That night, things felt much simpler.

Sleeping in a house was much easier than sleeping in a truck. I could tell Claire was happy by the way she volunteered to make dinner. "Really?" I had mocked in disbelief.

Claire was grumpy when she was hungry and had often asked me when I was going to get them dinner and what it would be. We'd pillaged enough canned food that we hadn't resorted to hunting for our food, yet. We'd had fish a couple of nights ago when we'd passed across a clean creak, but that was about as close as we'd gotten to wildlife.

Tonight though, Claire happily volunteered.

I thought it was only because there was a gas stove and we'd be able to use it. I knew there was no way she'd actually volunteer to cook over an open fire. I had found two pots for her; she'd decided that we'd have pasta for dinner. I filled one pot with about three water bottles of water, and the other I threw a container of Barilla sauce into. Then I briefed Claire on how to cook both – let the water boil for the pasta, cover the sauce, stir occasionally so it didn't stick to the bottom, leaving Claire to do the rest.

While Claire cooked, I sealed off the back and front doors and then draped the windows so the light wouldn't seep through and attract any attention – alive or dead. Oddly enough, I had more fear for people who were alive rather than dead. At least with the dead you knew exactly what you were up against. People were deceitful, who knew what they would do now that the world was shit.

"Clarke, I think the food's done," Claire called, halting my work on the last window. I let the drape fall before I started back towards the kitchen. Claire was draining the pasta into the sink when I entered. She had pulled out bowls and forks from wherever she'd found them. She seemed to have everything ready so I retrieved two water bottles from my bag and sat down at the breakfast bar. There was only one candle lit in the kitchen, placed in the middle of the breakfast bar, and it did little to illuminate Claire.

But she still looked unmistakable to me. The change was obvious in her face, worn from our travels, and the way she held herself. It was impossible to think that the situation wouldn't affect her; I knew that it had affected myself. Claire had changed in many little ways. But so had I. I guessed it was to be expected. I figured you didn't really come out on the other side of events like these without war wounds.

Claire placed a bowl in front of me, breaking my thoughts, and sat down across from her. "I hope its okay. I've never cooked before."

I was hardly a liar. I always believed you should just tell it like it was, whatever it was. As a doctor, I was supposed to disclose the patient with all information. I picked up my fork, rolled some spaghetti on it, and took a bite. My hunger hit with a vengeance, and I went for a second bite before I said anything.

"It's good. You didn't overcook the pasta." Claire smiled. "I wish we had some Parmesan."

Claire made a noise of complaint or agreement. I wasn't too sure. "Me too. What I wouldn't do for some fresh food. Or anything refrigerated, for that matter."

"Don't even get me started on what I miss. A hot shower is top of the list. And, I don't know, my regular visits to the dentist for that matter. I guess I'll never find out what happens in Grey's Anatomy, either."

"You think this is it? How the human race is wiped out?" Claire looked at me expectantly like my opinion on the matter was the Holy Grail.

"No, I don't," I told her honestly. "This is maybe how we knock our population down. Maybe this is God's equivalent of the great flood. Maybe he's separating the chaff from the wheat. But do I think it's the end? No. Someone makes it out on the other side."

Claire mulled over my answer. I could see that she was contemplating my words through the candle between us. I ate silently, waiting for Claire's response. Finally, she said, "Do you think we'll make it out on the other side?"

I shrugged. I hadn't thought about what would happen to us. But based on the relatively easy months we'd had already I was hopeful. "I think our odds are better than most, yeah."

She gave me a small smile. "Okay."

After dinner we went to sit in the living room. Claire spent the night writing in a notebook she'd picked up in our travels and I was rereading a Stephen King novel. It seemed that all I could do these days was read books. I loved reading, I did. But I'd reread so many books in the past two months it was beginning to sicken me.

By nine o'clock Claire was asleep in her sleeping bag on one of the couches. It was easier for me to watch Claire, and keep us safe if we stuck to one room.

It was harder for me to fall asleep. My nerves grew at night when we were more defenseless. I had to remind myself we were locked up in a house, which was safer than being out in the wild. I couldn't imagine living in the wild, not when there were infecteds everywhere. I went to sleep and dreamt of what it must be like to be dead.

Three days later, Claire was giving me the silent treatment. We were quiet as we packed up the car and got ready to depart. Claire didn't want to leave; actually she wanted to do the exact opposite and make the house our home. She felt it was safe because we hadn't seen any infecteds but just because they weren't knocking on our door didn't mean they weren't out there.

"You gonna' ignore me all day?" I asked as she shoved her bag into the backseat. It was nearing noon, and getting pretty hot. Even in a cropped, short-sleeved button-up and denim shorts, I was still burning up. I'd applied sunscreen when she I'd woken up but my skin was turning a bright red anyway. I always burned so easily, especially in the south.

Claire was leaning against the side of the truck and looked up at me. "I don't understand why we have to leave."

"I told you we gotta' keep moving. We looted the town, siphoned gas – there's nothing more for us here."

"I don't want to go," she snapped.

"Unfortunately, its not up to you."

"But I should have a say," she muttered crossly. Her eyes were lowered into a glower and attitude radiated off of her.

"Well you don't get a say because you're the child and I'm the adult. End of discussion. Now get the rest of your stuff so we can go." I didn't scream at her but my tone was harsh, colder than I'd gotten with her in a while. Claire's eyes widened, and before either of us could say a word she tore off into the backyard.

I stared after her retreating figure a little shocked. "You've got to be kidding me." Growling, I locked the truck and took off after her calling her name. She didn't have that big of a lead on me so I caught her easily, latching onto the back of her shirt and pulling her to a stop. Claire fought but I held tightly so she couldn't get away.

A gunshot rang through the woods, causing her to stop moving and I stared at where it came from curiously. I let go of Claire's shirt and did a quick sweep of the backyard. "It's probably just Otis hunting," I said with a shrug. We had met Otis two nights ago; he lived on the Green's farm. He came traipsing through the backyard with a couple of rabbits in his arms. Of course, Claire was quick to run over and spark conversation with him.

"Hi, I'm Claire," she'd said to him. "That's Clarke." She'd pointed behind herself to where I was walking up. Before he could introduce himself Claire was crying, "Oh you're bleeding!"

I had heard her words and took off up to them, pulling Claire behind me. "Have you been bit?" I'd asked, snarling at him with my strongest, coldest tone. My fingers splayed across the blade against her hip.

"Naw, not at all. Just clipped myself on a tree branch, s'all." I had stared him down trying to figure out if he was lying and surely enough he pulled up his sleeve, revealing a small gash on his forearm.

"See, it's nothing," Claire had chimed pushing past me. "Clarke can help you with that. She's a surgeon."

Claire looked across the backyard and I could tell she wasn't convinced. But if it wasn't Otis, I couldn't imagine who it would be. "Come on, let's eat something before we go." Claire didn't disagree with me just turned on her heel silently and started back towards the house. I looked back at the woods where the gunshot had come from, sighed, and then followed her inside.

After a small lunch of cheesy macaroni Claire and I were ready to leave. Claire was still giving me the silent treatment but I didn't care. She might not of saw it but I was doing the right thing for us. As we were getting into the truck that Green girl from the other day pulled up on her horse, her face contorted with fear and anguish.

"Clarke!" she called as if she was both surprised and happy to find me outside. "We need your help. A boy's been shot."

I felt Claire's burning stare and raised my eyebrow curiously at her. "And?"

Maggie Green sank back a bit, her expression confused. "Otis said you said you were a surgeon."

"Exactly. I was. I'm not anymore." I felt Claire's hard stare on me, but she said nothing. I was glad for that because I didn't need to be guilted into anything.

"Look, it's a boy, about Claire's age, and he needs help. Whether or not you can live with yourself not doing anything…that's your choice." Maggie took off without another word. I stared after but then pulled the keys out of my back pocket.

"Really?" Claire cried. "Who are you anymore?" I stared at Claire, my eyebrow quirked in question. "The Clarke I knew – the Doctor I knew wouldn't walk away from someone who was hurt."

I didn't know how to respond. I knew Claire was right. A part of me yearned to help the child I didn't know. Another part of me, a strong part, was excited about a GSW to an unknown region – a surgery I would've jumped on if this was anything different. The strongest part of me, though, thought about Claire. "Get in the car."

Claire stared, shocked, but didn't say anything. I walked around the side of the truck and climbed in. I took off down the road. The silence was immeasurable. Claire had shifted and was staring out the window. She wasn't one to not say what was on her mind. I knew she was pissed because she wasn't talking. I'd made my decision and Claire had to live with it.

But I couldn't. "God damn it," I muttered as I spun the car around in the dirt road and took off towards the Green farm. I glanced at Claire. "Don't you say a word."

When I pulled up outside the Green house, it looked as though no one was even home. As I climbed out of the car, a man in an old-fashioned police uniform came running down the front steps, but stopped at the sight of me.

He ran a hand through his hair and turned around, looking like he was about to start crying, something I had an idea he'd already been doing. An older man followed after him, coming to the porch and then stopping to look at me.

"And who might you be?" he asked his voice deep but still soft. He glanced at the man in the uniform. "Do you know this young lady?"

I was confused. I thought they would be expecting me. Claire climbed out of the car and looked around curiously. I said to her, "Get my med kit out of the back seat. The big bag, we're gonna' need all of it." I looked back at the two men. "Maggie Green told me a boy's been shot. Where is he?"

The older man regarded me curiously. "You know my daughter?"

Claire handed me my medic bag. I took it and started up the stairs. "We can sit here and exchange backgrounds. Or you can take me to the boy that's been shot and I can save his life." My statement took the older man back but nonetheless he let me in the house. I glanced to see that Claire was following me and noticed the uniformed man staring, his mouth agape.

The old man said, "I recessed what I could of the bullet shards, but based on the swelling of his belly, I believe there's more." He led me into the room where a young boy, around Claire's age, was sprawled on a bed. I looked him up and down before making my way over to his bedside and bending over to do his vitals.

"Who are you?" I asked as I lifted his eyelids. His pupils were normal, but he was unconscious. I checked his carotid and radial pulse at the same time. Holding for thirty seconds, I deemed it thready and weak.

"I'm Hershel Green. This is my farm. Who are you? And how do you know my daughter?" His tone of voice was stronger now. I understood completely. I was a stranger that had just walked into his house. But once my scrub cap came on, I lost all sense of common courtesy. My main concern was the patient.

"Are you a doctor?" I asked as I started to palpate the boy's stomach. The man in the uniform had walked into the room and was kneeling on the other side of the bed, pushing the boy's hair off his face. "I take it you're his father?" The man nodded.

Hershel said distantly behind her, "I'm a veterinarian."

I slid my hands under the boy's back and pulled my hands back looking for any indication of blood. The bullet hadn't passed clean through. It was in the lower right quadrant leaving me to believe it was lodged somewhere in his large intestine. "What kind of gun was he shot with?"

"Now miss, I don't know who you are or how you—."

I stopped him, "My name is Clarke. That there is Claire. I was a surgeon at Johns Hopkins before this. We were just passing through the town a few days ago and were going to stay in the house up the road. That's where we met Maggie, and Otis."

The man in uniform dropped his hands into his head. "You're a surgeon? Oh thank you lord. You can save my boy, then right?"

I nodded my head. "I'm going to do my best, but I've got to prep him for surgery now and start if he's going to have a fighting chance." The man looked back at Hershel questionably. I asked, "What did you say your name was?"

"Rick," he responded. "And that's my son, Carl."

Hershel walked over to me, and placed a hand on my shoulder. "He needs to go on a ventilator. I've sent Otis and Rick here's friend to get one but they won't be back for a while."

I stepped back so his hand dropped from my shoulder. "We don't have that kind of time. I have an intubation kit and a BVM. I just need someone to manually ventilate. Let's move in and try to get as sterile of a surrounding we can." There were no objections to my words so I walked out and went to get the rest of my surgical supplies from the truck.

As I was pulling the duffle bag from the trunk, I heard the sound of hooves on the ground. I hopped down out of the truck with the duffle on my shoulder as Maggie Green came up to the fence with a woman on the back of the horse. Maggie tipped her head. "Clarke."

"Maggie," I muttered brusquely, turning and starting back into the house just as Rick came rushing the down the stairs and running towards whom I presumed was his wife, or at the very least the mother to the boy inside. I went back into the bedroom where Hershel and his wife were setting up a table draped in a white sheet. Rick and his wife came bounding into the room seconds after I entered and the woman threw herself over her son.

I looked at Claire who was seated in the chair by the bed. She was staring at the boy curiously, but was otherwise silent. I felt a gaze on her and looked around the room locking eyes with Rick. He said, "This here is Clarke; she's a surgeon. She can help Carl."

The woman sat up and looked at me. I suddenly felt everyone's eyes on me, and forced my expression to remain passive. "You're going to perform surgery on my son?"

I nodded. "Yes. His stomach is distended; there's more than likely abdominal bleeding. He could have a ruptured bowl. He needs surgery very soon for his survival."

Surprisingly, my words didn't faze the woman. "And you've done this surgery before?"

"I have performed a number of abdominal surgeries, some of which were gun shot wounds, and from what I've learned no two are the same. I have an idea of what this will be like but I won't know for sure until I open him up." I felt like I was in a hospital now advising parents on their child's surgery; it almost felt normal. "I have to tell you there are a number of risks with any surgery but the circumstances of this surgery bring additional problems. I can list for you all the things that can go wrong, but it won't do any good. My main concern for this surgery is your son's chance of infection, which is very high."

Rick said, "So what does that mean for Carl?"

"Worst case scenario, your son goes into septic shock. Best-case scenario, very little infection occurs and his body is able to fight it. I'm going to try to make this surgery as sterile as I can, and I have a prescription for some very strong antibiotics but it will be touch and go." They flinched at my words but I wasn't going to sugarcoat what was going to be a high-risk surgery.

The wife stood up, and looked at her levelly. "Do the surgery."

I stared at her trying to gauge whether she was telling her to do the surgery as a distraught and mentally unfit mother or as a sound adult making the best decision. When I found my answer I said, "Okay. I have surgical drapes, gowns, and gloves in this bag. I need someone to move Carl to the table so I can get started."

Everyone dispersed, and I started to get ready to perform an extremely risky surgery.