"They're good people," Tyreese is insisting to Rick thirty minutes later while the three of us walk across Woodbury.

"I'm sure they are," Rick says, not so convincingly. "I'd still like to meet them myself before I make any promises."

But Dad and Michonne are already checking the buses that make up part of the Woodbury wall, hoping that one of them works or at least can be made to. Because there are, according to Tyreese, about fifteen or so people left here – the old people, the sick ones, the little kids. And Rick's thinking of bringing them back with us. To join us at the prison.

Something's definitely changed in Rick, if he's seriously considering that. I think . . . I don't know . . . I think it might be a good thing, that change. I mean, it still makes me nervous, this plan, and it makes my dad nervous, and there's a part of me that doesn't want those people – who were probably at the arena that night cheering for Dixon blood – in our prison. I don't want to be responsible for them, I don't want to have to protect them the way I would Carol or Beth or Judith. But then again . . . It's a kind, generous thing to do, taking them in, and we don't get to do stuff like that much anymore.

And anyway, I don't have to forgive them. Not immediately, anyway. Not ever, if I don't want to. Hell, once they're at the prison, I guess I actually don't owe them a damn thing.

My uncle would probably be against it, letting them in.

I don't know.

Tyreese leads us to the other side of this little – empty and dark – town. He points at a door when we near. It's nothing special, just a little white wooden thing in the side of a red brick building. "There we are. Like I said, they're good people. Won't cause any trouble."

"And they're all old or young?" asks Rick as we walk. I look up at the sky, find the North Star. There you go, Andrea. Find your way home.

If there is a heaven. I've never decided.

"For the most part. Except me and Sasha, of course." He pauses. "And Elsie."

"Elsie?" I repeat. I glance at Rick as I ask, "Ain't she one of the Governor's soldiers?"

"She is," Tyreese says. Carefully. "Or . . . was. But she's not . . . she's not like the others. Really. And lately she's been a defender of the prison. As much as she could be."

"That why the Governor left her behind?" says Rick.

"Yes and no . . . She's . . . been having some mental issues."

Rick stops in his tracks. We're right outside the door now. Rick, he lowers his voice, and I turn and survey the street. "We can't bring a crazy person back to the prison with us."

"She's not crazy. She's never hurt anyone at Woodbury."

"It's not a chance I can take."

"I'll be personally responsible for her. She's a good woman. C'mon, man, just meet her, give her a chance."

I look back in time to see Rick pressing his lips together, thinking. Eventually he gives a few nods. "Alright. Let us in."

So Tyreese does, and I hear a few gasps from inside, the kind of gasps scared people can't help but give off when a door opens. Rick follows Tyreese in, and after one more check over my shoulder, I do the same.

There are a few candles that give off a little light, sitting in the middle of a filled circle of chairs. Several faces, wrinkled ones and smooth ones, look up at me and Rick with uncertain eyes that glow in the firelight. I see Sasha standing against the wall, and she still looks unsure of all of this, she's biting her lip and eyeing her brother. And then one more figure steps forward from the shadows in the far left corner, and I tense up when I see it coming, thinking this must be the mysterious Elsie. Then the woman comes closer to the candles and I can make out her face and everything I know explodes into a million pieces.

. . . . .

I love dawn. I always have. And I love it today, I can't help but love it, but it shouldn't have come, there shouldn't have been a dawn today, and as Dad steers the motorcycle through the first gate at the prison I press my face into his vest so I won't have to look at all the gold in the field and all the happy morning things you'll see if you can look past the walkers. I don't want to see happy things right now. I don't know what that would do to me.

I can tell when we go through the courtyard gate because I feel us moving onto the smoother surface of the asphalt. The prison. Home. Safety. Privacy. Right? She can't take that away. I won't let her. She'll live in a different part of the prison, where I never see her. And I never want to see her. She can't have my Cell Block C or my catwalk.

Dad stops the motorcycle and it's time to get off, time to step back into reality only so I can run from it again, run straight to my cell, where she can't come, and I'll hide away, or maybe throw things, have a fit, break down, scream, thrash here and there until my dad, my daddy, has to come and hold me and make me calm down, although I might not be able to, once I start I may never stop, and I need to get off of here now. I do, I swing off the motorcycle right after my dad does. The truck and the bus have parked behind us. The bus. Oh, God, have to get away. To the door, the door, the door to the prison, my prison, that's where I go. Dad calls after me. His voice is hoarse. But I can't stop, Dad, I can't let her see me, she might try to talk to me again and I can't handle hearing any more, I can't. I can't.

Carl. Carl's stepped out the door, stepped out here. There are others with him. Our others, and I love them, too, but they're not who I need right now, that's all Carl, my Carl. Were Carl and I mad at each other when I left? Yes, we were. We were. Oh, well. I move to him, doing my best to block out the sounds coming from the bus. Carl, he's staring at the bus, though, confused and maybe on the verge of some sort of bad emotion, but all that can wait. He sees me right before I grip his arm, right before I press my face into his shoulder, and just like I knew he would, he forgets about whatever we were mad about when I left, I can feel the forgiveness in the gentle way he touches my shoulder, mutters my name, and how concerned his eyes are when mine meet them, and the slight flash of fear over those eyes when he sees my face – the under-eye circles, the tear stains, probably some dirt and blood, I'm sure I look terrible. But he looks beautiful and I need him. He's talking. What's he saying? Something about the bus, what's happening, why am I upset, but I can't grasp his words and so I just start saying my own, saying what he needs to know, saying what I can't stop from circling my brain, he needs to know it.

"It wasn't Elsie like the name."

"What?"

"The Governor's soldier, Elsie, it wasn't Elsie like the name." I hold his face in between my hands so he can't look away, so he has to take in every word, because I'm so afraid he won't get it, because I had so much trouble getting it, didn't I? "It was the initials, 'L' and 'C' . . . LC."

And it's like a magnet, really. My eyes are pulled over to that bus, they're somehow pulled over and they move past all the extra people, and before the panic sets in, before I can jerk my eyes back, I've seen her. Wringing her hands, her dark hair pulled back and shining in the morning sun, a stained T-shirt, a gun at her waist. A goddamn gun. And how nervous she is, how nervous, as she looks around this place – my place, not hers – with those pretty green eyes of hers.

The bitch. The selfish bitch.

Carl's seen me looking, he's looking now, too. I don't want him to do that, but I guess he should know. Yes, I need him to know, that was the point, right?

"LC for Leah Cartwright." I let him go and turn towards the door. "Meet my mom."

THE END

. . . . .

A.N.: "Sydney: Season Four" is up. Enjoy.