My mother comes into my room.
I ignore her.
"His funeral is Thursday," she says. Her voice sounds brittle.
"Why didn't you let me take him to the doctor?"
She doesn't answer.
"Did you think that he would leave you alone?"
I sit up, stare at my former guardian angel.
"Did you think you'd get more time to snort heroin?"
"Merle."
"Did you think that maybe Daryl would just fade away, you wouldn't have to deal with him? Or at this point, is it that you didn't care anymore? All you wanted was to get yourself out?"
I'm yelling, and I don't know why, or how to stop. All I know is that either it was my mother's fault, my father's, or mine.
My mother's cell phone rings.
"Hello?"
"Is this the Dixon residence?"
"Yes."
"We've called to give you the results of the autopsy. Daryl Dixon's cause of death was untreated acute myeloid leukemia."
"Y-you mean I could have saved him?"
I think my voice is made of glass.
"It's sometimes mistaken for a less serious illness. AML is also very rare in children. I'm sorry."
"I could have saved him!" I scream. I realize that I'm crying.
I hear the dial tone.
Everyone's gone.