"The shit you doin' pointin' that thing at me?" That's the first thing Merle says when he catches up to Dad and me a minute later, when we've gotten nice and deep into the shady forest. Dad doesn't turn around, doesn't stop walking.

"They were scared, man," is all he says.

"They were rude, is what they were. Rude and they owed us a token of gratitude!"

"Aw, they didn't owe us nothin'." Dad's talking in a way I don't like. Not scary, but low, almost tired. And I wish Merle wouldn't keep on about it, but I know he will. And he does.

"Yeah, you helpin' people out outta the goodness of your heart? Even though you might die doin' it? Is that somethin' your Sheriff Rick taught ya?"

We've reached a tiny patch of a clearing, and I'm not sure if that's the reason Dad stops and faces Merle or if Dad's just had enough. His tone suggests that last reason. "There was a baby!" As he says this, he takes my arm and pulls me behind him, which doesn't mean anything good.

"Oh, otherwise, you woulda just left 'em to the biters, then . . . ?"

And then, then Dad says something that I don't understand how it connects to any of this. "Man, I went back for ya! You weren't there! I didn't cut off your hand, neither!"

I take a step back, mouth open a bit, because I have never, ever heard my Dad talk like this to Merle. And I don't think he's even acknowledged the missing hand.

"You did that!" Dad snaps. "Way before they locked you up on that roof! You asked for it!"

Merle bends his head down, laughing, laughing not in a good way. Really, Merle never laughs in a good way, does he? Not anymore. He takes a few steps over and my dad circles, too, so they're still face to face, but I don't like it because I'm not behind Dad now. I start to move after him, but then Merle talks and I lose my train of thought somewhere in his words. "Y'know – y'know what's funny to me?" He holds up two fingers all crossed together. "You and Sheriff Rick're like this now. Right? Hm? I betcha a penny and a fiddle of gold that you never told him that we were plannin' on robbin' that camp blind."

Understanding rolls through me and my tongue goes dry, and I barely notice – but I do notice – when Dad's eyes flicker over to mine. "It didn't happen."

"Yeah, it didn't. 'Cause I wasn't there to help you!"

"What, like when we were kids? Huh? Who left who then?"

I've never heard anything about that, but –

"What? Huh?" Merle roars, loud as can be, walkers be damned. "Is that why I lost my hand?"

"You lost your hand 'cause you're a simple-minded piece of shit, that's why!" And then my dad steps off, and Merle yells Yeah?, and he grabs at my dad and Dad loses his balance and falls and Merle's saying You don't know! and there's a ripping sound and the back of Dad's shirt is gone and I see his tattoo and I see the scars from when he fell out of a tree as a kid, and I step closer to do something, something to Merle, and then I realize that Merle's not going after Dad anymore, he doesn't even look mean anymore, he's just standing and staring down at Dad, and something's wrong, something's wrong, and I look back at Dad's back and a place in my chest tightens all up.

It's been a long time since I saw the scars. Years, actually. I was just a little kid when Dad told me the tree story, and so I believed it and I've always believed it, but now . . . Those scars, those scars aren't nearly . . . random enough. And there are too many of them. My dad didn't get those from any fall from any tree, he couldn't have, no matter how bad. Dad, Dad's swinging the backpack up, back on his bare back, and the scars are gone again, and I'm thinking that maybe I'm just being silly, of course I'm just being silly, when Merle starts talking. Very differently now.

"I – I didn't know he was –"

"Yeah, you did," says my dad, and his voice is all wrong, wrong, wrong. "He did the same to you. That's why you left first." He stands up. "Sydney." And I go to him and he brushes his fingers down my arm without looking at me and then he's walking off and I'm right next to him, everything about me feeling like it's fallen asleep, and I have to blink a lot, and my heart's going weird –

"I had to, man," says Merle to our backs. "I woulda killed him otherwise."

And I get it. I get it. I get who him is and I get why they're both so clear over something I would never have understood otherwise, not in a million years. Dad keeps moving forward. He has a hand on the back of my neck now, not rubbing, just staying there. Holding onto me.

"Where you goin'?" Merle calls.

Dad stops, I stop too, and Dad says, "Back where we belong." He's still talking wrong, though. I don't like it. My dad's voice is supposed to be low and strong and tough, and it's not right now, and I hate it, it hurts, and – and those scars – and I step in front of my dad and lean my forehead on his stomach and take fistfuls of his shirt and turn my head away from my uncle.

"I can't go with ya!" The fire's gone out of Merle. Good. "I tried to – I tried to kill that black bitch! Damn near killed the Chinese kid . . ."

And now my head whips back around. "He's Korean!" I snap. At the same time as my dad.

"Whatever! It doesn't matter . . . I just can't go with ya!"

Nothing's right today. Nothing. Because Merle's voice is wrong, too, and I just want this to stop, and the only good thing, the only normal thing, is my dad's arm settling over my shoulders, and I press my forehead into him and pretend I'm not here.

"Y'know, I may be the one walkin' away," Dad says, "but you're the one that's leavin'. Again. C'mon, Sydney." And he guides me forward, and I stay right next to him, keep a hand on him, because that's the only way I feel steady at all.

When Merle shows up behind us about five minutes later, he doesn't acknowledge Dad and me and we don't acknowledge him. In fact, he stays a good ways behind us. I don't give a damn. I don't give a damn about whatever he does. He can come back to the prison or he can stay out here. I don't give a damn about him.

It's when we run into a small stream and Dad crouches down to it to splash some water on his face that my voice comes back to me. My voice is wrong, too.

"You never told me."

I'm not sure he's heard me at first. I stand there, looking over the edges of the backpack and at one of the scars and feeling sick, and Dad lets water run over his hands for a few long seconds, and I'm worrying that I don't have it in me to repeat myself when Dad says, "'Bout robbin' the camp?"

And he knows that's not what I mean. Merle reaches the stream, too, fifteen yards down from us, and he doesn't cast a look our way as he reaches into the water. Dad watches him, rubs his jaw. I swallow. I choke it out, I choke out, "'Bout – 'bout your dad – "

And he must hear the tears creeping into my voice, he always can, and he holds his arm out to me. "Shh, shh, hey . . ." I go to him and bury my face into his neck where it's safe. "Hey. C'mon, baby girl, we don't need to worry 'bout this now . . ."

Yes, yes we do. I do. But he doesn't want that, so I tighten my throat and order myself not to cry, not a bit. Dad, he squeezes me and says, "Hey. Hey. We're goin' back to the prison. Nothin' to be sad about. We're goin' back, just like you wanted."

And that's true, that's true. But right now, even though I know he's right and that's exactly what I've wanted all along, going back just feels like a tiny little light in huge dark cave. Dad and me, we have so much to talk about. But he splashes some water on my face then and somehow, somehow makes me smile, so the light gets a little bigger, I guess.

But just a little.

We need to go home.