Lionel still wasn't happy. Too many emotions rising up made him feel like the madness was knocking down the walls he'd built up in his head. So he kept busy, kept his mouth shut, kept going.

Because he'd offered to work off all three tickets, and the return ticket for Lilian, he was bound to work for Amos and Avery for a few months, at least. Not that he was going anywhere. He didn't have the courage right now to return to the shack north of Grayling, and showing his face in town would likely get him shot. He swore to himself. He shouldn't have lost his temper with Lilian.

Lionel stood straighter, and cracked his neck. He was too damn old to be tracking down criminals. Everything hurt, anymore, when he had a chance to sit down. Life was one long gallery of pain. He tried not to think about nearly drowning. Tried not to think about her, either.

The objective he was pursuing made that impossible. Because Amos was a jackass, or because he was one of those types who thought he could judge someone by the way they faced a challenge, he'd sent Lionel out to track down Cameron Landis. Lionel couldn't even begin to explain how maddening it was to have that on his mind, or how irritated it made him feel to know he had to track down some deadbeat dad. Amos claimed it was because he'd seen Celia's family and knew the faces better than anyone, including Amos. Landis might be notorious for running out on his bills, but Amos dealt with a lot of criminals. He didn't recall them all.

Lionel didn't know that he wanted to find the man. He'd seemingly abandoned the Vault, even if his wife had sent him outside. She'd not even given birth to Celia, so the man would not even know her at all, except for her last name.

Lionel sat down again, on a pile of asphalt, looking up and down the empty road. He missed his radio, back at the shack. A little jazz would have perked the gray-walled sky right up. It would be darker, soon.

He kicked a piece of broken asphalt. He missed Lilian's raspy singing, too. He wondered if that was what she did to earn caps in St. James. He'd never asked, was too afraid of the answer. Goddamn, I hope that's the case, he thought. Any other solution made him sick to his stomach.

Lionel felt a pain in his heart, pressed his hand to it. He stood up, jerkily. Find the man, he thought. Get it over with. She'll go away with him, likely somewhere he wouldn't know where she was. It will hurt like hell, maybe more than losing his arm, but I'll live.

He loped down the Hi-Highway, past the trees and rusted out cars. Used to be the Hiawatha. Past the buildings that looked like someone had scooped out their roofs and insides. Like a goddamn spooky jack-o-lantern, he thought. He laughed at himself for being dumb.

Once, he had his revolver out, standing as still as possible. He could hear the snuffling of the wild pigs that were all over the place on the northern peninsula. He waited patiently for the razorbacks to pass him by. He couldn't afford to tangle with that.

He stayed on the highway, stopping occasionally to get information. Rough people, living rough lives, much rougher than the relative safety of the Grayling area. He wished he'd stayed down there, for a moment. But he knew it wouldn't have gone well.

A town loomed ahead, lights and loud voices in the darkness. Lionel steeled himself and picked his way through the shanty town to the bar, lit up with a neon sign that simply said "Bar". He nodded to himself.

The bar was surprisingly well-lit, inside. He spoke with the bartender, who was willing enough to speak to him. Lionel paid way too much for a bottle of whiskey and sat down, waiting. He chuckled to himself. Sometimes being stupid paid off.

An hour later, and eighty caps down, Lionel was trying to figure out how to get up off the stool without falling down, when the objective walked into the bar. He swallowed stale whiskey and watched the man walk to a stool. The description, along with his own recollection of Ed Landis, was spot on.

"Your boy?" the bartender asked, winking at him. Lionel nodded, and slowly got off the stool.

He moved around behind the old man, blinking back the wobbling image. Thin, gray-haired, a wide jaw, copper-colored eyes, a rough beard that grew patchily along his cheeks. He was wrinkled as all get out. "Hey," Lionel said.

"Fuck off, rotgut," was the answer.

"You know a woman called Barbara Landis?" he asked, ignoring the insult.

To his credit, Landis did not startle easily. "Known lots of women."

"This one was your wife," Lionel said.

"Huh," Landis said. "After twenty years, I ain't so sure I got a wife anymore."

"Let's talk," Lionel said, and jerked a thumb to a table in the corner.

"Suppose," Landis said, and stood up, carrying his whiskey.

Lionel paid for another bottle and brought it to the table, setting down two shot glasses. The other people in the bar watched him carefully, but didn't make a move. He ignored them.

"So," Landis said, holding out a shot glass for Lionel to fill, "what's up with Barbara these days?" He ignored that he had a full bottle of whiskey of his own.

"It's a long story," Lionel warned.

"Eh, they all are."

"After you left," he started, "your wife had a little girl. Named her Celia." Landis only grunted. "When she was four, Barbara died in a fire."

"Well," Landis said, and downed his shot. Lionel blinked back the weariness of too much to drink, and poured two more shots.

"Jack Calhoun became Overseer," he said. "Your son Ed married a girl named Ann, and had a daughter of his own."

"Someone's moved on," Landis muttered. "And the girl?"

"Was sent out to scout, for the Vault."

Landis swore. "Same cloth," he muttered. "She alive?"

Lionel shrugged. "She's in Gladstone. Was near Grayling, before."

Landis gave a strangled laugh. "I ain't been over the lake in many a year," he muttered.

"I'm here," Lionel said, "on behalf of Amos Royce of ARC. He wants you to come meet the girl, find out if she's really your kid."

"I don't owe that beardy ass nothing," Landis said, suspiciously, and downed his whiskey. "This a trick? I didn't think he'd hire a goddamn zombie."

Lionel drank, and said nothing.

"What, you some kind of special squad, the Mushface Marauders?"

He waited, patiently, poured Landis out another shot.

"So, did your arm just fall off? Or did you scratch too hard?"

He almost laughed. That was a good one, he'd have to remember it. "Are you done?" he asked.

"Maybe yes, maybe no." Landis eyed him through the whiskey glass.

Lionel pushed the half empty bottle over to him and stood, wavering. "Gladstone," he said, tapping the table. "Amos Royce wants to talk."

He turned to leave. A sun-dried hunk of beef stood his way, blocking the door. Lionel squinted. The bouncer put a hand on his bad shoulder, squeezing it. "We don't like no zombies 'round here," the man said.

"I'm going," he said, and tried to push past the man. Someone picked up a bottle and smashed it across his head. Lionel groaned.

Well, at least he was drunk!