"Shit. Shit. Shit." I'm raking my hands through my hair, pacing, taking deep breaths. Panicking, basically. And I have every right to. Because I'm bleeding. Because this is the worst possible time for it to happen, the worst. Possible. Time. We're about to go to freaking war and I'm – my body –

"Shit!"

I sit on the bed, jump back up. What do I do? I have no idea what to do!

Yes, I do. Yes I do.

I run up the staircase as fast and as quiet as I can, so Merle and whoever else is already in the dining room don't see me. Carol's cell is one of nearest ones to the stairs. I stand in her doorway, looking at her shape under the grey cover. "Carol?" I whisper, dry-mouthed. I start to step inside, start to say her name again and –

"Sydney!"

And shit.

There he is, my dad. He's just come from his cell, he's buttoning up his shirt, and he's nearing me and frowning. It's early, but late enough that I figured he'd be up and downstairs by now, I didn't think –

"Don't wake her up, she don't get enough sleep as it is," Dad whispers as he reaches me, right before he tugs me away from Carol's door. Away from Carol. He glances in her cell, I guess to make sure she's still out of it, before turning to where I am at the railing. "What do you need?"

"I – I need . . . Carol."

My voice sounds little, and Dad hears, which is awful for me. And I couldn't have come up with anything better than I need Carol?

"Syd," my dad says carefully. Suspiciously. Worriedly. "What's goin' on?"

I don't want to tell him, I don't. This is something Mom was supposed to be here for. Dad was not supposed to be the one –

"Hey!" Dad bends down to me. "Whatsa matter with you?"

And I don't have a choice, I really don't. I hug myself, try to look at Dad, and I can't, not until after I get the actual words out, and I feel my face flush over as I stammer out, "I got – I got my, my period."

For a horrible second, Dad just stares back at me, his face unreadable, and I can't keep eye contact at all. Then he abruptly stands straight up and says something under his breath – Shit, I'm pretty sure – and waves towards the doorway he just pulled me from. "Wake Carol up," he says without looking at me. And I do.

I tell her the situation, my wonderful friend Carol, letting it pour out as fast as I can, and I can't get my voice above a mumble because my dad's leaning on the wall by the door, rubbing his eyes most of the time I'm talking, and I hate saying these damned words in front of him all over again. Carol, though, she's easy to tell. She ignores Dad, listens to me, and just nods like I'm talking about a hunting trip. And I love her for that.

After I get it out, Dad says, "Ain't she young?" His jaw is all tight and I wish so much that I hadn't run into him, that he'd never found out about this. He never should have had to know.

"Maybe a little, but not unusually so." Carol's holding my hand. That helps things a little.

Dad's flat-out grimacing now. He flutters his fingers. "Could you . . ."

"Of course."

Dad nods. And then he looks at me. He sighs, looks away, looks back, and God, why did I tell him? "You good?" he eventually asks.

"Yeah," I answer, even as I cling to Carol's hand for dear life. But Dad leaves, which takes about a billion pounds off my back. The long breath I let out is all shaky, though, and Carol touches my shoulder.

"Honey, this isn't a bad thing."

"Yeah, I know," I tell her, because it seems like the right thing to say even if she's wrong, even if this is most definitely a bad thing. And it definitely is. "Just . . . do you have . . . stuff?"

Carol gives me a bunch of pads from her own bag. I stare at the things as she wraps them up in one of her shirts, for privacy's sake. As if privacy exists anymore. Oh, God, what if everyone finds out –

"My mom – my mom used tampons," I say as Carol hands me the bundle. "Do I not need to use those, or . . . ?"

"Let's just start with these. Ease you into it." She sits back on the bed as I stare at the package in my hands. Carol, she smoothes my hair, the way I wouldn't have dreamed of letting her do nine months ago. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah." That's a lie.

"Do you have any questions about it?"

"No. I don't think so. I mean, my mom talked to me about . . . sex. And everything. When I was nine. So it's not . . . I mean, I get what's happening, I just . . ." And I'm in danger of rambling, so I stop right there.

"Okay," Carol says softly. "I'm here if you need anything. And so's your dad, you know."

I snort, thinking of how fast he got out of here, the way he looked when I told him about it. "Yeah."

Carol pats my shoulder. "Give him time. You're his little girl. This a lot for him to take in."

"He took it in fine when I started killin' walkers right and left," I point out. Maybe a touch bitterly.

"It's different." She gives me a nice, comforting smile and my bitter feeling is suddenly washed away by a flood of gratitude towards Carol, towards God or Fate or the Universe for letting her be here, and I have to hug her neck.

Probably those things called hormones making me all emotional.

. . . . .

I hate this. I hate everything about this. I want my mother. I very much want my mother. I want chocolate and coffee. I also want to not feel like I'm wearing a goddamn diaper, and I want this stupid stomachache that I now figure must be cramps to go the hell away, and I want Carl back, and I want to shoot something. I'm lying on my bed, plucking my bowstring, trying to remind myself why it would be a bad thing if the Governor were to show up right now looking for a fight, when someone blocks out the morning light coming through my doorway. "Hey."

My dad. I close my eyes. "Hi."

"You should come eat somethin'."

No way. Because I think everyone's up by now, their unique blend of voices is echoing through the cell block in that quiet way, and I'm not up for company. Or for being company. I feel too different from my old self. Old self meaning the girl I was yesterday. Which I know is silly, but sometimes silly things make a lot of sense when they're in your own head. But to Dad I just say, "I'm not hungry."

He comes and stands by the bed, resting his arm on the top bunk. I watch him but I don't sit up. "Look, Little Bit," he begins, slowly, and he actually bites off a hangnail before he says the rest. "If we need to talk 'bout anything, we can. If you got . . . questions . . ."

Hell no. Hell no. Hell no.

"Dad." I do sit up now, fast enough that I get dizzy, and I pull out my serious face for him, because I'm very serious indeed about wanting him to not go there. "Mom . . . talked to me already. I'm . . . I don't have questions."

Dad huffs out a breath. "Yeah, I figured she probably took care of that." His eyes go to something behind me. My picture of the three of us. But then he's looking at something else so fast I'm thinking that maybe he didn't look after all. "Guess she'da been better for you to have around right now."

I swallow. I don't have to say it, he knows I miss her. And he doesn't have to say his part, either. Dad, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. "I still ain't got this solo dad stuff down, do I?" he says instead.

And I could tell him that he's wrong, that even alone he's a great dad, but I already sobbed that into his chest just the other night. So instead I think, shrug, and say with as much of a smile as I can muster, "You're gettin' better at it."

He chuckles once, which I like. It makes it easier for me to smile. But he drops his eyes to the ground when he says, "Be easier if you'd stop growin' up on me."

And it's not like him to say something like that and I'm not sure what to say back. Finally I just go with a simple, "Sorry." And I am. Because sometimes it would be easier on me, too. Like, if I was Judith's age. There would be none of this growing up stuff, and I wouldn't even know Carl was gone today. I wouldn't have the sense to be angry at Merle and I wouldn't be able to miss my mom and I wouldn't be able to fear the Governor. Or the other things that creep into my nightmares.

Damn. Now I'm thinking about all of that, not just my . . . my period. But Judith, Judith's probably sleeping right now, and I doubt there's a scary thought in her head. All she knows is warmth and love and safety.

Lucky girl, Judith.

"Hey," Dad says, bringing me back to now, to one of the spots of good I do have in my life, can't deny that. "When all this is over, and the Governor's in the ground, I owe you a huntin' trip. Alright? Just the two of us."

He really knows me, doesn't he? Because nothing sounds better right now than that. A hunting trip. Something normal, something I did back before all this, before all of the things that came with the walkers, the things that came with getting older. Yes, we'll go on a hunting trip.

But first we have to put the Governor in the ground.

"Syd, you sure you ain't confused over nothin'? 'Cause I can send your uncle in here. Have him talk to ya 'bout them coons . . ."

I throw my pillow at him and he holds me down and tickles me.