Summary: With more getting infected, Carl and Oliver must join the others most at risk inside the office blocks to stay away from those potentially contaminated, causing Carl's brewing resentment to continue to grow against his father. Oliver mourns his brother and grapples with his feelings for Carl.

During the night, Oliver has an asthma attack. It was strange. I would've expected lots of hyperventilating and panicking, but he was just very quiet and tired, and when he spoke he wheezed. He was very willing to just wait for his airways to get better, since he had his rescue inhaler, but it must not've been helping because soon his lips went blue and his skin began turning odd shades of grey, so I got Carol and Dad.

Oliver needed a special kind of inhaler, which we, by some divine luck, had in the infirmary. Dad and I ran to get it. Things were easier after that. Oliver was pretty embarrassed. He said he only had the attack because of a nightmare.

In the morning, Oliver wakes up early, his skin and lips a normal colour now, and leaves to help Glenn and Maggie dig graves. He doesn't even notice his machete and beanie propped together against the wall — I left them there as a surprise.

I soon learn that more people are sick now. Michonne's taking a supply run of our people out to get medicine from a veterinary hospital. Tyreese volunteered to go with her. Daryl and Bob, too.

It's strange not to see my sister all morning. I do chores to fill time and get done with still more time leftover, considering there are no pigs to tend to.

Eventually I remember the books in the boiler room and go to find them, heading through C block's tombs. I don't like the boiler room, but I try not to think about it. Inside, it's the same as I last saw it. Dim and dingy and dark, except now, instead of my mom lying in the middle of the room, there's just an old, brown, blood stain…

The books are on the desk, next to the telephone, stacked in piles inside a crate. I read covers. Twins. Elsewhere. Butterfly Lion. Misery. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer — these are Oliver's.

I can't carry them on my own, so I go to find him.

He's in the graveyard sitting at Patrick's newly dug grave. He hears me coming and lets me sit with him for a while. Glenn and Maggie are getting done filling in the last few graves, wearing bandanas and gloves. They give me sorry-looking nods.

Oliver's crying. I can see the wet soaking into his bandanna. Remembering his brother's glasses in pocket, I hand them over. He holds them for a minute to his chest, like he's praying, then he puts them on Patrick's headboard, propped on the edge. The scratching on the board reads…

'Patrizio Abel de Luca
1994 – 2011.'

"I gotta wash up," Oliver mumbles, and gets up. I follow him slowly to the cafeteria, which isn't in use this morning as everyone is stuck eating preserves in their cells to avoid cross contamination. Oliver washes his hands and face in a bucket, then throws it away. He goes inside the cook-area. I sit on the outer side, almost like it could be a normal morning, only instead of watching him work with Carol and his brother I watch him sit alone at the counter, tearing up an old, leftover, coriander stem with his fingernails into four equal parts.

I reach out to touch him, but he pulls his hands into his lap.

I try not to look defeated or embarrassed.

"Oliver..."

He looks at me, looking angry and un-Oliverly. I don't say anything else because I'm scared to. I think of when my mom died, and I think of the boy I killed, and all the others I've watched die. And I think of how people talk to me, how they don't treat me like a kid, except my dad who only treats me like one, and how angry that makes me and how angry I have been for so long.

"Come on," I say, almost rudely. "I need you to help me with something."

The books really are Oliver's.

All of them.

"I thought you kept them under your bed," I tell him.

"How did you know that?!"

"You're not very subtle..."

Oliver shrugs. "Well, some are under my bed. The rest I keep here."

We get to it, collecting any stray books into the crate and hauling them one end each across the prison. They're so heavy we have to take breaks. I'm sweating before we make it out of the tombs. As we cross the courtyard, we see the medical run stocking up Zach's car.

"He died."

"Who?" I ask.

"Zach," Oliver says. "He was eaten on the run to Big Spot the day before yesterday."

I don't know how I didn't know this. It explains why Beth changed the sign in her cell. Finally, we arrive at the library and dump the books by the nearest shelf, and then we collapse across some beanbags to rest, groaning and sweating and too exhausted to speak for a few minutes.

"I think... I think we just carried half a tree," I say finally, and I'm going to make a better joke about it but I realise Oliver is crying again.

I shuffle to sit up, thinking what to do, and then realising I shouldn't do anything, so I don't. I sit and I wait and eventually Oliver stops and sits up.

"Come on," he says, "let's put the books back."

We do, and then we head back to my cell. Oliver takes my hand while we're walking along the corridor and it's like a weight is suddenly lifted from my shoulders, even if it confuses me to no end. Still, it's just enough to make things feel somewhat okay again —as okay as they can be for now— before my dad turns around the corner.

Oliver and I let go of each other quickly.

Dad is marching for us. I think he saw. Oh, God, I think he saw us. He's pointing and yelling, "Where the hell have you been?" and I'm glued to the spot, mumbling, "We... We weren't… We were in the library!" and I'm so taken off guard that I almost tell him about the stolen books, but I catch Oliver glance at me and I remember not to. Dad eyes us both up suspiciously, seeing but also not seeing, and then he says, "The Council's decided to separate people to the office blocks. Need you to get set up."

I turn into a firework.

"What? No! We can't."

"Look..." Dad pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's what's gotta be done. The elders are going and you're at risk, too. You're kids…"

Inside, I turn to rock. Medusa herself in that word 'kid'.

"We aren't kids."

"I'm not giving you a choice," Dad tells me. He gives Oliver a quick, challenging glance, but Oliver's not going to argue, so Dad looks back to me. "Go pack your things."

~ Oliver ~

Back in Carl's cell, I find my machete and my beanie.

"Yeah," Carl says, sulking, "surprise."

I clip the machete to my belt and thigh, then pull my beanie on. It makes today feel better. Bad, but better. Carl is throwing things into an orange duffel bag from under his bed. I see the Stetson hat Michonne must've been talking about. It's brown with a wide brim and looks old and abused.

"Thank you," I say, and Carl stops packing for a second.

He nods to my beanie. "Missed it."

"Me, too," I say, tugging on it.

Footsteps are coming. We turn and watch Rick stop in the cell doorway. He leans on the bars, rubbing his neck and shifting his weight on his heels. Carl goes back to packing and sulking.

"Hand me what's in there."

"This?"

"No, that. Not that. That. Thanks."

"Hey..." Rick says over us. "It's for your own good."

"Dad, we're fine. We shouldn't be locked away with a bunch of kids."

"I need you in there," Rick insists. "Both of you. Keepin' an eye on Judith. On everybody else. Makin' sure they're safe." I watch his forehead fold a thousand times over, waiting for Carl's reply.

Carl holsters his gun. Rick sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"If anybody gets sick you let me know," he says.

"What if they've already turned when I find them?" Carl asks, slinging the duffel bag over his shoulder.

I look at the floor, sore.

"You don't fire it," Rick warns, "unless you absolutely need to."

"But you know I might need to, right?"

They watch each other.

Finally, Rick says, "G'on."

We don't talk for the walk to the office blocks. Carl keeps his duffel on his shoulder and I keep my hands in my pockets, red machete handle rubbing my wrist gently as I walk.

"At least we have our weapons back."

I hear him huff half heartedly.

"I don't want to have to use it," Carl says finally, holding the office block doors open for me. "But I will, if I have to."

"Okay."

"I just wanted you to know that."

I shrug and say again, "Okay, man."

"Really," he insists. "I don't... like killing them."

"I know…"

Carl nods, looking relieved.

"C'mon, let's go find an office to bunk in."

Glenn, Dr. Subramanian, and Sasha have all come down with the sickness, too, so Hershel has decided to fill in on caring for the sick. Maggie told us so, since she's looking out for all of us. She's scared. We can all see that even if she pretends otherwise.

Judith's down the hall, locked away in an office with Beth. They can't come out. I know Carl is scared, too, even if he doesn't say so.

It sucks in the office blocks.

While the majority of kids and elders move in during the day, Carl and I suffer with the boredom in our new little office together. It's dusty and smells like rot from the mould on the walls, and our beds are only two sleeping bags and a pillow on the floor — Carl gets the pillow because the feathers aggravate my asthma. I'll be using my sweater as a pillow tonight.

Carl insists we walk the halls at some point, to be useful. I keep my inhaler close while we go, and after a while we wind up in the same part of the building where we sat listening to music that day.

We hear the familiar clunking of Hershel's wooden leg walking on the cement floor, and a moment later we see him heading along the corridor towards us.

"Hello, boys," he says, then casually twists the key inside the door and goes outside into the parking lot.

Carl and I look at each other, puzzled, then we turn back to Hershel.

"Where're you going?" Carl calls out, hanging off the door frame as if he's scared to actually step out. Hershel stops in the parking lot and turns to us, squinting under his bushy white eyebrows.

"I'm going into the woods."

"You can't," Carl says.

"I can't?"

"My dad told us to look out for everyone."

"Well, you should keep your distance. I need to go out there."

"So, you're sneakin' out," Carl says, and I think we both realise at the same time that Hershel was who moved the key that day.

"Don't need anyone worryin' about me," Hershel insists. "And I damn sure don't want some kid tellin' me I can't go."

At this point, Carl looks at me, as if he's expecting me to chime in for back-up, but I don't, and Carl looks like he wants to suddenly punch me. I step back so he can't. Sighing, he looks back at Hershel.

"I can't just let you go out into the woods by yourself," he says.

"'Let' me?"

"I can't stop you, but I'd have to tell my dad."

"Well, go ahead then." Hershel waves him away, turning, his wooden leg clunking as he steps outside. "I'll be out there by the time you find him."

With a small nervous glance across the parking lot, Carl goes after him.

"Hershel..."

The old man turns to him, losing patience.

"If you have to go," Carl goes on, "then I have to go with you."

"Carl..."

"I have to."

Hershel agrees to wait for Carl to come back with his things. While we wait, Hershel musters enough humour to laugh.

"That boy is more stubborn than I am old."

"He's pretty stubborn," I mumble.

Hershel laughs, his white beard bobbing back and forth under his hidden chin. "Well, I'm pretty old…"

I stutter. That wasn't what I meant. Hershel doesn't seem to mind. I guess because he really is very old. He grins at me, then he just watches me, his eyes all bunched up and sympathetic.

"Son, I'm sorry about your brother."

I sigh. "Yeah."

Hershel smiles tightly.

I get this miserable rock in my throat. "He... stole my chocolate," I explain. "The son of a bitch stole my chocolate."

We both chuckle. Except I'm also crying. Hershel puts his hand on my back and waits for me to stop. I wipe my face on my sleeves — my sleeves are permanently damp now. Finally, I calm down again.

"Oliver, if you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you stayed here and kept an eye on everyone. It's gonna be stressful enough keeping Carl out of trouble. Let alone two of you."

I nod. "Yeah, figured."

He pats my shoulder.

Carl returns.

He's wearing his hat.

I trip over my own feet.

"Let's go," he says.

As Carl passes me, he tips his hat. I stuff my pockets with my hands.

"Err, be careful," I say, "you know, err... don't... get yourselves killed."

Carl raises his eyebrows, a smile crawling across his mouth.

"Good advice," Hershel says, "we'll try to keep to it."

To take my mind off the hat, I take a break from patrolling the halls and ride a spinny chair around the foyer. At some point, Lizzie rounds the corner, coughing into her elbow. I skid to a stop and stand up.

"Lizzie—"

"I told Mika to stay away," she says quickly. "I don't want her to get sick, too."

"It's okay," I say because I don't know what else to say. "Just, err… come with me."

"No! Don't come too close!"

I step back. "Okay. Okay."

Lizzie coughs, harsh and rough-sounding. "It's A block, right? Where the sick people are?"

Death row, I think, and nod. "Carol's keeping watch over there. Find her. She'll know what to do."

Lizzie nods. She looks scared as she leaves. I just stand there, staring and helpless. I go to my office and try to think of something else, which ends up being Hershel and Carl, worrying if they are okay. I climb on the desk because maybe fear doesn't come that far off the ground. It does. I sit on my hands and count to four, over and over.

One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.
One, two, three, four.

Four, four, four.

One, two, three, four.
One, two—

Suddenly, Carl returns.

I must look upset, because he asks, "What's wrong?"

"Lizzie got sick?" I say. "I saw her a while ago."

He looks anxious. "You didn't touch her, did you?"

I shake my head. Carl climbs onto the desk and takes a seat next to me, feet up on the chair like mine. We glare at our knees.

Carl sighs. "I'm glad you're okay."

"You, too, man. Go okay with Hershel?"

He nods — I see his hat brim bob.

"What did he want out there anyway?" I ask.

"Elderberry, for the sick. He's going to make a tea."

"Will it cure them?"

Carl shakes his head. "Just… help…"

I try not to think of my brother.

Minutes go by in silence until Carl knocks our knees together.

"I didn't shoot two walkers," he says.

I frown because this doesn't sound like an accomplishment.

"I was gonna shoot them," Carl explains, "but Hershel said I didn't have to, so... I didn't."

I wonder to myself why Hershel is so against self defence, and I wonder a little less keenly if it's because it hasn't always been just self defence in Carl's case. In a small part of my mind, after everything I've learned, I know Carl did something bad — something bad enough his dad gave up his guns and looks at him like he's a bomb about to go off.

I watch him, too.

Carl watches the floor.

I look for something else to talk about.

"I like your hat."

Carl smiles.

"It's pretty," I say.

Carl shoves me, laughing. I shove him back, and because I know already that he's a stubborn, competitive asshole, I leap off the table before he can shove me again and then he's chasing me around the room. We laugh like maniacs, grabbing each other and losing each other and acting like today isn't as terrible as it really is, like we have our own pocket in the world where everything else doesn't exist yet. Eventually, I have him in a headlock but Carl is currently going through a growth-spurt and a sudden burst of energy and a rogue leg to the back of my ankle has me tripped out under myself and collapsing to the ground.

He pins me down, laughing over my shouting and I grab at his shoulders and pull off his hat and then I run out of energy and give up. Carl sits up, panting laughs at me. I don't know what I look like — probably tired, lying here trapped between his knees.

"You're sitting on me."

Snorting, he climbs aside and we sit shoulder-to-shoulder with our backs to the wall, catching our breath. He puts his hat back on. Then he takes my hand. And I guess I know why, but it's not going to be me who says it first.

"Michonne said the hat was your dad's," I say so I don't say anything more embarrassing.

"Yeah," Carl answers, "gave it to me because I got shot."

"You got shot? When? Where?"

He pulls up his t-shirt to show me several, small, pale, shiny lumps all across his chest and stomach.

I grimace and say, "Whooa."

"Here, feel this." He takes my hand and uses my index finger to press between two of his rib bones, where one of the less severe areas of scars are. Something small and hard is hidden there under his skin. "Hershel got most of the bullet pieces out, except this one."

"Hollow point?"

Carl nods.

I wince. "Oof. Ouch."

"You learn about that in storytime?"

I nod, too. "How'd it all go down?"

"It was an accident," Carl explains. "Hershel's neighbour, Otis, was aiming at a buck, didn't even see me. It went through and hit me, too."

"Oddio... do you remember it?"

"Getting shot?"

I nod.

Carl shakes his head and for a moment he's just looking at me, this soft sort of look in his eyes. "I remember the buck, though," he tells me. "I remember thinking it was beautiful. More beautiful than anything I had ever seen."

I want to tell him that he is beautiful. More beautiful than anything in the world. But I don't. I just look at the expression his face is making, like he's back there in the woods the moment before he was shot, watching the buck and thinking what he was thinking. I wish he would think it about me…

There is a knock on the door.

Our hands separate.

Maggie pokes her head into the office, breaking our pocket of the world.

"They brought us some food," she tells us, "come get a plate."

On our way to the foyer, I think of how liking Carl is like liking chocolate pudding, that even though there's pizza and ice cream sundaes and brownies and marshmallows, and even though I like all of those, too, and even though I've been told I shouldn't like the chocolate so much and should probably just pick something else and stick to that instead, I can't help but just really really like the chocolate anyway.

Notes

As always,
Happy reading.