In the next days the group found themselves swept up in a marathon for survival, constantly on the move to avoid the groups of walkers that filtered through the trees and clawed at the sides of the buildings where they attempted to take refuge. They moved often, quickly, and always suddenly – barely having a moment to catch their breath and rest before they were forced to flee again.

Lori usually took the passenger seat in the station wagon next to Rick where she could stretch her legs out and sleep against the window. She tried her best to mask her exhaustion and discomfort, especially when the nausea got bad enough that she wanted to curl up around a toilet bowl and never leave its side. Sometimes her husband's hand would slide across the seat to collect hers from her side, knotting their fingers together in the wide empty space between them. His act of comfort did very little to ease the flipping of her stomach or the sleep that clawed at her, clouding her vision and thoughts - yet the silent confirmation that he was still there made her feel better.

They hadn't spoken since their conversation days before when he'd told her he needed more time. She'd done her best to respect his wishes and she kept their interactions to a minimum by going to Carol or Hershel if she needed anything. She hoped that he would come around soon and talk to her… if there was anything left to talk about. She'd tried to initiate a conversation the first time he'd taken her hand, but the end result had been him casting a glance into the rearview mirror at Beth and Carol before retreating away from her again.

Sometimes she wasn't able to fight off the sleep that demanded so fiercely that she close her eyes, just for a minute. She'd often open them to look around her as discretely as possible, confused about where she was and how much time had passed. The others never mentioned her naps, though sometimes Carol would lean over the seat to offer her some water and a gentle squeeze to her shoulder.

It had been two weeks since her conversation with Rick and a month since losing the farm when she'd started to feel like she was coming down with something. It started out as nausea and weariness that she dismissed as her advancing pregnancy, but when she'd developed a sore throat and the sniffles, Lori was forced to accept the truth: she was sick.

She knew that Carol had noticed her more obvious symptoms, but Lori had dismissed the other woman's attempts to mother her, insisting that she was fine – it was just a cold.

The group had found a tire yard a few miles off the main highway and they'd set up camp in the one-room office that had also acted as a staff lounge. Lori took the only piece of furniture in the room that was suitable for sleep: a loveseat that forced her to either position herself with her knees at her chest or her feet draped over the arm.

The back of her throat and tonsils had become an abstract painting of white splotches that she inspected apprehensively in the rounded glass of a carafe in the kitchen area. She'd taken to gargling salt-water to sterilize and treat the infection and she hoped that it would do the trick before she was caught out.

Her luck ran out one morning when she woke to cool fingers pressed to her fevered forehead and then her cheek. She opened her eyes slowly to find that it wasn't even dawn yet, the room barely lit by a bluish winter sun. Blinking rapidly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light and focused on her husband's concerned features.

"You were talking in your sleep," he explained, his hand moving from her cheek to the back of her neck. She cringed as his fingers twisted into the damp nest of her hair and she tried to sit up. His other hand landed on her shoulder, pressing her back into her pillow. "You're burning up, Lor," he frowned and withdrew his hand from beneath her.

She offered him the best smile she could muster, but she could feel how weak and unconvincing it was. "I think I have a cold," she muttered lamely, turning her face into the palm of his hand that had settled against her cheek again. "I'm alright." Her reassurance was punctuated by a yawn that stretched her raw throat, making her wince at the pain then cringe at the taste and smell of infection on her breath.

Rick frowned, his fingers moving to prod her throat for her swollen tonsils. Lori raked her fingers into his and turned over onto her side, snuggling into her sleeping bag. "I'm alright," she repeated, closing her eyes to go back to sleep. "Just need to sleep a bit longer."

Her husband allowed her to continue her grip on his fingers as he settled with his back against the couch, her arm draped over his shoulder and across his chest, pulling him into a hug. In spite of the pain in her throat and her exhaustion she smiled into his shoulder until she fell asleep.

XXXX

In the morning Rick insisted that Hershel examine her in spite of her protests. The undue attention embarrassed her and she settled against her pillow, avoiding the curious looks of the others as they shuffled like Walker's around the small space.

"Well," Hershel turned off the flashlight that he had been shining into her mouth and dropped his hands into his lap, his attention shifting from her to Rick. "She's got an infection. A bad one too."

Rick nodded from his spot on the arm of the couch where he'd been sitting with his arms crossed, silently observing the older man's work. "What do we do about it? Get her some antibiotics?"

Hershel nodded slowly, turning the flashlight over in his hands thoughtfully. "She'll need to keep warm: keep her-," he looked up when Lori placed her hand over his to still his movements.

Lori looked between the two of them, annoyed at being left out of a conversation of which she was the subject. "She is the cat's mother," she snipped, pushing her hair back off her burning forehead. "She can hear you just fine."

"Of course," Hershel offered her an apologetic smile. "You'll have to keep your chest warm to keep the infection from spreading. And we'll start you on antibiotics."

Lori nodded and leaned back into her pillow, caught off guard when Rick leaned in. She pulled her face back to avoid being hit when he grabbed her blanket and pulled it up to her chin. He didn't meet her eyes when she sent him a small smile that was laced with a hint of impatience. She wouldn't have the group fawning over her – she wouldn't be a burden to them.

"We'll do a run today," Rick got up from the couch and headed over to the side of the room where the others were crowded around a map on the desk. Carol had already lit the one-burner camping stove and was in the process of boiling quinoa in a small pot. Lori watched as the other women pierced a can of SPAM and tore the aluminum lid back. The smell of the canned meat filled the room and Lori quickly buried her face into her blanket and laid back down on her side, instantly nauseated.

"Sorry," Carol winced sympathetically, holding the can guiltily.

Lori rolled her eyes impatiently and turned her back to the room, pulling her hair across her nose. Unfortunately, she hadn't showered in a few weeks and her hair didn't smell much better. She settled for burying her head under her blanket until she could barely hear the meeting.

She was startled by something prodding her and she realized she must have fallen asleep.

"You gotta eat," the gruff voice came with a hard jab to her shoulder blade and she turned over to find that Daryl had poked her with the side of a metal plate. Lori looked past him to the others who were eating while still pouring over the map, debating amongst themselves in hushed tones.

Lori spotted her son glancing between her and the map and she narrowed her eyes at his semi-amused expression.

"None o' those pussies would come over," Daryl pulled her attention back to him and then extended food that he shoved in her direction, almost directly under her nose.

Holding her breath, Lori turned her face away and shook her head, feeling a sickly warmth begin to tingle along her hairline and up her spine. "Give it to Carl," she muttered into her hand, her voice like sandpaper on her sore throat. "I can't eat it."

Daryl scoffed and dropped the plate beside the couch, scattering quinoa and cubed SPAM over the edge and across the wooden grain of the end table. "Take it up with Rick," he muttered. "I ain't no dragon tamer."

Lori shot a wilted scathing look at his back and looked to her husband who was nodding approval at something Carl had said. Sighing, she looked to the food, her hand finding her abdomen where she had noticed a slight puffiness about a week before. It looked more like she was bloated than pregnant at the moment, but she knew that the baby was in there and that it needed her to take care of it. She decided she would try to tackle the food, but first she needed to go outside and pee, then vomit.

When she came back into the cabin she found the place in a state of commotion while everyone got dressed. Her food had been cleared away from the table and she sighed in what she knew should be disappointment and not the relief that was actually settling over her. Morning sickness was bad enough without eat processed lips and assholes from god knew what animal.

Across the room she spotted Carl pulling his coat on and she frowned at the thought that the group had decided to move on so soon. They'd barely seen a single Walker in the days since they'd found the yard. However, her disappointment quickly dissolved into confusion at the curious sight of Rick standing still barefoot by the map.

Weaving her way through the group she squeezed Carol's arm in apology for her former behaviour, and then Daryl's for the same reason. When she finally reached Rick's side she must have already been wearing her question on her face.

"They're all gonna head back to that housing development a couple miles back – hopefully there will be something left for us to pick through. Carl's going with them," he continued, picking up a cup of water. He raised his eyes, as though waiting for her to challenge him on the issue, his jaw tight as he worked it.

"If that's what you think is best," she agreed, trying to keep her expression neutral, tapping down the anxiety that instantly accelerated her heart rate. She mimicked his posture, crossing her own arms in front of her, her back finding the filing cabinet behind her.

Rick's jaw twitched and he nodded again. "We'll swing around to that village back south to check for a pharmacy or a clinic," he kept his eyes on the cork board ahead of him and it looked almost like he was actually reading the postings there. He ignored her surprised look and continued. "Hershel made us a list of what we need for you and some other stuff to keep an eye out for. They're gonna check further down the road past the development for another clinic or somethin' to get supplies."

"You're taking me?" Lori asked, tilting her head and shifting forward until she was in his line of vision.

Rick turned away, back to the table. "The village should be safer, and it'll be in and out with just the two of us," he uncrossed his arms as he spoke and reached up to touch her forehead again. "We'll talk."

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