in with Rob; he might not be able to protect her if they got in a fight. And he didn't want her to see him win either, she'd seen enough with Garret. She had plenty of food for a couple of days, and the camp was apparently deserted. He would be gone too long anyway, just a few hours tops. He was hopeful that he would find some meat for them.

"I go stay here alone?" Judith asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

He placed the bowl on the back of the couch and took hold of both his shoulders, pushing her back in one smooth motion. "You gotta stay. Be real quiet and go ta sleep. I'm gonna be back by mornin'."

Judith nodded her head and climbed off him. She stood close to him and watched him closely as he got to unsteady feet. The pain in his side was sharp, but bearable if he didn't breathe too deeply or twist his side. The rational side of him knew that he should give it a few days before venturing out, but the other side - that was apparently a fucking idiot, was determined to go out and get Judith's doll like he had promised. He had barely known his own father, and the few memories that he did have were mired in the sting of disappointment that came with broken promises.

Daryl packed lightly to go out on his hunt, taking only what he could carry in his pockets. He checked his side-arm and slid it into the small of his back. It would be shit for hunting, so he'd probably end up using his knife if he came across anything. He missed the crossbow that he'd left behind at the prison when he had escaped with Judith. They had never come across another one; he figured the Governor had cleaned out all of the weapons from the surrounding area.

Judith had climbed onto the couch, worn out from the emotional upheaval and all of the walking from the day. She'd tucked herself into the cushions, her cheek resting on the collar of his sweater, her eyes drifting closed.

"Stay inside, do what I told ya, y'hear?" He asked, fixing the blanket over her shoulder. She nodded a little, though she didn't open her eyes. Slowly, he backed out of the trailer, hoping she'd just sleep through the night.

XXXXX

His Grandmother kept trying to feed him. She'd scold him for being too skinny and then offer him everything in her cupboards, pantry, and fridge - sometimes twice. At almost ten he was smaller than most of the kids in his new class, but he didn't care. He could fight as good as any of them, better in fact. He'd already bloodied a couple of noses and he'd only been there less than a month.

Daryl sat at the kitchen table, arms crossed, staring stubbornly at the mashed potatoes and minced pork that had long since cooled, the drippings and gravy congealed on the edges of the plate. Grandma had her back to him as she pounded the roast for tomorrow night, her hammer swinging high and back down to smack the meat, the motion slinging chunks of raw beef all over her shirt and the cabinets.

"If you let that good meal go to waste," she was muttering with each strike of the tenderizer. "I'll use this on yer backside. I ain't playin' wit'chu, Daryl. Ain't gonna come up in my house and waste my food, not when you got starvin' babies in Africa."

Sighing, the ten-year-old picked up his fork and jabbed at the meat on his place.

"Get yer damn appetite from yer Father's side. I'd bet on that. Damn lazy son'o'bitch, never did a damn thing, y'know. Drove yer Ma to the drink," she ranted, pounding the meat harder. "Brother didn't help much, neither. Good for nothin' juss' like yer Father."

Daryl kept his eyes trained on his plate as he stirred the potatoes and gravy.

"June, would'ja leave that boy alone," his Grandfather yelled from the other room over the sound of the television, the springs in his recliner snapping as he shifted. "Kid just lost his Ma and yer gonna tar him like…" his voice trailed off, buried under the sound of a studio audience clapping and cheering.

Getting up slowly, Daryl slipped off his chair and walked quietly towards the door, leaving his Grandmother to yell at the roast some more. He slipped his shoes on, winced as his toes crunched up inside them, and then made his way outside, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. He picked his way around the back of the small dilapidated house, his eyes sweeping the edge of the ridge on the far side of the property where it fell away into thick old growth forest. Sometimes he wished he could take off into the woods and never come back. He'd eat squirrel and build a fort out of bark and branches and he'd never think about Merle, Daddy, his Ma, or Grandma ever again.

The moon was hung high in the night sky, its chilly glow peeking at him through the full branches of the snowy Evergreens. He did a sweep of the cabins that were in varying stages of disrepair, their crumbling walls looming in the crystal moonlight.

Daryl picked his way over the glittering snow, his feet kicking up the freshly fallen top layer. Flakes continued to falter to the ground as the gentle wind shook them loose from the canopy of trees above him. He looked to his side, missing the sound of Judith's small feet plowing through the snow. It felt like January with its crisp still cold that failed to hold the bitter edge of February.

The cabins had been pillaged, their wooden floors crusty and littered with leaves that had blown in through doors that hung off creaky hinges. The path around the last cabin led him out of the camp and looped around towards the break in the clearing where they had come in. He moved slowly, his hand holding his sufferingside in a poor attempt to lessen the pain that the cold seemed to intensify. He kept his eyes trained on the shivering woods around him, looking for any movements that could indicate danger or an animal to hunt. He knew that it was unlikely that he would find anything this close to the camp, not with his recent luck.

Daryl winced with each step, berating himself for being stupid and going out in his current condition. Part of himself wanted to turn around and screw the damn doll, but then he'd think of the way Judith's face had lit up when he'd promised to bring it back; the way she'd thrown her arms around his neck and clung to him, trusting him not to break her heart. He slipped his hands inside his pockets to keep them warm as he trudged through the snow, his chest rising and falling with each painful step. He followed what was left of their tracks; the indentations had been filled in with fresh snow through the day.

He walked with his head down, his chin and cheeks buried into the collar of his coat. His eyes felt as though they had formed a thin layer of ice that broke each time he blinked and his breath had thinned out into strained gasps. His head was stuffed full of cotton balls, and he couldn't think clearly. He walked on autopilot, his hand wrapped around the blade of his knife, losing track of time and space.

"Merle, you shithead," Daryl banged on the trailer door, his fisted hand frozen numb after the short walk to the backyard where his older brother's trailer sat up on blocks. "Lemme in."

He stepped back as the door screeched open and his older brother peeked his head out, the smell of weed clinging to his clothes. Daryl stepped around him and climbed up the rusty step to enter the trailer. "Smells like shit in here," he sniffed, looking around at the trash scattered across every surface except the bed where Merle's titty magazines were twisted up in his sleeping bag.

"Then get the fuck out," Merle slumped down on the bench where he'd been using a beer can as an ashtray for his joint. "She bein' a bitch again?" He asked, nodding for Daryl to take a seat across from him.

Daryl swiped crumbs off the seat before sitting on it, slumped in on himself. He reached over to pick up the beer can and sniffed its contents, frowning. "Yeah," he muttered, sighing, his eyes flicking up to meet his brother's. "We could run away," the suggestion slipped out of his mouth and he cringed.

"Don't be no fuckin' idiot," Merle reached over to shove his younger brother's shoulder, slamming him into the backrest. "Get that damn thought outta yer head. This is the best place for yeh." His thick fingers reached for the package of cigarettes on the table, this thumb sliding under the lid to prop it open. Using his lips he lifted one out and lit it with a Zippo. The metal frame of the lighter had a black Eight pool-ball on it that reflected the light from the bare bulb hanging above them.

Daryl reached for the lighter when Merle put it on the table and turned it over in his palm. "If this thing's such good luck then why're you still livin' in this shit-hole?" He asked, tracing the eight with the pad of his thumb.

"Maybe the guy I took it off o' used it all up. Walked away with his face intact didn' he?" Merle took long drag from his cigarette before putting it out in the beer can. He ran his tongue over his front teeth, tasting the nicotine residue. "Tell ya what. You hang on to that. Let me know if it's got any luck left in'nit."

Daryl nodded slowly, sliding the Zippo into his pocket. "Do you miss mom?" he asked, keeping his eyes carefully on the table.

"Ole' bitch never did nothin' for me," Merle muttered, lighting another cigarette, this time using a book of matches from the machine shop he was working at on weekends as a requirement for his probation.

"Yer such an ass," Daryl muttered. The sound of his own voice startled him and he blinked, swallowing hard as he stopped walking. He found himself standing a few feet away from the logging tractor that he and Judith had found the day before, with no recollection of how he had made it this far. His head ached in a slow pounding rhythm, like the sound of someone swinging a… meat tenderizer. Daryl's eyes narrowed and he looked around him in confusion. He was met with translucent silence.

Turning back around he fought his swaying vision and tried to fix his eyes on the small lump in the snow. He stumbled towards it and braced his hand on the side of the tractor as he lowered himself to his knees. Beanie's arm was reaching for him and he moved to take hold of her, but instead of grasping the squishy limb his hand passed through it. "Jesus," he mumbled, squinting his eyes and trying again, this time bringing the double image into focus. His fingers connected with their intended target and he pulled her free from her snowy grave. Her marker eyes had smeared, creating black tear drops that dripped down her cheeks. She fit into his pocket with his knife, though her legs dangled free.

As he pulled his hand out his fingers touched something small and cold. Slowly, he eased the metal case out of his pocket and stared at the small black Eight ball. Daryl flicked open the lid and turned the rough flint wheel with his thumb. He'd forgotten he still had it in his pocket. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, the snow seeping into the fabric of his jeans, numbing his legs.

Suddenly, icy fingers closed around his shoulders and he was met with the smell of putrid rotting flesh. Sharp teeth grazed the thin skin of his neck and he pushed backwards with his elbow, knocking the Walker's hands off him. The corpse fell onto its back, still reaching for him. Daryl pulled out his knife then looking around him to find more black figures filtering through the trees, faceless shapes staggering and growling. Daryl's vision swam and he looked around helplessly. His eyes settled on the tractor beside him. He lunged forward, stepping on the fallen Walker's face. Its skull gave in under his weight with a crunch and it went still.

Daryl pulled on the frozen door desperately as the Dead closed in on him. With a hard wrench he broke the icy seal and scrambled inside then slammed it closed again, wincing as his side split open again. Blood oozed out, soaking through his shirt in minutes. He divided his attention between trying to stop the bleeding and the dozen or so hands that pounded on the glass, fingernails clawing at the metal.

He laid his head back as agony swept over him, along with overwhelming nausea and dizziness. The black cloud started in the corner of his vision and crept inwards, inky and unrelenting. When he gave into it the pain dulled and then he was floating, caught in a place between awake and dreaming. It was in this place that he saw them, a flash of blue eyes.

We could run away together.