She was looking at her hands - the thin fingers, the blue veins. So much, just under the surface. Blood, and guts, and gore... all held together with skin. She remembered Morgan changing her bandages; how the red had browned like dying poppies. But here she was, still, in the middle of nowhere. Thirteen days on the road, chasing ghosts.

"What are you looking at?" he asked her. "Y'alright?"

"Thinking," she responded, pushing at a cuticle, ignoring the dirt and blood under her nails.

"About the men?" Morgan asked.

The day before they had come across a group of them - three, to be exact. They had claimed they only wanted to take half their supplies and leave. Of course, Morgan was only waiting for his moment, but when they grabbed her... all the training effortlessly flowed from her, taking two of them down easily. She had stepped over their dead bodies, leaving Morgan, who had already put down the third, to make sure the others didn't turn.

"Weapons," she said, holding up her hands for him, showing the front than the back - blanking on the words to explain.

"... they can be," Morgan said quietly. "When you have to use 'em like that."

"Always," she said with an air of finality.

"Always what, P?" he asked, using the nickname he had given her, refusing to call her Phoenix.

"They... will always be," she said, "weapons. Can't undo."

"Maybe not," he said.

She appreciated that Morgan never tried to comfort or sugar-coat. He spoke his mind, and if it broke someone's heart, then so be it. Of course, she wasn't sad. Not exactly. The men had deserved it. Had wanted to kill her - maybe worse - because even now, she still knew there were things worse than death - like this. Like knowing, somehow, that something inside of her was broken because even her bones felt cold. She had killed. Like it was nothing. And it almost was... nothing... to her.

"Further?"

"Try again," Morgan said, still pushing her to speak. Always pushing her.

"How much?" she said, tongue feeling clumsy. "How much further we got?"

"A while," he said. "It ain't exactly a science anymore."

"Done?" she asked. "Should we?"

"Yeah. We're done for tonight."

"Tell me about the man? About... Rick?" she questioned.

"Again, P?" he asked, sounding tired.

"I want..." she said, pushing her hair out of her face, "I want... to be... ready. In case."

"There's no in case, P. I told you that," he said, looking into her eyes. "I told you he's a good man. He won't do anything to hurt us."

"In case."

In her dreams there was always fire. Orange, and red, and yellow - rising, billowing; but she wasn't afraid. She was stood outside of it, watching. She could smell the smoke. Taste it. Could hear each ember crack and pop in the darkness all around the burning light that threatened to eat up everything.

"I wish I could just... change."

The same six words. Always her voice. Softer, somehow. Easier. Wavering. Possibly hurt. Possibly trying to hide it. She would wake and wonder if it was a memory - not a dream. If this minute long scene that stretched and repeated was nothing more than her remembering something...

Did I ask for this? she wonders. Change. The way she does not recognize her body, or the feelings inside. Did I want this? Probably not. Probably should've been more specific. In her dreams, the stars always look closer than they are - seem more real.

You should've held on, she thinks to herself - at herself - as though the person she used to be is someone that exists outside of her now. You should've... you shouldn't have let go. Nothing feels like this anymore. You're gone.

You're just gone.

"Again," she demands grimly.

They have been walking for hours, the sun hot on their necks. They're following Morgan's map - praying to come across a car. Something to make it easier. Faster. She watches the annoyed tick of his jaw, the gnash of his teeth. Morgan is sick of her. She expects a fight, but instead he sighs and gives in.

"His name is Rick Grimes. Found him wandering in the middle of the street. He had been in a coma, didn't know anything about what had happened. He helped me and... he helped me find guns, left me with a walkie-talkie because... I had something I needed to do before I could go... go with him."

"Walkie...?"

"It's like a phone... but... it's not important. It was just a way for us to hear each other. To keep in touch. It didn't work anyway. He came across me, holed up in a town, clearing."

"Cop?" she asked. "Right?"

"He was a sheriff," Morgan said. "Yes."

"Good?" she asked. "Good with gun?"

"Had to be," he responded. "He's a good guy, P. You know I wouldn't be leading us into this if I thought it'd get us killed."

"And if..." she asked, "If he's... dead? Or... if he's... wrong?"

"Wrong?" he asked. "Like a walker?"

"No," she said shaking her head, and pointing at herself, "if he's wrong..."

Morgan sighed heavily, shaking his head, refusing to respond. She wasn't sure if it was because of what she implied about herself, or because of what would happen if Rick was messed up, too. She worried about Morgan - about how wholly he relied on this idea of a man she had never met; as though all of his hope was balled up in finding Rick, and if it didn't work out... where would that leave her? Or Morgan?

Clearing, she answered herself. We all got jobs to do.

"Further?" she asked to break the silence.

"You're like a broken record!" he muttered.

"What's that?" she asked, not understanding.

"What's a record?" he asked. When she nodded, he continued, "You know, people used to record themselves singing. Playing music. It was a big disc."

"Singing," she said flatly. "Waste."

"Waste of time?" Morgan guessed, trying to fill in the blank.

"Big," she nodded, adding, "big waste."