Not long after Merle leaves, I go to the bathroom to wash the blood from my hand. Then I look over my injury, and it's not great. The worst of the scrape is on my upper arm, just below my shoulder, but there's skin broken nearly all the way to my elbow. And I've got splinters in me. With just my fingernails, I claw three big ones out of my flesh, but it's no use with the rest. Jesus, a lot of them are in really deep. I could look around for a needle, dig them out. But some are at an angle hard to reach, and honestly, I'm just not up for it. They'll get worse if I leave them in, won't they? But I can't make myself do it. My dad's good at getting out splinters. My head's tired. I go back into the living room and think about lying down, but my body's fine, only my mind needs rest. So I pace, snap-clicking my release. My release. Reminds me of home.

Glenn. Maggie. What're they going to do to them? They've told these people what they wanted, shouldn't Woodbury let them go? But somehow, in a way I can't quite touch on, that doesn't make sense. And even if Maggie and Glenn are released, Merle's not going to let me leave with them . . .

I want my dad. To get my splinters out, to hold me. And now here's this horrible idea in my head, that I'll never again see my dad, never again go hunting with him or curl up in his arms or kiss his scratchy face –

No. I'm not even making sense now.

I finally lie on the couch, burying my head into it, trying to pretend Shumpert's not here, that I'm truly alone. My body still wants to move, but pacing hasn't helped my head the way it usually does. Sleep. If I could get some sleep, just a little sleep . . .

Next thing I know, gunshots. I spring up. Did I sleep? Gunshots –

To the window, the kitchen window, where I press my hand against the pane. The air outside is filled with fog. No, it's not fog, it's smoke. Or something. Smoke bombs? Did we have anything like that? Because of course it's us, it's my people. My dad, Rick, others. Nothing else makes sense. They're here. I'm going to be alright, they're here.

"Shit!" says Shumpert, backing up from the glass, which is probably what I should do, but I can't look away. Right below me, through the smoke, the shapes of people move around, darting, dodging, shooting guns that flash in the dark. I can't tell who anyone is, can't tell which ones are mine and which ones aren't. I hear yelling but I can't tell one voice from another, because they're all jumbled together, but guns start going off from the roof across the street and I finally make myself sink to the floor, taking cover, while Shumpert gapes at the window from a safe distance, hand on his pistol, off, on, off.

My group – how they'll find us is beyond me, but how they could have found Woodbury in the first place blows my mind, so surely they'll figure something out. Get Maggie and Glenn. Get me. All without losing anyone. Right? No one dies?

We're rarely that lucky, though, are we?

My relief is overrun by fear and I slip lower down the wall, chewing my knuckle, waiting out the shots and the shouts. It all lasts for a while. Then it stops, kind of suddenly. I wait a full minute before I rise and check outside. Smoke's cleared up. Street's a mess. I see three people race by right below me. I see two fast-walking a ways down the street. And I see a body over there, slumped across a bench. Whose body? From which side? Are there more? Shumpert keeps cussing over my head and it's oddly comforting. So is the throbbing from my scraped arm. And the sharp pain I feel in my collarbone every time I look up.

We wait for a while, Shumpert and me. We wait for Merle to come in and tell us the situation. Or we wait for my dad to break in and rescue me. Or we wait for somebody to bring in my uncle's dented metal arm, or my dad's bloody crossbow, or Rick's revolver, or Carl's hat –

When the door finally opens, I snap my head up and feel a stab in that collarbone of mine, but I hardly notice it, because it's not Merle or my dad. It's somebody. And that somebody is the Governor. Only the Governor has changed a lot since I saw him last. There's a white bandage over his head, holding padding to his right eye, covering it up. And the Governor does not have a pleasant smile on this time around. With his one good eye, he is looking at me like I am the root of every one of his troubles, the core of all evil in the world.

I'm on the couch when he comes in. He doesn't give Shumpert so much as a sideways glance. He comes forward, not bothering to shut the door. His boots are heavy. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk.

"Get a front row seat to the show?" he asks in a low voice. The lamp in the corner is the only light on, and the resulting shadows playing on the Governor's face make it look sharper, angrier. Or, no. Maybe he just really is angrier than last time. Somehow. His voice sounds like it. I squeeze the cushion below me. He asked me something. Front seat, right. I nod, slowly. Don't you look away from him, Sydney Rose Dixon. Don't you look away.

"Shumpert," the Governor says. "Give us a minute."

And Shumpert, being the good guy he is, leaves immediately.

The Governor then has a hand in my hair. Shit. He's yanking my head back, and I'm crying out –

"That hurt?" he hisses. I bite into the side of my cheek, and he pulls harder, and my teeth tear out a chunk of my own flesh. "I said that hurt?"

"Yes!"

His face is right by mine, then. His mouth is to my ear. "You don't know what pain is. You have no. Idea."

He's going to kill me. Merle will come back and find my blood on the floor, and maybe the Governor will leave a body, maybe he won't – my scalp's on fire. My collarbone feels like it's trying to bust loose from my skin, and the Governor's right here, whispering to me. "But you will. You will. Soon, oh soon, my sweet child –" Here his free hand strokes my free hair, my back – "Soon, you will."

Go to hell. Bite me. Kiss my ass. All perfectly good options for a time like this. But all that comes from my mouth is a gurgling, squealing sound. And then the Governor lets me go. He stands up straight. He's smiling again. I prefer his scowl. A tear runs down my cheek. The Governor wipes it away. I try to let him, but I can't. A second of his thumb on my skin, and I have to shove his arm back, I have to. It makes him grin. Then there are footsteps from the hall. Merle in the doorway. "Governor?"

The Governor turns.

"What's goin' on here?"

The Governor moves to him, looks at me, looks at Merle. "I'm calling a town meeting, to take place in a half-hour. Usual place."

Merle nods once. "I'll be there."

"Bring Sydney."

I don't want him saying my name.

"Now, Governor, she's had a long day. I'd like to get her to sleep soon's I can."

Like I'm five. Shit, that doesn't matter now. Shit, shit, shit, my head hurts, my neck hurts, my arm hurts, shit –

"Fine," the Governor breathes, "I've already told Elsie not to come tonight. But maybe she can babysit instead?"

Elsie. Shumpert said that name earlier, said she was meeting with the Governor and some others. And now the Governor's using her as a threat, and I don't want to find out why, not personally, anyway, but I also have no desire to attend any town meetings.

For a long time, Merle and the Governor stare at one another. Eventually, though, Merle says, "Sydney'll be at the meetin'."

And the Governor leaves. Just like that.

Merle looks at me. "He hurt you?"

I shake my head. Merle closes the door, and to his back I ask, "Any of my people dead?"

"A black man in a prison jumpsuit. The others all got over the wall."

Oscar's dead, then. But the others . . . "Glenn and Maggie, too?"

"Yep. Funny how your people left you here, though, hm?" He turns around, falls against the door. "You tried so hard to protect 'em, and they just lit out on ya."

I'm quiet. But, deep inside of me, there's a needling voice that reminds me that he's technically right. That needling voice kind of hurts. I don't think that hurt shows on my face, but Merle still says "Not fun, is it?" and taps on his metal arm. "Believe me, I know."

"They're comin' back for me."

"You so sure?"

"My dad wouldn't leave me. Neither would –" I almost say Carl, but then I think better of it – Merle doesn't need to know about him – and I change my argument to something that's more accurate, anyway. "Neither would any of the others."

My uncle blows out a short breath, eyeing me with his lips all curled up. But then he just pushes himself off the door and goes to Shumpert's chair, removing his arm blade as he goes. And if he's not going to argue, I ain't either. Instead I say, "What's gonna happen at the town meetin' tonight?"

"Can't say I know."

"Why would the Governor want me there?"

Merle doesn't answer. His blade slides from his arm and he examines it in the lamplight before sitting down. I glare at him. "He just threatened me," I say through my teeth, "He might wanna kill me –"

"He ain't gonna kill ya. Not s'long as I'm there." Merle leans forward, clasping his real hand over his fake one. He looks me right in the eye and says, "I ain't gonna let nothin' happen to ya, Princess, you got my word."

I plant both of my feet in the ground and shoot up, turning. "You see my arm?"

Merle sees it.

"He threw me across the room!" All of that hatred I felt towards Merle back in that stupid room sort of got overpowered by my feelings towards the Governor, but all that hatred, the fury, it's rushing back into me. And Merle, he just thinks a moment and then shrugs.

"Well, you ain't dead, are ya?"

I almost laugh. If I wasn't so hurt and pissed, I'd laugh. Because the whole thing is just that ridiculous. "I don't wanna go to that meetin'," I end up saying. "Just lock me in here, what am I gonna do?"

"Says the little girl who came at me with a shank."

"Then get that woman – Elsie. Let her stay with me. Whoever she is, I'd rather see her than the Governor again." Wait, do I mean that? I don't know who Elsie is, or why Merle doesn't like her. But then I think about the Governor pulling my head back like he was handling an animal, and I clench my fists and shout, "I don't wanna see that Governor again!"

"Well, little missy, that ain't your call."

And now I feel like I'm being drained. Of energy, of will. Like it's being sucked right out me, like that shout was the last bit of fire I had to my name. My head's going all tired again, just from standing here, eye-to-eye with someone I used to love. Used to love a lot. When I was really little, back before my dad moved out and even for a while after, whenever I would get in trouble or get hurt, I would cry for Uncle Merle. Even if he was nowhere in the house, I'd cry for him. If he happened to be there, he'd pick me up, sometimes say something like "What're y'all doin' to my sweet little niece?" More often, though, it'd be more along the lines of "Dry up, girl, you're s'posed to be tougher'n that." But even then, he'd make me feel better. Just his arms could make me feel better. The smell of smoke on his clothes.

And here we are now.

"What happened to you, Merle?" I whisper.

He stands. "Same thing that happened to you, darlin'. You're lookin' at me like I'm the devil himself . . ." He bends down, gets our faces real close. "But the little girl I knew would never, no matter what, try to spill her uncle's guts all over the floor. So maybe you should take a good long look in the mirror before you go tellin' me just how far from grace I've fallen."

He goes into the bathroom. I hear the shower turn on, and I'm still standing in the same place, because I don't quite trust myself to move. He's right. Merle's right. In a way. Before the walkers came, guns were for squirrel hunting and arrows were my dad's thing. I didn't know what a trigger release was. I'd never eaten raw meat and I thought canned dog food was disgusting. I had no idea what the inside of a human head looked like. I'd never stood over the dead body of someone I cared about and prepared to put a bullet in her head. I couldn't have. Like I couldn't have tried to bury a mirror shard into my uncle's ribs. He's right. He's right.

I'm eleven years old.

"My mom just . . . treats me like a kid."

Carl said that to me in the thicket, that cold but nice thicket, long after night had fallen on the second day of being lost and we were well into touching on every conversation topic we could think of. Even the harder ones. Come to think of it, that might be how he learned my mother's name. We were sitting on his coat and wrapped up in mine, trying to get as much heat as we could from the fire and from each other – easier for me, since he was already coming down with fever – and I remember how the orange glow played in the blue of Carl's eyes as he murmured, "And with everything I've done? I mean, all we've been through? After Dale died, my dad told me no more kid stuff. And that's how it has to be. I'm not a kid anymore."

And I'd agreed with him. But I shouldn't have. He was a kid. He is a kid. And so am I. We're kids who have to act like adults sometimes. But we're kids.

I tried to stab my uncle. Not to death. And it was just part of my escape plan.

But was it? Was it really just because I was desperate to break out of here? Or did I . . . Did I want to stab him? Did I want to make him hurt after he'd hurt me so bad? Did I want to stab him?

I really don't know.

But either way, I tried to.

I tilt my head back as far as it'll go and my collarbone is on fire. Good. I stay like that, blinking back tears, until the uncle I tried to stab comes out of the bathroom with a wet head but the same clothes he had on before and says let's go meet with our friend the Governor.

Outside, I see bullet shells and I see dark puddles and I see that the bench where the body was has been taken away, but I say nothing about any of it. The street's still mostly empty, but there are a few people walking the same direction we are, none of who look are way. Ten steps ahead of us, one woman clings to another, sobbing, and we pass them by, Merle tugging me around them before I shrug him off. The wails follow us for a long time.

At the end of the asphalt road, there's a roughly square space surrounded by huge torches on every side but one, with bleachers set up on two of the sides, across from each other. The bleachers remind me of the prison, except the bleachers there are always empty and these are packed full, full of so many people that it makes me uncomfortable. I didn't used to mind crowds, really, but now I feel very on edge being a part of one. Merle takes me around to a corner of the square, where the man with the backwards baseball hat stands with some other armed guys, Shumpert included. Merle and me come to a stop beside them, about a step ahead of where most of them are. I look around. The bleachers are actually overflowing, and there are still more people arriving. It's hard to see the details of faces with just the torch light to help, but I can still tell that there's more than one kid in the crowd. So everyone comes to the town meetings, not just grownups. I begin to relax a little. Maybe the Governor only wants me here because he's trying to force me to become a part of Woodbury. That I can handle, no problem.

The chatter continues for a good five minutes and stragglers show up and find seats, and then a hush comes over everyone as the Governor appears from the darkness and takes his place in the center of the square. He's wearing a long, dark jacket that reminds me of a storybook villain. The bandaged eye doesn't help. And is it my imagination, or does he find my face before he starts speaking?

"What can I say?" his voice echoes out. "Hasn't been a night like this since the walls were completed. And I thought we were past it . . . Past the days when we all sat, huddled, scared, in front of the TV . . . during the early days of the outbreak." His slow words are matched with slow steps and his shoulders are slumped. He sounds very tired, very different from how he was earlier, in Merle's quarters, alone with me. "The fear we all felt then . . . We felt it again tonight."

The silence of the people is almost creepy. Or maybe what's almost creepy is the way so many of them are leaning forward, mouths open, eyes glassy. Hanging on the Governor's every word. I trace my fingers over the cuts in my arm, gently, so as not to disturb any of the bits of wood lodged there.

"I failed you," says the Governor. "I promised to keep you safe . . . Hell, look at me!"

And I do. I see a bastard who has something wrong with one eye and, as far as I'm concerned, a target on his other one. He's talking some more. I wish he'd stop talking and let us go. Let me go. "Y'know," he tells his people, "I . . . I should tell ya that we'll be okay. That we're safe. That tomorrow we'll bury our dead and endure, but I . . . I won't. 'Cause I can't. 'Cause I'm afraid. That's right. I'm afraid of terrorists who want what we have! Who wanna destroy us!"

Terrorists? Yeah, they wanted what you had, Governor. Their own damn people. "You son of a bitch . . ."

I barely breathe it, but Merle still pinches my shoulder.

"And worse . . ." The Governor's saying now, his dead-looking eye – and I know what a dead eye looks like – sweeping over the crowd. "Because one of those terrorists . . . is one of our own."

Murmurs throughout the crowd. And then the Governor's raising his arm. And he's pointing at the supposed terrorist in question. Who is standing beside me.

"Merle!"

My blood goes cold as the crowd gasps. I feel my uncle stiffen.

"A man I counted on!" The Governor's voice is shaky. Merle twists around, looks behind him, and I do the same, and I see that the man with the backwards hat has a gun pressed against my uncle.

"A man I trusted . . ."

"Merle," I whisper. Because I'm suddenly very scared of what's about to happen.

"He led 'em here!" barks the Governor.

Two new men move in on Merle. Push me away.

"He let 'em in!"

Is that true? "Uncle Merle!" I hiss, stumbling back, my heart beating in my ears, and my uncle, he meets my eyes and doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to, that look says it all. Stay back. "Uncle Merle . . ."

The men, they take Merle's gun. They take his arm blade from his belt. Then they back off and the Governor shakes his head at the now unarmed Merle like a disappointed father would. "It was you," he snarls. "You lied. Betrayed us all!"

Backwards Hat still has the gun in Merle's back, and Shumpert has a crossbow up and aimed at Merle. Either one of them could twitch their finger and –

Backwards Hat gives Merle a push, and my uncle goes forward, swinging his arms, chin high, I'll give him that, his chin's high, and no, they can't – no –

Wait a minute.

Shumpert has a crossbow. Which wouldn't be that strange, really, if I didn't know the crossbow. And my heart goes from pounding to being completely still. And as my eyes move from Shumpert and the crossbow to my uncle and the Governor, I see that three more figures have appeared in the corner opposite mine. Two of them are holding the third between them. The third is fighting like hell and has a bag over his head. Now two of them are dragging the third towards the center of the square, towards the Governor and Merle. The third has his hands tied behind his back and is wearing a vest I know very, very well. Even better than the crossbow.

"This," says the Governor as the third is shoved towards him, "is one of the terrorists."

I want to scream. But everything about me is frozen up, rigid, like clay. A statue. Except my insides. They're boiling and twisting and choking good things from every part of me. The Governor rips the bag from the third man's head. And I stagger forward, because of course it's my dad. Of course it is.

"Merle's own brother!"

I've almost lost my balance, but I don't, and I try to look at Merle, can't, can't take my eyes off Dad, who can't take his eyes off Merle, and the Governor pushes my dad closer to my uncle, and I open my mouth, I still want to scream, but I still can't, so I try to run, but then someone's grabbing me from behind and that makes everything work again, everything, and my insides tell my outside what to do, and I boil over and yell, I yell "Dad! Dad!" and now my dad's eyes come to mine and I've never seen his face look the way it does right now and I think he says my name and then the Governor's in front of me and blocking my view and his hand is choking me for real and his eye is level with mine and the arms disappear from around me but the Governor's touching my face and I hear my dad yelling but not as well as I hear the Governor mutter, "This is what pain is." And then he throws me back to the trapping arms and they trap me indeed and the Governor's addressing the crowd.

"What should we do with them, huh?"

My dad and my uncle. What should we do with my dad and my uncle? We should kill them, says the crowd. Kill 'em, kill 'em, kill 'em.

"What?" says the Governor.

Kill them, Governor. They're saying we should kill them. My dad, with his hands tied behind his back, seeing the brother he thought was dead, here and alive and about to not be, if the crowd has their way. Can't you hear them, Governor? They're saying we should kill them. They're shouting it, begging for it. Even the kids. Every face, every single face, is grimacing, and every hand is pointing, and every mouth is crying it out, kill them, kill them, kill them. Kill them. The daughter, the niece, she's over here on her knees, trying to breathe, trying to break away from a stranger's hold, but none of the crowd pays attention to her. Everyone wants blood. Apparently they haven't seen enough.