Glenn's comprehended that Merle's here. At least, I assume that's what the yelling means. Oh, yeah, now Michonne's yelling too. Just like old times. Carl and me, we go inside, passing poor Axel's body on the way. I take a deep breath inside the dining room, and it doesn't necessarily smell good, but I still can't get enough of the scent of it, of our prison. I find a can of peaches and two forks. We climb that staircase in the dining room up to the little glass room, and it's not much. Carl says it was the warden's office. I slip through it and onto the balcony. I like seeing the dining room from up here. Carl and me, we sit by the window, each of us on a side, and I open the can of peaches and he tells me what happened.

The first shot fired was the one that killed Axel. Carol was next to him at the time and she had to spend a good portion of the attack using his body as a shield. Rick was out by the stream that runs close by, on top of the wooden bridge. Hershel was by the fence on the inside because he'd just been talking to Rick. Bullets flew their way and they both got down. Carl and Beth were outside at the time, too, out in the courtyard, not far from Axel and Carol. They took cover and started shooting back at one of the Governor's shooters, who'd gotten up into one of the towers on the edge of the fence. Maggie'd been inside, feeding the baby. She came out with some rifles and covered for Carol long enough for her to take cover.

Right about then was when the van showed up. The van carrying the walkers. It busted through the gate and let them all out. And for some reason that pisses me off more than any other part of the story.

"Dicks."

Carl just nods, swallows a mouthful of peaches, and goes on.

The driver of the van got out and escaped the field. Maggie eventually took out the tower shooter. Almost right after, the Governor got back in his truck with the two people who'd been there with them, a black guy and a white woman with dark hair. Carl said there was another shooter somewhere in the woods but he never got a good look at him. Glenn had been gone on a run – or something, Carl's not sure where he was, actually – and he got back right then in our truck. The four in the courtyard came out and shot what they could in the field, and Michonne appeared from somewhere out there, maybe from behind the tipped-over prison bus near the gate. Glenn got Hershel and Michonne and brought them up to the courtyard and that's when me and Dad and Merle showed up.

The others have gotten in here by now, into the cell block. Some of them. My dad and Merle and Rick and Glenn must still be outside. Michonne, too. Does she count? Is she hanging around? Carl doesn't know.

We've finished up the peaches. For a few minutes, we sit in silence, looking out the window at the walkers in our field.

And now I begin to tell him about Woodbury. I start with seeing my uncle again, being kidnapped. I tell him about the Governor and I show him my arm. I tell him about the town meeting, about the fight that was supposed to be to the death, about the walkers on poles. I tell him about our escape and then my story stops. And he calls me out on it, like he calls me out on everything.

"You gonna tell me what happened out there? With your dad and Merle?"

"Uh . . . Shit, mostly."

He laughs a little, but not much. "That's okay. You don't have to talk about it."

Which is a lot different from what he said the last time I didn't want to talk about something personal. And for some reason that makes me feel the need to explain. "It's just . . . most of it's not my story to tell." I think of the scars on my dad's back, the look on Merle's face when he saw them. "We walked around and we hunted. We got into a fight with some walkers on a bridge. And my dad and Merle . . . There's just . . . a lotta bad blood between 'em. More'n I realized."

"But your dad still wanted to go with him?"

"He was just tryin' to do what was right," I say, and almost laugh myself because of how different that is from what I would've told Carl yesterday. I still don't even understand it, really, all that's happened, my dad's choices. I need to talk to him. About a lot. But right now, here with Carl, I feel settled inside for the first time in days and I just want to enjoy that.

Except . . . I have one thing I have to do.

The light from the window is darkening when I stand and offer him my hand. "C'mon. I need your help with somethin'."

We go down the stairs, into the cell block. Beth's up at the top of the stairs in here, holding the baby. We go up to her, she sets Little Asskicker down in her crate, and before I know what's happening she's hugging me close, Beth is. "I'm so glad you're okay," she says, and I know I don't imagine her voice cracking and I hug her right back. She lets go, smiles, walks downstairs, and when she's a safe distance away I sigh and look over at Carl, who's smirking. And expectant.

"Alright, fine," I say grouchily. "She's not a bitch."

And he grins.

I nod at the baby, who's gurgling and watching the ceiling with her tiny dark eyes. "How do I hold her?"

"What?"

"How do I hold her?"

"Judith?"

"You named her Judith?"

He nods, and for a second I'm hurt that he never asked my opinion on the name, but then I remember that he probably never expected to see me again. "Alright. How do I hold Judith?"

Carl reaches down and takes her up. He looks so at home with her, and Carl's not really a naturally gentle person, but with Judith, he's much more tender than I think I know how to be. But I listen as he hands her over, tells me where to put my arms, how to support her head. And suddenly I'm holding a baby. A little pink bundle of a baby.

"Sway back and forth," Carl tells me, but I keep on standing stock still.

"I can't, I'll drop her."

"You won't drop her."

"One step at a time, man."

He watches me for a minute. Then, "What changed your mind?"

I look down at her. My God, she's tiny. Her eyelids are half-closed. I don't think she minds me being so still. Probably gets sick of rocking so much. "She's not goin' anywhere. I'm not goin' anywhere." I sigh. "And . . . she's family. Like you." I don't look at him when I say that. But I look up at him when I say the next part. The part that I really, really need to say, and should probably say fast if I don't want to cry.

"We were holed up at my mom's house."

It takes a second for him to see where I'm going with this. "Sydney, it's okay, you don't have to –"

"Just listen."

And he does.

"Me 'n my mom, my dad and my uncle. Mom and Dad had gone over to my Nana and Papaw's house early on . . . They were dead. By the third day at Mom's, Dad was saying we needed to move, get to one of the refugee centers, because the walkers were gettin' thicker and thicker."

I've started to sway. Look how far I've come.

"Mom didn't wanna go. They were fightin' a lot by then, my parents. I mean, they always fought, but it was gettin' worse. That night, Mom left the house alone. Didn't tell nobody. She said later that she'd gone to check on a friend, this guy she'd dated a few times . . . I think she really went lookin' for alcohol. Our liquor cabinet was empty, and she'd been drinking a lot 'fore the outbreak . . ."

Judith's fallen asleep in my stiff arms.

"She came back, she's bit," I whisper. "And that was that."

Slowly, slowly, I lower the baby back into her crate, her small, safe crate. Then I look her big brother straight in the eye. "I wanted you to know."

His hand finds mine. He doesn't tell me he's sorry because he knows I don't like it. But his grip, his face, it all says enough. And I squeeze his hand back.

. . . . .

That night, after I've technically gone to bed, I hold Mom's picture in my hands for a long time. Only it's not just Mom's picture, is it? And after a few minutes of looking only at her, getting to know – again – each detail of her face, I let my eyes slip to the man she's in the arms of. And I look at him for a while. Then I put the picture back in its place, turn off my flashlight, and leave my cell. I try to get to the staircase as quickly as possible so he won't see me. But he does.

"Hey, Little Bit."

I let out a breath, my foot already on the first stair, and turn slowly around, scowling. And there's my uncle, locked in the dining room. He's stepping up from the shadows, slipping his arms through the bars. "C'mere for a sec."

I stay where I am.

"Please?" Merle whispers. And it's not a nice please. But I go anyway, mostly because I don't want to cause any extra trouble, and so he'll stop loud-whispering across our cell block before he wakes everyone up.

"What is it?" I ask when I'm closer, stopping just out of his arms' reach.

"Think you and me should have a little talk."

"'Bout what?"

"'Bout a lotta things."

A lot of things . . . Like pointing a gun at Maggie? Kidnapping me? Beating Glenn to a pulp? Letting the Governor get his hands on me? Oh, and then there's the newest addition to the list – letting that happen to my dad. And that new addition, I think it's the main reason my hands now turn into fists.

"I don't wanna talk to you." And I spin and walk away.

"Hey, now. C'mon darlin', I'm just tryin' to work out our little problems."

"Ain't none of our problems little." I reach the staircase, look back at him one more time. "And most of 'em probably can't be worked out. So g'night." And I bound up the stairs and he doesn't say another word.

Carol and Lori's cell is dark. It's just Carol's cell now, I guess. I don't want to think about that. I walk across the balcony, all the way to the end, where the last cell is lit up by a flashlight. I move in the doorway and Dad's sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun. "Ain't you ever asleep when you're s'posed to be?" he says when he sees me. Then he must take in the look on my face, because he sets the gun and rag on the floor. "What is it, Syd?"

In answer, I go to him, sit, wrap my arms around him, and – and this wasn't part of the plan – break down.

"Aw, baby girl . . ."

I was supposed to be more controlled, more grownup than this, but I guess that's out the window now, so here we go, here we go, things start to spill out.

"How could he do that to you?" is the first thing I wail, as softly as I can, into his shirt. "He was your dad! Dads aren't supposed to – they don't –"

"Darlin', it was a long time ago . . ."

"I don't care! He – he –" And I hate him, my faceless grandfather. I hate him more than I've ever hated anyone, anyone, the Governor included. Dad holds me and says shh, shh, but I'm not even close to done.

"I've been such a brat . . ." And I have been. Because I don't even have scars on my back. I thought I had it so bad, but I don't even have scars on my back. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Sweetheart, it's okay, it's okay. I shouldn'ta drug you off like that. That was my fault."

"But you were, you were just, you were just doin' what you thought was best, and I – I'm so sorry I said I hate you, I don't hate you, and – and you're not a shitty dad, neither, you're the best dad –"

"Sydney, stop cryin'." He kisses my head. "Shh, shh. Stop cryin'."

"I'm such a brat . . ."

"No, you ain't. Hush."

It takes a few minutes, but I calm down. Dad keeps stroking my hair even after I'm close to normal, and I have to say it another time, because I'm so afraid he won't believe me. "I'm sorry . . ."

"I know that, baby girl."

"I shouldn'ta said I –"

"No, no, don't you go into that again, missy . . . You threw one fit. Most kids throw a dozen a day for reasons that ain't nearly as good as the ones you had."

"That don't make it okay."

"No, it don't, but unless you're plannin' on doin' it again, I don't see us havin' a problem."

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

"Little Bit, I know that . . ." Dad wipes my face off. "Good Lord, Sydney, you really think I took any of that seriously? You're eleven, I don't take nothin' you say seriously." He tickles me in the stomach to show me he's joking, and I'm ticklish and so I can't help but giggle, even with my eyes still all swollen up. "And I love you, too, for all you're a drama queen."

I swipe my hand over my eyes. "I ain't a drama queen."

"There ya go. Now you sound more like my girl."

But I have a question, still. And I look right at Dad to ask it, but I'm careful to swallow first so my voice doesn't tremble anymore. Not so much, anyway.

"Why'd he do it?"

"My old man?"

I nod.

It takes him a while to answer. When he does, it's matter-of-fact. "That's a good question."

And I have to lean into him again.