The amount of gas in their new car put the station wagon to shame. They drove well into the next day, Beth at the wheel as Daryl slept in the passenger seat. After the first couple of hours of driving, Beth's arms ached with tension, the slender muscles straining with anxiety. She had never been a big fan of driving, and even taking away all the other cars on the road, she still felt as though she was about to crash into something or kill someone; thankfully that wasn't the case, and as the morning light became an afternoon glow, she pulled over to the side of the road.

"Daryl," she said loudly. "Daryl, wake up!"

"Mrph," Daryl muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"This is the first decent place I saw," Beth said, pointing past his window and at an old brick house, set back in a field.

"I thought I said to stop at the first sign of anything with walls and a roof," Daryl groused.

"To be honest, I took that as more of a suggestion. Besides, I don't think anyone could blame me for wanting to find a place that may have a bed. Did you really want to spend another night sleeping on the floor?"

"Floor, ground, bed - don't make no difference to me," Daryl said, getting out of the car to stretch his legs.

"Right," Beth said skeptically. "Let's get our stuff and check it out."

Daryl followed her lead, grabbing his bow from the backseat, and walking a few steps behind her. When they got to the old wooden door, Beth knocked. For a minute the familiar gesture knocked her with a strange sense of nostalgia - she wondered who had lived here - who would've answered the door before the world had gone to hell.

There were no movement to be heard inside, so they moved around the building, checking the windows and walls for any breaks or points of entry. When all seemed pretty much secure, they went back to the door. Daryl angled himself in front of her as they walked into the house. There was the deafening sound of nothing - no people, no walkers, no animals scurrying about.

They went room by room in silence, checking it out until it was apparent that all was clear. Beth felt a gnawing pit in her stomach, reminding her of the funeral home - the place she once thought would be a temporary sanctuary for them. She dug her nails into her palms, trying not to panic.

"We stick together, right?" Beth asked.

Daryl, who was examining a stocked bookshelf in the living room, looked back at her and nodded warily at the thin tone in her voice. She was thankful he didn't ask her what she was thinking - though he probably knew - maybe he was having the same feeling himself. Or maybe he just didn't want to deal with her crying again.

"So," Beth said, trying for a lighter tone, "about that bed..."

"Go ahead," he said, "I ain't never kicked a girl outta bed before."

Beth, so startled at what he had said, started to laugh. Daryl looked at her confused, then suddenly his face began to turn red with embarrassment. He quickly turned back to the bookshelf, but not before Beth could stop herself from teasing him a little.

"Why, Daryl Dixon, I never..."

"That ain't what I meant, and you know it," Daryl shot back, not looking at her.

"Only joking," Beth assured him. "You sure you'll be okay down here?"

"Sure. It's got a couch - basically a bed with a back."

"That's one way of looking at it," Beth said with a laugh. "Anyways, I'm tired. I think I'm gonna head up and try to get some sleep."

"You not hungry?" Daryl asked.

"I know I should be, but... not really," Beth finished lamely.

"Well, I saw some stuff in the kitchen if you wake up and want somethin'."

"Thanks. Goodnight," Beth said softly.

"Night."

She left him looking at books, and went up to the only bedroom. It was a nice size - not too small, but cozy. In a way, it reminded her of her old room. The dresser had pictures of an older man and woman; they looked happy. Beth wondered if they had lived here or only visited on vacations away from the city.

The bed was made; the comforter was white and thick. She hadn't seen anything as beautiful in such a long time. Barely noticing the dust that flew up around her head when she flopped down onto the pillows; she snuggled her face in, trying to relax. Nothing bad is going to happen, Beth told herself. And if it does, you can handle it. You're fine. You're fine. You're fine.

Still, her palms felt clammy and her heart was skipping beats. The quiet in this place was like the quiet in the funeral home. It had lured her in, made her think she could stay - they could stay. Her and Daryl. And they could live, and be happy, and somehow everyone would find them. What a crock, Beth thought to herself. Had I really been that stupid?

In about an hour Beth was no closer to sleep than she had been when she laid down. Suddenly, she heard quiet footsteps in the hall. They walked closer, then hesitated. She heard the shuffle of feet and sat up straight, gripping the blankets to her chest as if they offered any protection.

"You awake, Beth?" Daryl asked quietly from the other side of the shut door.

"Yeah," Beth breathed out. "Come in."

"I thought you were tired," he said.

"Though I was, too," she grumbled. "What's up?"

"Found something I thought you might want," Daryl said as he pulled out a book from behind his back. "It's, uh, it's a journal. Whoever was using it only filled out a couple o' pages. I just ripped 'em out."

He set the notebook on the foot of the bed; it had a dark black leather cover. It looked soft and supple and made Beth want to touch it. She clenched her fists tightly and looked up at him. He had an almost... proud expression on his face when he presented her with a pen he had found.

"Thank you," she said. "I don't really keep a diary anymore... but I'm sure we can use it for something."

"Naw, that's yours," he countered. "Don't be so quick on givin' it up. Anyway, I'm gonna go back downstairs. I'll be awake for a while since you let me sleep... so don't be worryin', alright?"

"Alright," Beth said with a small smile. She hated to admit it, but she did already feel safer knowing he would be awake.

After Daryl had left, wishing her a goodnight for the second time, Beth leaned over and picked up the journal. The binding was beautiful. She turned it over in her palms, considering it; she knew she didn't want to use it for its intended purpose, but she also didn't want to hurt his feelings. She flipped the cover open and next to the jagged edges of the ripped out pages was Daryl's scratchy writing:

Day one: I'm not alone anymore.