Celia's sickness hadn't gone away when she disembarked, and Lilian and Lionel were fighting again. The girl passed out on the barge landing, leaving Lionel in a bind as to how to remove her, since he really didn't want to touch her. Not after Lilian had implied, in less subtle terms, that Lionel had encouraged the girl a little too much. In the end he just sighed and shot a glare at Lilian, who was glaring right back at him, and hauled the girl over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She didn't weigh very much, but he was uncomfortable anyway.

Lilian directed him to put Celia down on the beach and let her go off into the city. He chafed at that. "I still don't think it's a good idea," he said. "You might not come back."

Lilian spat at him, "When have I not come back to you, you ass?"

Lionel laid Celia out on the beach and stuck a finger in Lilian's face. "Look, woman―" he began.

"Oh, so scary!" she cried, mocking him. "I honestly don't care what you think, Lionel. You can stay here with her, and I'll just go get myself killed."

He clenched his fist. "Stop," he said.

Lilian looked smug as she skipped off into St. James. Lionel sighed, and turned to Celia. She did not look well at all. My fucking luck, he thought, she has radiation sickness, and there's no reason for anyone to sell Rad-Away here in St. James. He sat on his heels in the sand and looked out over the water.

Everything had changed, though. He didn't want to admit it to himself. He'd spent the last day at the shack trying to keep her out of his way so he wouldn't feel it. And the trip up the highway had just made it worse. Lilian's betrayal, running off to St. James for so long, cut him to the bone. She'd used him like a vacation home, somewhere safe to go. He knew how he'd managed to ignore it for so long, he could feel the madness around the edge of his mind. It made him nervous.

And what she'd said about his physical inabilities―He picked up a tin can and crushed it in his hand. There was nothing more to think about that.

The girl had paid him attention like before, taking care of his arm, touching him. That was necessary and he'd hated himself for it. Lilian had seen that, picked up on it, though she hadn't bothered to interject. He'd tried to stop himself from treating the girl gently, and she'd noticed that too. It wasn't in his heart to be mean to the kid anymore. She was too scared to treat roughly. Too innocent to understand what the hell was going on.

But he felt weird, because Lilian had been running off with the intention of finding someone she could love. And slow old Lionel had found what she wanted so badly, without lifting a foot to look for it. He looked back at the girl, still breathing slowly and evenly, on the sand. Goddammit.

She didn't deserve any of this shit. She didn't have any protection from the wasteland, hadn't had time to grow any. He couldn't afford to have her around; and he was right to tell her not to trust him. If it went any further, he didn't know that he could trust himself.

He also couldn't reassure her any more, but he didn't want to make her feel worse. She needed someone to keep an eye on her while she figured out her own demons. Someone not him. She'd only stuck around the ghouls because no one at Stockton seemed to have the time for her, though Lilian hinted that there had been something going on between her and Calhoun. Whatever that was, it was over before it started.

Lionel looked at the beach, the debris that had washed up onto it. Deadwood and bits of trash. The gray water was almost the same color as the sky, creating a dreary effect. It was eerily quiet in St. James. Even more than it had been at his shack, with the chittering of ants occasionally floating over the air. The water didn't even seem to make any noise. He rubbed the right side of his head and hoped he wasn't going deaf in that ear, too.

Standing, he walked toward a building that was falling apart, and glanced up at the rows of shacks lining the road into St. James. Would she come back? He knew she would, she always did. He was patient.

A rustle behind him caught his hearing, a flutter of clothing caught his eye. Lionel whipped out his arm and punched the person trying to be sneaky, hitting him in the corner of the eye. When the boy went down, he reached out and grabbed him by the throat, and pushed him against the crumbling building.

He regarded the boy for a moment, squeezing his throat just enough to keep his hands up at his neck. Not a ghoul. Tanned, skinny, black-haired, and brown eyed, with a faint touch of a beard beginning. Old enough to know better, but young enough to be dumb, still. He shot a glance at Celia, then fixed the boy with a real good stare. "I'm not in a great mood," he said. "So start talking."

"C-c-c-c-" he began to cough out, and Lionel relaxed his hand a bit. "Cameron Landis, man!"

Lionel's eye twitched. "Don't know the name," he said.

"Look-k-king for him," the boy sputtered out. "Shifty guy like you―m-might mean leads."

He swore to himself. That spat on the barge had drawn a few eyes, but he'd been hopeful it wouldn't follow them onto the beach. "I don't know any Landises," he lied, and squeezed the boy's throat harder. The boy clawed at his hand, ripping flakes of skin away.

"Let Jesse go," another voice said, behind him. Lionel felt the gentle tap of a gun on the back of his head. He dropped the boy onto the sand, and flicked his eyes to Celia. Still passed out, down the sand.

"Holy moly, Jesse," the one behind him said. "I told you to stay out of St. James." The gun butted against Lionel's head, and he stared forward, patiently.

"I was doing my damn job," the boy said, coughing and spitting up. He stood and rubbed his neck.

"Don't swear, Jesse. Hook any interesting fish?"

Lionel stared at the boy, who swept his swollen eye over him. "Maybe," he gargled. "This one's probably catch-and-release."

"Let's get acquainted, then." The man with the gun moved around to the front, and Lionel looked into the biggest beard he'd seen since Santa Claus still existed. The man was rough-looking, but had black hair, brown eyes, and was a few inches taller than him, but just as heavy. He was dressed for action in leathers. He smiled in an apologetic way and kept the shotgun aimed squarely at Lionel's eyes. "Sorry about this, though. Your name?"

"Why don't you tell me first?" Lionel said. "Seeing as you're so damn sorry."

The man laughed, honestly. "Amos Royce," he said. "This is Jesse, my brother."

"Lionel," he said.

"What's up here, Jesse?" Amos asked. "Why'd you incur the fellow's wrath?"

"What?"

Amos sighed. "What happened," he translated, "to make this guy grab you."

The boy shrugged. "I was following a little too closely."

"And why was that, pray tell?" Amos didn't move his eyes off of Lionel.

"That," Jesse said, pointing at Celia. Lionel's hand spasmed.

Amos flicked his eyes to the right and tightened his finger on the trigger. "I guess we should have a little sit-down," he said, his voice growing hard.

All Lionel could do was agree.