Day two: I never dream about M. It's as if what happened with him is so horrific I can't even recreate it without focus or will - neither of which I'll lend my memories. Let that cabin burn. Let T. & J. burn. Let M. burn and turn to ash...

Beth had been staring at the journal page for so long the lines started to blur. She recognized the loopy, feminine script as her own, but had little recollection of writing it. She shut the cover and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It was hard for Beth not to focus on how dark and shadowy her mind felt, as if dark creatures were snapping at her synapses, but she tried.

When Beth finally gathered enough courage to face the day, she did not expect to find Daryl sprawled across the couch. Usually he was up before she was - his arms full of game, face hot and sweaty. And while his face was both hot and sweaty, his eyes were looking unseeingly up to the ceiling.

"Daryl?" Beth asked, leaning slightly over him to look at his face.

"Yeah?" he asked back, voice rough.

"You feelin' okay? You don't look too good," she said, resisting the urge to press her hand against his forehead. It was a gesture that was so purely her mother it made her wrists ache with the echo of family.

"Think I caught something," he said. "I'll be fine though."

"I know you will be," she said.

"Then why you sound so worried, girl?"

"I'm not," Beth said, grabbing a blanket off the back of a highback chair. "You want this?"

"Yeah," Daryl said moving to get up until Beth stopped him.

"What are you thinking, Daryl Dixon? You lay down right now," Beth ordered.

When he was settled back into the couch she draped the blanket over him. Part of her wanted to tucked the edges into him, so he was wrapped up tight, but wasn't sure how he would take too much fussing. Instead she stood awkwardly and wiped her hands on the front of her jeans.

"I think I saw some soup in the kitchen. Canned soup should still be good, shouldn't it?" she asked, not stopping for his answer, "I think it would be. I'll go heat some up. Lucky you taught me how to start a fire, huh?"

"No one likes cold soup," Daryl muttered, rolling onto his side.

"Well, you know, gazpacho," Beth said.

"Gesundheit," Daryl said dryly.

"Hilarious," Beth replied. "You know, if you keep it up I'm not going to buy that you're sick at all."

"I am sick," he said sullenly.

"Sure, wise guy."

Without warning he grabbed her hand - immediately she noticed how clammy it was in comparison to hers. He moved it to his head, pressing her skin against his fevered forehead. There was no denying that he was running a fever, not that she had ever really doubted it. Beth felt sympathy for him, knowing how much Daryl hated not being able to be out and make use of himself.

Crouching down in front of him, Beth drew back her hand from his face. The closer she examined him, the sicker he actually looked. His eyes were cloudy, face pale, lips dry and cracked. She felt anxiety chew at her stomach but battled it down.

"Good thing Carol isn't here," Daryl said more to himself than her.

"Why?" Beth asked.

"Because she would've set me on fire by now."

"What?" Beth exclaimed. "That was Carol?"

"Rick told me, back at the prison," Daryl confirmed. "I miss Carol."

"I do, too," Beth admitted.

"She was my friend," Daryl said, still sounding more as if he were talking to himself.

"Yes, she loved you a lot," Beth murmured.

"She loved you a lot, too," Daryl said, "she always thought you were stronger than everyone gave you credit for. But we all loved you."

"We all loved you, too," she said. "Are you going to be okay while I go get you some water and soup?"

"Mhmm," he hummed, dozing off.

Beth gave him one last look before turning off towards the kitchen. They had already looked through the cupboards when they arrived, so she knew pretty much where everything was. She pulled out an old can of chicken noodle and sent a silent thank you to the couple who had lived here before.

Walking out the door off the kitchen, Beth looked up at the sky. It was an overcast day - the clouds held a promise of long, hard rain. Scurrying quickly, she made her way to the tree-line where a small forest began to start gathering firewood. She had an armful, held against her chest, when she heard a twig snap.

Beth froze.

She waited for a moment, than a moment longer. Her first reaction was walkers - a herd maybe - knowing her luck. Her whole body stiffened until the muscles ached, but nothing came. The silence fell heavy around her. Maybe it was a squirrel, she told herself. Daryl will be happy if there's squirrels.

Beth turned her back to the trees, looking out towards the house. She couldn't help but to remember Daryl's words: we all loved you. She stood, thinking about every last person until she found herself back at the archer. She was hit with a memory of him staring at her from across the table in the funeral parlor, his eyes telling her probably more than he wanted her to know. It seemed like lifetimes ago, and the knowledge she had gleamed in that moment was not anything she could use now. Not after...

Suddenly she felt someone knock her to her feet. Beth fell, tumbling on top of the firewood, smashing her knee roughly into the hard ground. She grimaced, wondering if she had broken something, when she was hit on the back of the head. Dazed and aching, she looked up into a familiar face - one that made her stomach drop sickly.

"Well, well, well... if it isn't the one who got away," Mark sneered, looking down at her. Before Beth could scramble for her knife, someone was behind her, holding her arms. "You remember Tommy."

"Let me go," Beth demanded, trying not to cry. "My friend will be looking for me."

"Ain't no one gonna find you this time," Tommy said. "Right, Mark?"

"No one found her last time, moron," Mark replied lightly. "Unless you count the walkers, but I guess you made it through that, huh?"

"And I'll make it through this," Beth hissed, still in pain.

"Tommy here is going to see to it that you don't," Mark said as Beth felt the unmistakable press of a gun against her temple. "But first we wanna say goodbye to you real proper like. We're gonna take you with us, and if you're real good and don't scream, we'll even let your friend live."

Beth snapped her mouth shut. Every fiber of her being ached to call for Daryl - but he was weak with fever, and probably not even conscious. She clenched her jaw so hard her molars panged. Tommy helped her up roughly, sending her skin crawling in ways that were far too familiar. She cast one last look towards the house. At least he'll know I cared this time, she thought. Because we all loved you, too, Daryl Dixon - even me.