For two days, I lie in my room, just like I did after we brought in the people from Woodbury. After we brought in the bitch. I mostly sleep. Carl, Carol, Beth, Maggie, they all bring food at one time or another. Carl brings food three times. But in these two days, I consume only two bowls of soup and one hunk of rabbit. And I throw up the rabbit. Hershel checks on me after that, feeling my forehead, looking down my throat. Does he know? Probably. But he says I seem to be the perfect image of physical health and then touches down on feelings, so I roll over and close my eyes. That gets him to leave.

The evening of the second day, my dad gets back.

There's no great announcement. No bells ringing or people shouting. I just hear his voice, and for a moment I think I'm dreaming, but I find myself lifting my head anyway, and I cross over into what I'm pretty sure is reality and I hear him clear his throat. So my body gets out of the blankets and gets me out of the room. My forehead's damp and feels like it freezes as I flinch against the light out here.

Dad comes in from the dining room just as I come out from the cell. His hair seems longer, almost shaggy. How long has it been since he left? Three weeks, a month, more? His crossbow's on his back, so's his vest. He's not missing any limbs and he's not significantly bloodstained anywhere. He's fine. Of course he is. But he has this way of, I don't know, loosening his whole body when he sees me after he's been gone. Not much, but enough that I can tell. He does that now, sighing, and he comes to me and I take a few small steps to meet him and he hugs me tight and for a moment, just the smallest moment, nothing's wrong –

But then he lets go and everything's still wrong, of course, unless –

"You find him?"

"No." And that's all he gives me. He pins my greasy hair back from my face and says, "You sick?"

"No," I answer in the least-sick voice I can manage.

"Then why d'ya look like you are? You been eatin'?"

Good. Let's start right back up from where we left off. Makes it easier for me to shut him out anyway, and I know I need to do that. So I take a step back, shrugging his hands off. "Michonne okay?"

"She's fine. Sydney? You been eatin'?"

"When are you goin' out again?"

"You ain't been, have you?"

Screw it. I suddenly remember why I've been in bed for so long. Things outside of my cell make me tired. That's why I turn to go back to that bed. "I'm in the middle of something."

"Hey!" he snaps, and not long ago, that voice would have made me stop cold. Now I just keep going, into my cave, into my burrow. I sleep.

. . . . .

It's Dad saying my name that wakes me up. This time there's no questioning whether it's a dream or not. His tone jolts me right awake. It's not his scary voice, at least not the kind he uses when I'm in trouble, this is something different. So I roll onto my back to look at him, expecting him to be sitting on the bed, but he's not. He's in the doorway. It's dark outside and that disorients me for a second.

"What?" I say, looking him up and down, expecting a plate of food I'll have to force my stomach to take. But I don't see it.

Then my dad says, "Let's go for a walk," and the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I get out of bed, every one of my joints much too stiff. My heart's pounding, too. I'm dressed in the same shirt and overshirt and jeans I've had on since all of this finding-out shit started. Dad has my black jacket, the one that looks too much like the one the bitch has. But I take it and slide my arms into it.

We go through the dining room. People are there, just a few. I don't check who. I keep my dad between me and them and I keep my head low and then we get out into the night where the air is cold enough to slice you up and I feel, just a little, just a little better. Oh, but that's silly.

Dad is quiet.

I follow him out of the cold air into a place a little warmer, too warm, I liked the cold better. I've been so focused on the air and Dad and everything this means and everything that's about to happen that I don't realize where we are until Dad stops and the room juts into my head.

The boiler room. We're in the middle of the boiler room, where Dad had his last conversation with Merle, where Merle found the wire he would use to kidnap Michonne. But he only kidnapped her for so long, didn't he? Oh, and that's not the end of the boiler room's story. Me and the boiler room, we have a great little relationship of our own. Kind of like my relationship with pain. Very much like it, actually.

But Dad being here turns both of those relationships into things that are twisted and mutated and meant to be hidden away and cried about, lied about. I don't want him here. It's wrong.

He's led me to the middle of the room. Now he steps away. My feet are nailed down. I don't look straight at him. He gets four or five or six steps off and stops. Nothing happens for a while. I still can't move, can't even breath. Then Dad looks at me, the corner of my eye catches his head move.

"Show me your arms."

He might as well have reached into my chest. He might as well have reached into my chest with icy hands and clenched everything in there as tight as he could, lungs, heart, all of it. I can't speak. Speaking is not an option.

"Sydney."

He's not talking mean. He's using his . . . his special gentle voice, actually. Somehow that makes it all the more worse. It's so dark in here. This room. Goddamn this room.

I shake my head. Slowly at first, and I mean for it just to be once or twice, but I keep doing it, my head just keeps on swinging.

"Show me."

My head just keeps on swinging.

My dad sighs, kind of like he did when he got back but deeper, and now he's coming towards me. My head picks up speed, I don't look at him, my head picks up more speed and Dad has a handful of my jacket –

"No!"

"Shh . . ."

– and he's turned me around. His other hand is on my other shoulder and he's tugging the jacket off of me. I try to break away from him, and I tighten my arms around me, but he's stronger than I am.

"No!"

"Shh," he says again. He's still using the special gentle voice, and I can tell that even his hands are being as gentle as they can be as they pull my arms down, roll the jacket the rest of the way off me. But I'm crying anyway. Hard. My overshirt's tighter, it's going to give him the most trouble, I'm going to give him trouble, too, the jacket breaks away from me and I try to run, but Dad catches me, he keeps one hand on my stomach, then he has to capture my wrists and hold them in that one hand while he peels the overshirt down from my shoulders, down my back –

"Stop . . . stop! I hate you!"

– and once it's down my back he lets me go, and I try to bolt again, but that's exactly what he wanted, it jerks the shirt all the way off my wrists, and it's just me in my tank top with my bare arms, and I cross them over my chest, hands gripping shoulders, and I back away, he's not going to see, I won't let him, but I can barely stand up straight because of the sobs, and now Dad's on my level, he's on his knees, and I go crazy when I feel his fingers on my wrists, I jerk around and scream but I can't stop him, and then I'm on my knees too and I'm exhausted and my arms are right there, right there for the world to see, and even worse, my dad.

The left arm's torn up the most, since I'm right handed. Hardly an inch left untouched up to the inside of my elbow. The ones closer to the hand have healed and just left scars; some of the ones further up are still scabbed over and even uglier than the healed ones. My right arm, though, that's the one I burn most often. I started that after the cutting. Now there are a bunch of reddish-brown splotches that hurt even worse than the cuts do, in the shower, in the rain. Pretty much always, actually, when there's water and when there's not. That's why I keep doing it, I guess. Pain, pain, pain. But that pain's nothing compared to the pain of this moment. I can look at my arms for just a blink of an eye before I double over. Or, I would double over, if Dad wasn't still holding my wrists firmly in his hands. He's holding them too long.

When he finally does let go, I fall back and kick at him. I don't hit anything, but my arms find my shirt and I fumble with it and cover, I think I cover the scars, and then Dad's wrapped his arms around me.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

I flail. I claw at his face and quickly get my arms pinned to my sides. My whole body's pinned up. I sit on the floor, him keeping me still, but I try to get away, to get at him, to leave or fight or die or something until I can't anymore, that exhaustion, it's back, it's stronger than me, and my throat hurts so bad, I can't stop crying, I can't stop crying, so I stop moving and just go limp. Maybe I can convince my brain to black out. I'll wake up alone and I'll run. I'll leave. Dad, Carl, everyone'll be better off. They can forget. I can forget or just disappear, a girl with shredded arms vanished into the dying world.

But I don't black out and the sobs like being in my body. Dad's arms gradually get looser but stay around me. His head leans against the back of mine and his fingers comb through my hair. He says shh again and again. That's all.

A long, long time later, I do actually stop crying. Then I just sit there, because it feels like I should still be crying. I want to still be crying, it's what's right. But I don't think my body has it in it anymore. I don't think I've ever cried like this, not even after my mother, not even after Dale, not even after Merle. My body probably doesn't understand what's going on. It only understands enough to find that abused shirt that's ended up by Dad's knee, to spread it over my arms so I don't have to look at them anymore. So he won't.

Dad doesn't start talking right after I get quiet. No, in fact, it's another long, long time later when he speaks. The silence until then is actually nice. His arms holding me up, me not having to move or care or try, it's nice. Like I'm part of a statue. But then, like I said, he talks and makes me quit pretending.

"I ain't goin' after the Governor no more."

My head falls against his chest, and my swollen throat croaks out, "You have to." It's what matters most. Someone needs to find him. Someone needs to kill him. "You have to."

I feel him brace his arms. Preparing. "Baby, the trail's gone cold. No use tryin' to track him now. Ain't nothin' to track."

"Pick the trail back up! I've seen you do it! I've seen you –"

"Shh –"

"You have to find him! You have to find him, you have to –"

He locks me against him again and I gasp a lot, make these strange squeaks. Dry sobs. "You have to, you have to . . ."

"Shh. Sydney. Shh."

"I hate you . . ."

"I hear you. Shh, I hear you."

He can't mean it. He can't mean he won't go after the Governor. He has to, he has to – Merle –

"Oh, God . . ." I whimper. Dad tightens his hold even more. I fight for air and lose and then win and lose some more. I make noises and then don't. Dad rocks and rubs my back and then he's talking again.

"We need to get some sleep. We can talk in the mornin'."

No, I don't want to.

"We need to get some sleep."

I can't move. I have absolutely no desire to try. I would be content being left here, but Dad picks me up like I'm weightless. The last person to carry me like this was my uncle.

I hide my head in Dad's chest. "Don't let them see."

"I won't, babe."

We go outside. I don't look at anything. Dad carries me up some stairs. A blurry image of the catwalk appears in my head. We walk and get indoors. We go down some more stairs, go through a door. I hear voices but they're not close. They're in the dining room, where people who like people and like themselves go to live.

But no, no, then I hear –

"What's wrong? Is she okay?" Carl sounds panicked and I take hold of Dad's shirt and don't look, don't dare look.

"She'll be fine. She just needs some sleep."

"I tried – I told her to eat –"

"I know, man. Don't worry, I got her."

The sound of a curtain sliding on a rod, then darkness even darker than what's outside. Better than the boiler room darkness, much better. My bed. So familiar and safe. I curl up and struggle with my blankets until they're good and tangled. Dad helps. I don't expect him to leave and he doesn't. After a while, he strokes my hair. I let him.

"I don't hate you," I say.

"I know."

"You should hate me."

"I love you more'n anything. Go to sleep."

"But I killed him . . ."

His hand goes still. It just stays there on the back of my head, heavy as a rock. "Killed who?"

"Merle. I killed Merle."

He takes me under the arms and moves me and my blankets over so there's room on the bed for him to lie down. "No, you didn't," he whispers as he tucks my head into him.

"I said –"

"I don't care what you said, the Governor killed him. It was that son of a bitch, not you. Not at all."

He's wrong, but . . . "You have to go after him –"

"Darlin', we'll talk in the mornin'. Go to sleep."

"You have to . . ." I dry-sob, and then I'm done, done with the whole damn day. Sleep rams into me and I let it drag me down into the black.

. . . . .

I wake up with my head still on Dad's chest. He has no covers and is probably cold. He's also already awake, and as I look into the eyes he gave me and am crushed by the memories of everything from last night, he asks, "Wanna go huntin'?"

Hunting. With my bed here, in my nice, isolated cell? "No."

His lips press together. He searches my face, then says, "Too bad," and gets up.

I stare at him. He reaches the doorway, looks back, and says, "Meet me out front in five minutes." Then he's gone. As the curtain opens and closes, I see that it isn't even dawn yet.

. . . . .

Hunting isn't the kind of thing you forget how to do. At least, not if it's instinct. Or close enough. Meaning, not if it's something you've been watching people do since you were born and doing yourself since not long after that. Not if it's the only thing in your life that you're not only good at, but that's also useful, that you also enjoy.

I forgot about all that.

I remember, kind of – like I'm looking at wrinkled pictures of what used to be – when around mid-morning my father jerks his head at a squirrel in a tree and raises his eyebrows. He already has two squirrels on his belt. This one is mine, overdue. So I raise my bow and aim, and it feels strange, unbelievably strange, to do this after so long. But when I pull the trigger, I hit my target.

My dad readjusts his crossbow. "Look who's still got it."

I just stare at the dead squirrel and try to figure out how I did that.

. . . . .

An hour later, Dad and I are on a slab of rock maybe half a mile downriver from the prison. He's broken out lunch, a can of peas for each of us and some strips of dried meat. He rips into the latter and gestures for me to dig in. I look at the offering and turn my head. He chews, swallows, eyes me, and says, "When's the last time you ate?"

"Yesterday."

"Liar."

The water below me is busy. It hurries along its long-known path, rubbing over all manner of stones, turning their rough surface smooth. They'll still hurt if they hit you, though. "'Bout three days ago."

A cracking noise, and then Dad's handing me an open can of peas. "Eat."

"Dad, I don't wanna throw up."

"I've had you out in these woods all day, runnin' around, buildin' up an appetite. If you weren't starvin' before, you are now. Your body knows it, too. Eat."

Fine. I tilt the can back and gulp in a mouthful of peas. I swallow immediately and slam the can back on the stone, letting some of the stuff slosh over my hand. I press my palm to my mouth as my gag reflex gives its best shot, and my dad pats my back, and I gulp and keep the peas down. "I'm done."

"Fine. But you gotta get a meal down ya 'fore bed tonight." He eats another piece of meat but puts the unopened can of peas back into his vest pocket. He wraps the remaining meat back up in plastic and stuffs it into a different pocket, and the opened can of peas he throws into the river. It hits a rock and bounces off, spilling green into the water. I watch that green fade away, carried downstream in a million different little bits. I wait for Dad to get up, but he doesn't.

"I meant what I said last night," he says soon in a voice that puts me on edge. "I'm not goin' out after him no more."

Look at the pretty water. Look at all the rocks it's trying to make smooth. I wonder if any rocks ever fight back. "So you're just gonna let him get away with everything?"

"Sydney, he's gone."

"He's still out there."

"Might be dead."

"Might be alive."

"It don't matter."

"Of course it does!"

"Keep your voice down." He glances over his shoulder, returns his attention to me all too soon. I find myself tugging my long sleeves down further.

"Even if he's alive," Dad says, giving me the kind of drive-into-you-look that pushes my eyes to the river again, "He ain't here. My daughter is."

Water in the ground, water in my eyes. "So you're gonna let him run free 'cause of me."

"I'm gonna let him run free 'cause I can't find him and I ain't gonna waste my time on a wild goose chase when I got more important things here."

Things like me. So much for my plan to shut him out. But damn it, does he think this makes me feel better? Does he think leaving the Governor be is helpful? "You never woulda done this if you hadn't found out –" My throat closes.

We're interrupted by a snarl. Dad and I both look to our left to see a used-to-be-man shuffling its way towards us. Dad takes his crossbow and heads to meet it. I watch him put an arrow through its head, get the arrow back, and return to me. He cleans the arrow with the rag from his back pocket. It's right after he loads his crossbow again that he says, "Why?"

"Why what?"

He sits again. He spits into the water. Then he meets my gaze before dropping his to my arm. "Why'd ya do all that?"

I find myself cracking my knuckles, and I feel a sensation almost identical to the one I got when I shot the squirrel at my waist. An unfamiliar sort of familiarity. "I deserved it," I murmur before I can stop myself.

"What?"

"I hate myself." It's all spilling out now, isn't it? But why not? He knows the big secret. Let him know all of them.

"Sydney –"

"I'm not a good person. I told my uncle he should be dead and then he died. I'm horrible to you. My own mom didn't want me. I deserved it –"

My voice has gone high-pitched and tears are inevitable, so when Dad takes the back of my neck I think he's going to hug me, but instead he pulls my head to meet his, almost roughly. Our foreheads touch, our eyes are close and there's nowhere to look but straight at him, and as my vision blurs he says, "That's a load of crap."

"No, it's –"

"Quit arguin' with me."

I drop my head, let the tears go, and now Dad does hug me. He doesn't wait for me to stop crying to talk. Guess he knows how long I can cry for now.

"I ain't been around enough for you lately. And I'm sorry 'bout that. But I ain't goin' nowhere no more. And you and me, we're gonna get a handle on this, alright? You ain't gonna do that to yourself again."

"I, I have to –"

"What, to punish yourself? 'Cause you think you deserve it? Well, guess what? I'm your damn dad and I'm the only one who decides if you gotta be punished or not. And baby girl, you ain't done nothin' to earn somethin' like that. You never could."

"But . . ."

"Shh." He pushes hair behind my ear. After a while he whispers, "You're scarin' off all the game."

And somewhere in between all my sobs comes the strangest laugh.

But that doesn't mean I agree with him. I'm not sure I can.