Summary: Oliver has Misery in his pants far too often. He is adjusting to live at the prison, making friends, and attending storytime with his brother.

ONE WEEK LATER

Mine and Patrick's cell is small and cramped and cold at night, and there's a name, Crighton Dallas Wilton, scratched into the wall under our bunk, and sometimes, when I forget the biters don't come this side of the walls, I get these cornered, zoo animal feelings until I remember that I'm safe, safer than I have been in a long time, and then I feel something totally different instead, something like an outsider, like... everyone else here is part of a song that I don't have a beat to, but I'm getting used to it.

First thing almost every morning, I go to the library. I love the library. I know all its secrets, like how Beth, Maggie's younger sister, who has nice, blonde hair and scars on her wrist, has a secret cubby-hole in one of the shelves where she keeps all her favourite poetry books. And there's one corner of the library between two shelves, right out of the way, where it's so quiet it's almost spooky, like noise forgot to go there.

I love it.

I sometimes wonder if I love too much for a boy who's only just turned fifteen. I love chocolate and I love the colour red and I love the smell of the earth after a storm. Maybe I just don't know enough. Maybe I'm just a boy who thinks he loves things that he really only just likes a lot. At fifteen, you only need to know how to talk to people and how to not fall over your own feet. But then again, I'm no good at talking to people, and I fall over all the time, especially lately. Carol says it's because I'm still growing and I forget how long my own legs are.

Maybe I'm just an idiot.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

Anyway, library.

I really love the library.

I already have a bunch of books in my cell, which I figure is okay since Beth is hiding her own stash, too, but despite this I'm still looking through the Horror section for more. I'll return them, eventually. But for now, Horror. Steven King to be specific. King is the source of all good nightmares. The bad ones come from biters, or... walkers. I like to cancel out the bad nightmares with the good ones. And I guess they're all bad, really, but at least King's aren't all real.

Something moves in the aisle next to mine and I spot the farmer's kid, Carl, with his back to me reading book spines.

Watching him through the shelf, from my angle it looks like he's standing between the books in front of me, caught between The Scarlet Letter and Women to Love. I look up above me at the sign and realise I've wandered into the Romance section. I frown and look at him again. Awkwardly, we make eye contact, so I glance away to my book, Misery — fitting.

A door creaks. When I look up again, Carl isn't there and I catch sight of his t-shirt shoulder as he leaves through the library door.

Carl's soul sound is a drip from a broken tap.

Rolling my eyes, I put Misery in my pants —I'll return it, swear— and leave, too, for chores with Patrick and Carol out in the cafeteria. I'm the world's worst cook though, so I mostly stay away from the hot parts. We're serving wild pheasant today. Daryl caught them. Carol calls him her, "Pookie," for it, which he seems both flattered and uncomfortable by.

A pile of dirty dishes are dumped next to me and I get to washing. At some point, Carl arrives carrying a soccer ball. C block, where he lives, are the early risers since most of them work in the garden or with the livestock, and they eat before anybody else. However, he doesn't get food but instead waits at a bench. Patrick goes to talk to him and part way through their conversation they both turn to look at me, catching me trying to translate their conversation in my head. I stop watching them, but I still hear Patrick laugh. He comes over, rolling his eyes, and in the most bored voice ever, he says, "Carl wants me to tell you that his dad wants you to join us in the courtyard after chores."

Carl immediately gets up and leaves the cafeteria, looking embarrassed.

Watching him go, Patrick laughs again. "But I guess I wasn't supposed to say the first part."

"What?" I ask.

"He told me to ask you."

"Ask me what?"

"To come with us."

I find this funny because it's the kind of crap I'd pull, but I don't laugh because I'd hate that, so I shrug. "Are you gonna play soccer? I don't like soccer."

Patrick shrugs and asks, "Hai detto sì?" which means, 'Is that a yes?' all sarcastic and ass-like.

I roll my eyes. "Si."

Allison's waiting for a plate. I serve up. After a while, Carol dismisses us and Patrick and I head down to the gardens to meet Carl, and he leads us to the courtyard to find somewhere to play soccer. There are already a few kids out here playing dodgeball. Both Carl and I say no to joining but Patrick says his vote to join over-rules both of ours because he's older, so we join the game. It's fun, I guess, but my crap-for-breathing lungs make me take a break five minutes in.

I've still got my inhaler, and there are spares in the infirmary. I sit and watch for a little while because I can breathe but I'd like it to stay that way without my lungs arguing with me.

I hear Molly cry out someone's disqualification and see Carl lying on his back with a basketball rolling away from him. "Dammit," he whispers, and gets up.

He sits with me on the side-lines. I pretend not to see him looking at my inhaler.

"How long've you had asthma for?" he asks eventually.

He's only talking to me because his dad told him to, like he's only hanging out with me and Patrick because his dad told him to. I consider not replying, but I settle for a shrug and a quick, "Since forever," instead.

"Will it go away?"

I shrug again because I don't know.

Carl looks sorry for me. I hate that, so I say, "Oxygen's overrated." And I watch how hard he tries to hold his lips and face still.

"Maybe Aquaman has a place for you," he says.

And suddenly we crack up like fireworks.

"I miss comics," I say finally.

"You do?"

I shrug.

"Well, Michonne brings them back from runs sometimes," Carl says. "I got a whole bunch in my cell." His accent got thicker, like he'd forgotten what shape his mouth was. He notices, too, and clears his throat. "Wanna go read some?"

"Do you?" I ask.

Carl frowns at me. "What?"

I search his face, realising he really is being genuine, and I start wondering if instead of a broken tap, Carl's soul sound might be the trickle of a river, all damned up by some crotchety, old beaver.

"Okay."

Carl stands and leads the way towards his block.

C block is at the end of a short, dim hallway, but the common room and cell block are bright and colourful. Carl and I are debating:

"Iron man? What — no, Oliver, Wolverine would destroy him. Wolverine is invincible. You can't beat that."

I roll my eyes. "Whatever, man."

"You're mad cause you know it's true."

"What about Wolverine versus Superman? He's invincible, too."

Carl snickers. "They're not even in the same universe. But, Superman… oh, thanks..." he says, because I hold the door open for him as we turn into C block's common room. "Yeah, 'cause he's super strong. All he'd have to do is just crush Wolverine into a tiny piece of indestructible metal." He demonstrates with his hands the sort of action flattening a soda can looks like. "Right?"

I agree, and then I bust up laughing.

"What?" Carl drops his hands and starts laughing, too. There's so much laughing C block is spilling with it.

"I was just thinking," I say finally, "Wolverine could just run Superman a bath or something, then just throw liquid Kryptonite in the water. He'd be rendered powerless, so Wolverine could just stab him through the heart."

"In what scenario," he gasps through his laughter, "would Wolverine... ever have to... run Superman a bath?"

"Maybe they live together."

"Like room-mates?"

I was thinking as boyfriends, but I don't say so. Instead I say, "Guess so."

Smirking, Carl leads the way through the cell block. Carol is sitting on the stairs talking to Carl's dad, Rick, the farmer. Carl's baby sister is in Rick's arms. I don't remember her name. I only ever hear people call her little ass kicker. Carol asks how we're doing and we say we're fine and then Rick puts the baby in Carl's arms, squeezes him on the shoulder, and leaves.

"Catch y'all later."

Nodding, Carl watches his father until he's gone, then turns to me. "Want to hold her?"

"Oh. No. I might drop her."

Carol chuckles at me from her seat at the stairs.

"Then try not to," Carl tells me. "It's not rocket science."

I manage, a little awkwardly, but manage all the same.

"Err, what's her name again?" I ask.

"Judith, or Judy, or—"

"Little ass kicker."

"You can thank Daryl for that gem," Carol says, but I won't be doing that. Although I like Daryl a lot more now than when I first met him, I'm still terrified of him, especially from some of the stories about him — I heard he got shot in the head once and barely felt it, and Patrick says he has a necklace made of human ears somewhere.

Judith puts her head on my chest and I can feel my face scrunching up, like I've been blessed by the cute baby Gods or something. Eventually though, I let Carl take her again. He hands her to Carol, then smacks my arm. "This way."

"Okay."

Carol catches me before I go. "See you later?" she asks, like we have a secret because we do. I nod, and then I follow Carl to his cell. He's crouched under the cot when I get there, pulling out some comics. I take my beanie off and hold back from hopping on the spot.

"Speaking of ass kickers," he says, and hands me Kick Ass.

I begin reading it hungrily.

"He's alright," Carl comments, reading over my shoulder. "But he doesn't really have superpowers."

"Neither does Black Widow, or Iron Man, but you like them."

"Yeah, because they're good at what they do. Kick Ass just has a wetsuit... and a weird thing for his biology teacher."

"Kick Ass is trying, man."

He laughs at me. "So you've read it?"

"Yeah," I say, still re-reading it anyway. "I had hundreds of comics at home."

"I like the illustrations," Carl says. "I draw them, and sometimes I just draw my own."

I sit on his bed and let him show me his drawings. They're great. Really great. He's drawn the prison, too. I tell him I love them and his face goes purple. We read for a while, until it's midday and I remember I'm supposed to be some place.

"Storytime!" I roll over — I'd been lying on my back with my feet up on the wall.

"Oh," Carl says, "yeah, you go to that."

I shrug.

"Why?" he asks.

But I don't tell him because it's the secret I'm not supposed to tell anybody, especially not Carl.

"Whatever," he says. "Later."

Everyday in the library, Carol teaches some of us kids a new survival skill during storytime. We can't tell anybody because parents, especially Rick, would try to stop it. They don't think we're old enough. Carl has to stay in the dark, too, because he tells his father everything.

First day I got here, Pat dragged me along after supper and we learned how to handle handguns. Second day, it was rifles. Third, how to make our own water filters and light a fire. Fifth, set a snare. Yesterday, it was how to treat wounds and infections. Today, it's poisonous food from edible ones. It's my turn to keep watch for anybody coming, but even from the library door, I can watch the lesson.

Carol pulls out a small box from under her seat and opens it, and inside is a variety of mushrooms and strange looking fruit and roots.

"Now, who can tell me which of these are edible and which are poisonous?"

No one answers. I crane my neck to see. There's an amaryllis bulb in there. I wish I'd had this lesson a few months ago before I'd eaten a dormant one found in a garden store — I was so hungry, and it looked sort of like an onion… I still don't remember anything afterwards except waking up days later in a pool of my own filth.

After long, Tyreese is heading up the corridor so I give the signal, shutting a hardback and coughing twice, and Carol quickly conceals the box and reads a book by her side, while the others listen and I pretend to search a bookshelf.

"Is he gone?" Carol asks.

Once the coast is clear, the lesson continues, and I think that Carol's soul sound is the crackling embers over a fire, and the black smoke, fizzling up up up through the sky.

After an hour, we're dismissed.

Patrick and I go back to D block. I'm still carrying the book I'd used at the library. I figured I'd at least read it before I returned it. While I'm settling for the evening in my cot, reading, with Patrick at my feet doing his own thing, Carl arrives. He sits between us, pushing backwards so that Patrick and I have to move our feet.

"How was storytime?"

Patrick and I shrug indifferently. I read to avoid seeming suspicious.

"Elsewhere..." Carl reads my book cover. "Fantasy?"

"M-hm."

"Thought you liked horror," Patrick says, glancing across the cramped cot at me over his own book.

"I do."

"That why you were in the romance section this morning?" Carl asks.

My face goes hot, and just to prove him wrong I pull Misery out of my pants and start reading that instead.

Patrick laughs. "You're a walking biblioteca."

I ignore him, passing Carl Elsewhere, and together, the three of us read the sun down into the horizon again.

Notes

Hope you all enjoyed.

Happy reading.