Dad slings his crossbow from his back and leans it against the corner of his cell. "What's this I hear about you sneakin' off to the infirmary?"

I crack my fingers, staring at his back from my place on the bottom bunk. His cell – well, the cell he keeps his stuff in – is up on the balcony, at the very end of the row, and any other time I might like the privacy of it, but right now I wouldn't mind the others being up here with us. Saving me from this conversation.

But they're not.

So, mildly, I answer, "Wasn't just me. Carl went, too." But then I realize that sounds like I'm trying to drag Carl down with me, so I add, "I mean, I didn't go alone."

"Don't matter." Dad turns to me, and he has on his stern face, the one that makes my head lower. "You and Carl ain't got no business goin' anywhere in this place with just the two of you."

He's not yelling, so that's good. But he's pretty damn far from happy. I pretend to adjust my release trigger, trying to think of a solid defense. The only thing that comes to mind is the plain and simple truth.

"It was for Hershel, Dad."

And Dad, he sighs. "Yeah, I know . . ." He sounds tired, and when I peek up I find him looking at the wall, his fingers working at his sides, and I wait, trying not to fidget, until finally he gives me back his attention. "Nothin' like this again. Hear me?"

My muscles relax. "Yeah."

He nods, says alright, then studies me for a while. I lift my eyebrows.

"You're wonderin' 'bout them prisoners, ain't ya?" he finally says, because he knows me, and now it's my turn to nod. Eagerly.

Dad grimaces but sits beside me, rubbing his mouth. "Ain't much to tell." He takes the quiver from his back, pulls out a bloody arrow, starts wiping it with a rag. "We cleared out a cell block for 'em. They're gonna stay over there. Not make any problems for us."

"How many are there?"

"Two."

"I heard five voices before."

His lips tighten and he gets a second arrow. I swallow. "What happened to the others?"

Dad doesn't answer right away, and I'm about to try and press it, but then, "One got bit. Other two turned on us."

So they killed them. But it was self-defense. There's nothing wrong with that, that's how it had to be, so I nod like it's nothing, flipping my trigger closed and open some more. Snap, click. "But you don't think these last two are dangerous?" I ask softly, watching his dirty hands work on the arrow.

"Nah. They'll leave us alone." He sets the both of the clean arrows at his feet and doesn't reach for another one, not right away. After a second, "How ya like the prison?"

I consider this, because I haven't really given it a whole lot of thought, and finally I shrug. "I think it could be okay. Once we get rid of the bodies outside and everything. I like having space to myself . . ." I trail off, and for a second my mind stumbles around to a lot of different places, and finally I blurt out – maybe without thinking it all the way through – "I called Beth a bitch to Carl and now he's mad at me." And then my eyes fall.

Dad makes a low sound, almost like a hiss. But, before long, he just gets a third arrow from his quiver. "You need to get a handle on that mouth of yours. Little girls don't need to be talkin' the way you do."

"I ain't a little girl," I can't help muttering.

"Why'd you say she was a bitch?"

I pick at my knuckle. "After we got back from the infirmary, Lori was chewin' out Carl 'n me, and then Carl . . . He snapped at her, and Beth told him he couldn't talk to her like that. But she ain't got no business tellin' him how he should talk to Lori." I wait for Dad to say something, but he just keeps cleaning the arrow, so on I go. "And Carl ran out, and I followed him, and I just said what I said 'cause I's tryin' to make him feel better, and he got p – he got mad, and now I guess we're fightin'. Or somethin'."

"Don't sound like that big of a deal to me."

I frown at him. "He pretty much yelled at me. All 'cause he . . ."

"'Cause he what?"

'Cause he likes Beth. "Nothin'."

Dad finishes cleaning and gathers the other two arrows in his hands, slips them all back into the quiver. "Well, I ain't that good at this kinda stuff, Little Bit," he eventually admits. "But it'll be fine, I promise. Things like that blow over."

Little Bit. Been a while since I heard that.

Dad looks at me, then points at my shirt and flicks my nose when I glance down, like Merle used to do when I was little. It's just a small thing, but it makes me smile.

Maybe I like the prison.