The After

by WorksByThia

Join Rick and Michonne as they live their happily ever after. This epic love story is far from over.

2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"The Hawthornes"

---

—Day 1—

Elodie Hawthorne-Washington

"I knew you'd look damn fine in those." My husband, Denzel, stepped out of the bathroom attached to our bedroom, in pleated tuxedo pants and a crisp white dress shirt that hugged his swole biceps in a way that bordered on obscene. It took everything not to lick my lips; I was damn near salivating at the sight of him leaning against the doorway all relaxed, with crossed arms.

From the foot of our canopy bed, I did a cursory once-over of his body—from the crown of his freshly faded head to the toes of his spit-shined patent leather oxfords—before going back to slipping on the black suede red bottoms I'd found on the dining room table that morning. My man was generous, but a gift as expensive as this one had ulterior motives written all over it. "You don't gotta resort to bribery. I've already agreed to go," I told him.

His hand shot to his heart, with the dramatics of a man who'd just been shot through it. "I can't buy my wifey a nice gift without it meaning something?"

"You can..." I stamped my heels on the ground and unfurled the skirt of my black, strapless, sheath gown before pushing off my thighs to walk to the dresser. "But you and I both know that is not the case this time. Help me," I said, grabbing a necklace from my jewelry box.

Denzel moved in behind me and pressed his hard body up against my back. He kissed my neck before grabbing both sides of the chain. "It means a lot, you standing beside me tonight." His gaze found mine in the mirror, then quickly fell to the clasp of the necklace he worked to hook. "Means a lot to him too," he muttered.

"You're pushing it." It was ridiculous how fast my annoyance level went from zero to one hundred, it really was. But my husband knew better than to slip that man's name into casual conversation.

"Elodie, baby." Denzel nudged me to face him and my heart dipped at his woeful expression. "He cares about your opinion of him."

"Don't start, Denz."

"He does!"

"Okay, well, mine is the last opinion he should be concerned with. Now the opinion of the American people? Who he doesn't seem to give a damn about... that's what he really should be worried about."

"See now, that." Denzel pointed in my face. "That is the kind of talk we should be avoiding tonight. Please, please! Just smile and—"

"Oh! I know you're not about to fix your mouth to say, look pretty." I pushed out of his hold and crossed my arms. "Because you know good and well that's not—"

"Baby you know I'm smarter than that. All I'm tryna say is..." He exhaled and placed his hands on my sides, dragging me toward him by the saddles of my mildly curvy hips, until my crossed arms pressed into his chest. "I love you, El. And I love him too. He's like a brother to me. And I wanna get to a place where I don't gotta split my time between you two like y'all are my divorced parents."

"Come on, now. You're being dramatic."

"He's not the man he was back at the Academy. And if you'd just give him another chance you'd see that."

"Why are we even having this conversation? I'm going, aren't I? Is that not enough?"

Denzel stared at me, looking like he was weighing whether or not he wanted to go for another round of this age-old argument. He sighed. "You know what, I'll take it."

He stepped away to grab his jacket from the bed and I slinked into the bathroom with my clutch, to stuff it with what I'd need for the night.

"You call Michonne?" he called to me, from the bedroom.

"Is it your mission to irritate me today?"

"What?"

"You know we're not talking right now." My little sister and I had a complicated relationship, to put it mildly. I'd throw myself in front of a bullet without hesitation, for Michonne, but at the same time, we were professionals at pushing each other's buttons.

I could admit that this last round had been my bad. But in my defense, she shouldn't have asked me for advice about her boyfriend, who she was well aware I didn't see it for, if she hadn't wanted the soul-crushing truth. And to be fair, I wasn't the only one in the family who didn't care for Mike, but I was the only one bold enough to tell her.

We usually were able to recover from our disagreements quickly, but the most recent had been a doozy. It'd been a week since we'd spoken last.

Denzel poked his head into the bathroom. "It's her birthday, babe."

I paused, mentally checking if he was right. "Oh shit, it is."

Denzel shook his head. "You two are something else."

I grabbed my phone from my clutch.

"Don't bother, she's in court all afternoon."

"On her birthday?"

"That's what Dorothy said. She spoke to Michonne earlier today."

"God, her work-life balance is shit." I slipped my phone back into my purse. "How's Ma doing? She tell you how that medical conference is going?"

"Seemed ready to come home," he laughed. "Think she only went because it was in Sweden."

"Right. We all know she don't like leaving Georgia."

---

Marble columns lined the walkway as Denzel and I moved hand-in-hand across the gold-trimmed red carpet of The White House's Cross Hall which was abuzz with the chatter of guests on the same path. Celebrities and dignitaries, dressed to the nines in an array of the top designers, were all I saw when I peeked behind us. Reporters with photographers in tow, babysat by secret service agents, stood on the other side of a velvet rope. They snapped photos of everyone and everything, including Denzel and I, who, by my estimation, were the most regular of all those in attendance.

We were held up in a line at the door of the State Dining Room and though I'd never once accepted the many invitations to a White House party over the years, I was aware of the customs of this place well enough to know what came next. Which was why I'd adjusted the top of my strapless dress about five times in the last ten seconds, opened my clutch to needlessly root around to check everything was where it was supposed to be, and repeatedly smoothed a shaky hand over my already smooth hair.

"Relax," Denzel whispered.

"I'm fine," I shot back, the tremble in my voice not convincing.

He took my hand, which hung at the front of my gown fiddling with the wedding band on the other hand. "It's strange at first, I know, but don't think of him as the President. It's just Xavier."

But it wasn't just Xavier I was moments away from coming face to face with, again, after fifteen years of artful dodging. It was the man whom I'd harbored so much hate for, in the deep down core of my soul, that every time I flipped the channel and got a glimpse of his stupid face on a news broadcast I got the urge to put my fist right through the glass of the screen, because it was as close as I'd get to actually punching his smug mug.

Until today.

I thought I could do it, for Denzel. I was gonna do it. I was gonna tamper down my anger long enough to suffer through a night in this man's presence. But my body had other plans.

Rage rose again, it made me quiver.

I didn't trust myself, and not keen on being brought up on felony assault charges of a public official of the highest office or worse yet, embarrassing my man, I said, "I gotta go to the bathroom," and turned to escape.

"What? Can it wait?" Denzel took my waist and spun me back around, gently holding me by his side. "We're up next," he said eagerly.

"Denz.," I protested. "I really shouldn't—"

The couple in front of us moved away and then my eyes met soft, light brown ones I didn't immediately recognize. Their hypnotic hold on me threw me into a tailspin that made my emotions crash to calm.

"Elodie?" Xavier stood taller, built bigger, than most in the room, except for Denzel. They were both in as good or better shape as they'd been during their days as fullbacks on the Air Force Academy's football team, due to their weekly workout sessions in The White House's gym. "You came." Xavier stepped toward me. His full beard was gone, revealing more of his smile than I'd ever seen. It was... welcoming? And, dare I say it, kind to my eyes. Shit, maybe it was time for glasses. Because 'kind' was not a word I would have ever associated with Xavier Davis.

He offered his hand and I stared at it, thrown off at my expectation of the man, being completely subverted.

When it was clear I wasn't moving, Denzel thrust his hand into Xavier's. "Uh—what up, bro?" He brought him into a back-slapping man hug. "Happy Birthday, my dude. Thanks for inviting us."

"I appreciate you coming, my brotha," Xavier said.

And there I was standing to the side, awkwardly staring at the exchange, my mind oscillating between anger and surprise, unsure of which to settle on.

"I'm sorry, Sir," A stately woman with an earpiece said to Xavier. "We need to get the line moving again."

"Meriam, please seat these two at my table," said Xavier to the woman. Then he glanced down at me. "I'm honored you'd come, Elodie."

Denzel stepped back by my side and nudged me out of my stupor.

"Ha-happy Birthday, Mr. President," I managed and stepped out of line before he could reply, yanking Denzel along with me.

---

The rest of the evening was an exercise in fakery. I about popped a vein in my neck grinning and feigning interest in the Florida Governor's wife, beside me, who mused about her poodle—she so affectionately referred to as her daughter—that'd just come in second at the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

But fake caring, as she went on and on about her prize pup, was the only thing keeping me from having to speak to the man seated on the other side of my husband. Denzel had been trying to initiate a conversation between Xavier and me all night.

Shit, at least the food was good. I was down to the last piece of the tender steak I'd torn into as if I'd never eaten, ever, and the final droplets of my third red wine top-up.

"Oh, you know what..." Poodle Lady searched through her Mini Coach purse. "I think I have a photo of her in here somewhere. Just give me a sec..."

My phone chimed in my clutch. I reached under the napkin in my lap, where my purse rested, and dug for my phone. "Excuse me for a moment." I toggled my text messages.

Lil Sis: Temporary truce... WHAT THE HELL are you doing at The White House? We still hate that man right?

I smiled at Michonne's message and slid up on the screen to the attached watermarked photo of Denzel and me walking through Cross Hall.

Me: Giiiiiirl, yes! Denz. finally wore me down. :(

Lil Sis: Need me to call with an excuse? Get you outta there?

Me: Nah. Almost over. I'll be alright. But thanks. Call me tonight.

Lil Sis: Okay.

Me: LOVE YOU & sorry for what I said about Mike.

Lil Sis: Love you too & you're forgiven.

"El." Denzel set his hand on my thigh. "I was just telling Xavier about your new job."

I looked up at my husband and my heart clenched at his wide eyes silently pleading with me. Damn it. I'd told him I would try and so far I'd done everything to make the night comfortable for only myself. Denzel had always, always gone out of his way to be there for me. He reminded me of how both of my fathers were with my mother. I'd agreed to accompany him for the night as part of my ongoing effort to even the score, to be as good a wife to him as he was a husband to me. This half-assed attempt wasn't cutting it.

I tossed my cell phone back into my clutch and dragged my eyes past Denzel to Xavier, who sat watching me. "Yeah, Tytron," I said.

"Great company," said Xavier. "A friend of mine owns the subsidiary. Are you a test pilot for them?"

"Engineer."

"Oh, that's right. D told me you went back to school after leaving the Air Force?"

I nodded and sat silent.

They were both staring at me, waiting, because it was obviously my turn to ask a question. But even if my brain had been cooperating and had supplied my mouth with words, my mouth would have checked that shit; words weren't getting past my sealed lips. Truth was, I didn't wanna know a thing about this man or the life he'd built on the back of my man, whose life he'd nearly destroyed in the process.

And in that moment, it all flashed through my mind again: getting the call that there'd been an accident, bailing Denzel out of jail, and attending his court martial hearing. I'd successfully blocked out the days that followed. But I couldn't forget how I'd been the one to clean up the mess Xavier had made. How I'd been the one to find Denzel, half alive and drowning in a puddle of his vomit, while Xavier was campaigning for the senate seat that'd propelled him into political superstardom.

Xavier cleared his throat and exchanged a look with Denzel, who nodded his encouragement. "Listen, I'd like the opportunity to sit down with you and apolo–"

"No, no." I held my finger up, cutting him off. "Don't. Don't do that." I threw my napkin on my plate, ignoring stares from the others around the table—the likes of the Vice President. "Denz. may have forgiven you for ruining his life. Lord knows I will never understand why. But God help me, I won't. Ever." I scraped my chair back and stood.

"El." Denzel grabbed my wrist, his expression reading utter disappointment.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come. You stay. I'll catch a cab." I shook him off and fled.

---

"Yeah, you really shouldn't have gone," Michonne said absently, on the other end of the line, later that night. She'd caught me just as I'd stepped out of the hot shower I'd taken to wash the night away.

Standing in front of the mirror, in my robe, I set my cell phone on the bathroom counter and tapped the speaker button. "But can you believe Denz, though? Setting me up like that. He knew the motherfucker was gonna try apologizing." I sighed. "God, but he looked so hurt. I don't even wanna know what he's gonna say when he gets home. But I just don't understand how he expects me to—"

"Terry, turn that up," said Michonne, clearly not listening to me.

"Uh... am I keeping you from something?"

"El, have you seen those reports on the news?!" Michonne asked, worried. "People going crazy—cannibal shit."

I lathered my hands in moisturizer and slid them through my wet curls. A husband biting his wife's neck out, a high school student murdering and tearing his girlfriend apart with his bare hands, and a lady eating her dog to the bone. I'd seen a few stories over the past few days that seemed too similar to be coincidental, but I'd put them out of my mind. Authorities suspected it was a new type of psychotropic drug running rampant. "It's happening in Georgia too?"

"Yeah. And something's going on right now."

I paused, mid-comb, and my eyes went to my phone as if I could hear or understand better by looking at it. "What exactly is happening?"

"They're not showing much on the news. But I think it's downtown. They're saying it's chaos. Telling people to stay in their homes."

Wiping my hands on my robe, I moved into the bedroom, clicked on the television, and flipped to the local news channel.

Oh my God. My hand flew to cover my mouth when I caught sight of the scene on the screen. Glimpses of the same scenario happening all across the city: D.C. on fire, people running for their lives from other... people? Who were... attacking them? Ripping their bodies to pieces and... eating them?! Eating them? My brain was at risk of malfunctioning, trying to process it all.

Then a national emergency banner kicked up and rolled along the bottom of the screen, cautioning people to shelter in place, at the same time a siren blared outside.

I startled, dropped my phone, and then remembering my sister was on the line, I quickly snatched it up. "Michonne, you still there?" I panted and heard the dull drone of a busy signal in response.

Damn it. My shaky hands hung up and dialed her number. Busy signal.

I tried Denzel. Busy signal.

Just as I was trying my father's number, a whining screech shrieked outside. Then a crash thundered. A shatter chimed. I sprinted out to the driveway of our cul-de-sac—of which our house was at the center. My head whipped around: the neighbors standing transfixed, with their eyes blown wide and focused in the same direction.

I followed their line of sight: a fiery head-on collision down the street—a coop and an SUV. The coop's front end was destroyed and it had a human-sized hole in the front window's shattered glass.

My heart hammered in my chest, as I dragged my eyes down to the pavement, and then it clenched tight at a woman lying face down in the road. One of her legs was bent out of shape and a thick piece of glass was lodged in her neck. There was no way in hell she could have survived that.

There was no way!

So why the fuck were her hands moving?! And why the fuck was she pushing off of the ground and standing on her disfigured leg like it was nothing?

"Cecilia?" A burly, white guy I recognized from a few houses down ran full speed up the road toward the wreck. Toward the woman. "Cecilia!"

Cecilia's head snapped up and she stood, limped toward him, and I wanted to tell him to stop. My intuition screamed at me to tell him to stop. But I was stunned, frozen, detached from it all, as if it were a movie playing out in front of me.

"Cecilia? Holy shit!" Neighbor Guy reached Cecilia, and her hands latched onto his shoulders. "We gotta get you to a hospi—" He never finished.

Cecilia brought him close. Her mouth latched to his neck like a leech.

Neighbor Guy let out a throaty scream and writhed, trying to push Cecilia off.

A chorus of screams rang through the neighborhood. Doors slammed in the distance. But I only half heard it all, sounds muffled in my ears as I watched the rest happen in slow motion: Cecilia brought Neighbor Guy to the ground and laid on top of his squirming body, eating at his flesh. Feasting on him. Until his body stopped moving.

"Elodie... Elodie... Elodie!"

My name, being shouted, snapped me free of the fog. I looked to the side, where the voice came from. My next-door neighbor, Randall, waved at me with one hand, the other was clutching a rifle. "Get inside your house! Now!" He shouted, sprinting past me, toward the wreck.

"No, don't," I cautioned, waving my hands at him. "What are you doi—"

"Go!"

Forcing my body to move, I ran for my house and cast a backward glance at Randall when I reached the door. He shot Cecilia in the heart. The force of the gun's blast knocked her onto her back. Then a second later she popped back up. Her sights were set on Randall.

Backing away, Randall emptied his cartridge into her chest, but she kept coming. And then Randall just stood there like a goddamn idiot, staring with his mouth dropped to the pavement.

I couldn't watch it happen again. I rushed into the house, but I heard Randall's screams before I slammed the door shut and leaned my head against it, slowing my uneven breaths.

How was any of this possible? People didn't come back to life. They didn't all of a sudden get the urge to start eating other people, goddammit!

Denzel. Oh God. No, he's safe. The White House was the most fortified place in the country. He's safe there.

But I wasn't safe here.

---

On the high shelf above my clothes, inside our closet, was where I found the black box with my gun inside. Dressed in black jeans and a hoodie, I threw it onto my bed, unlatched the clasps, and pulled the pistol out. Checked the safety, then popped the empty magazine free and loaded it with bullets. I threw clothes into the duffle from underneath my bed, some for me and some for Denzel.

Duffle bag and pistol in hand, my eyes swept the bedroom. And I couldn't pinpoint why, but I got the overwhelming feeling that it'd be the last time I stood in this room. In this house. Everything in that moment felt like the end of one existence and the beginning of a new and worse one.

I flipped the switch and trudged through the hallway toward the garage door.

My hand froze on the knob at a banging on the front door. It wasn't Denzel, he had a key.

Just get in your car and go, my brain yelled, it could be one of those things.

Or someone needing help, the kinder side supplied.

Cocking the gun, I wrapped my fingers around the handle grip and held it low as I moved through the entryway toward the front door.

"Elodie Hawthorne-Washington?" A booming voice yelled from the other side.

"Who is it?"

"Secret Service. Your husband, Denzel, sent us."

I relaxed my grip on my pistol.

"Identification," I yelled back, then lifted on my toes to look through the peephole. A legit-looking badge filled the view. It dropped and was replaced by an unforgiving face that matched the photo.

I flipped the lock on the knob and swung the door open.

Three men, in black suits, towered above me with their guns drawn. "We're here by order of the President, to get you somewhere safe," the one whose face had been on the ID said.

I was guided into the back seat of a tinted SUV, which peeled off immediately after the door slammed behind me. Staring out the window as we drove away, my eyes fell on the bodies splayed on the pavement. People I saw every day, but had barely known. But they were someone's, and I could only hope all of my someone's were safe.

Out of my neighborhood, the agent driving peeled off into the backwoods. The two up front murmured something about the major roads being jammed, everyone trying to get the hell out of the city. I didn't ask where we were going or what exactly was going on if only to live in blissful ignorance for a little longer. They were taking me to Denzel, it was all I needed to know.

I only realized ten minutes out from our second hour on the road, where we were headed, when the SUV wheels crunched past a sign that read, 'Welcome to Catoctin Mountain Park'.

Camp David.

---

"El!" Denzel tore out of Camp David's main cabin and ran at top speed down the gravel driveway for the SUV.

I jumped out of the crawling truck and raced to meet him. We held onto each other.

"You alright?" He pulled back and held the sides of my face, his eyes shone. "I was so worried. I wanted to come, but they took us away so fast. You're not hurt?"

"No. Are you okay?"

Denzel stared at me, he looked disturbed. He removed his suit coat and draped it over my shaky shoulders, keeping an arm around them as he guided me toward the cabin, where five armed Marines stood guard. "There's a lot I need to tell you about."

---

—Day 30—

Dorothy Hawthorne

"Ladies & gentlemen, this flight will be departing in twenty minutes. Pl–please find a seat and store your items in the overhead compartment." The shakiness of the Flight Attendant's soft, Swedish-accented voice canceled out the cheery tone I was not at all buying. It did nothing to assuage the more than justified dread steadily throbbing at my temple as I trudged down the aisle on the last unsanctioned flight out of Sweden.

I slumped into a window seat at the front of the cabin. Rainwater dripped from the tips of my graying, tightly coiled curls and made puddles on the shoulders of the coat I'd snatched, in passing, from one of the price-gouging shops in the vacant airport I'd been rushed through. I must have looked like a wet poodle by now.

My shaky fingers fumbled for the seat buckle and tried twice to slide the metal piece into the slot, missing both times. Slow down, woman. Take a breath and relax.

Throwing my head back against the headrest, I closed my eyes and focused on evening my ragged breaths. Those yoga breathing techniques my middle daughter had tried to persuade me into doing to lower my blood pressure would have come in handy right about now. But my stubborn self couldn't be bothered. Now look at you.

"Need a hand, ma'am?" A man's British-accented voice said, from beside me.

I popped one eye open and then the other and stared at him. Black. Young. Thirty-ish. Looked a splash square. Too dapper for the type of day we were all having, that was for sure. And how in God's name had he managed to keep his tweed vest and flat cap dry?

"Those buckles can be tricky, ay? May I?"

Hesitating at first, I lifted my hands as if to surrender, and kept an eagle eye on him, as he reached into my space to click the piece into place so effortlessly it bordered on embarrassing.

"Thank you, baby." I lowered my hands when he leaned back into his seat and adjusted his belt.

"No problem." He offered his hand to me and spread his lips into a blinding white grin. "Bishop Allen."

I set my hand inside his. "Dorothy Hawthorne."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Hawthorne."

His prim and pristine pronunciation made me all too aware of my unrefined central Georgia drawl. "Dorothy'll do just fine," I corrected.

He tipped his head, the smile never leaving his face. "Dorothy it is. What kind of physician are you?"

"Immunologist."

"Practicing?"

"No. I'm a Research Scientist."

Bishop whistled. "Didn't know I would be sitting beside the most important person in the world." He grabbed a handful of his plaid vest. "Wish I'd worn a better fit."

The charming quirk of his eyebrow lowered my defenses. I couldn't help the small smile that twitched at the corner of my mouth. "And who do I have the pleasure of sitting beside?"

"The number..." He squinted and looked toward the ceiling. "Ten plastic surgeon in Great Britain? My apologies."

"Honestly, honey, I think your services might be more in demand than mine nowadays."

His face went slack and he shifted in his seat to face me more fully. "So you've heard about the spread time, then?"

I nodded and shifted in too. "Nothing concrete just yet. But reports are coming out of China. People are surviving if amputation happens within seconds of a bite."

He chewed his bottom lip. "Got any ideas of what's causing it? How it all started?"

"Animal-to-human spillover, maybe. A lab experiment gone terribly wrong. A bioweapon. Honestly, it doesn't make a difference. It's too late to try and figure it all out." I sighed. "A cure, if there is any, should be the focus. Without it, lots of people are gonna die."

He blew out a breath and stared at the back of the seat in front of us, with a look like I'd just told him a loved one had passed.

See this was why I'd become a researcher instead of a practicing physician; my bedside manner in life and medicine left a lot to be desired. But I suddenly missed his smile—a bright spot in a string of dark days—and found myself searching for the words to make it return. "What? They didn't prepare you for Ataxic Neurodegenerative Satiety Deficiency Syndrome in medical school?" I tried.

He slowly turned his head toward me, the light in his eyes had returned. "You think I'd be on this bloody plane if they had? Nah, I would have done what I'd wanted, instead of going for the posh job my father made me pursue."

"And what is it exactly you wanted to do?"

"Alright..." He pushed his sleeves up and held his hands out and up in front of us as if they were a projector screen. "Picture this. Me. A leather jacket and tight jeans. Rocking out in front of a stadium of adoring fans. They're calling my name like—Bi-shop. Bi-shop. Bi-shop..." he chanted softly.

And I laughed. Amid the world crumbling to pieces just outside the window, I laughed.

"You don't think I could have pulled it off?"

I hit him with a deadpan look. "I'm afraid I have to agree with your father."

"See, that's not right."

"It wasn't realistic, I'm sorry."

"Stranger things have happened, wouldn't you say? Take, for instance, the dead walking the earth."

Well, he did have me there.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Flight Attendant's voice sounded through the speaker. "I apologize, we will be taking off sooner than expected. Please find your seat now as we prepare for liftoff."

The plane jerked to a slow crawl.

Bishop leaned into the aisle, glanced both ways, then back at me. A curious look was on his face. "You see how many people were in that terminal with us?"

I nodded. There'd been at least a hundred of us.

"Enough to fill this plane, right?"

"I suppose."

"Then why are half the seats still empty? Where is every—" His eyes caught on the window and widened, hushing his speech. "Bloody hell," he breathed.

I turned my head and through the window saw people—the doctors and scientists who'd all been with me at the medical conference—running through the pouring rain for the plane, on the tarmac. Screaming for it to stop, with a crowd of the dead not too far behind.

They're leaving them behind. "They're leaving them behind," I said to Bishop, before unclasping my seatbelt and shoving into the aisle to make a beeline for the front of the plane.

I stormed into the galley and just as I reached the metal door of the cockpit, the put-together, red-haired Flight Attendant stepped in front of me. "Ma'am, please take your seat."

"There are folks out there. You need to let them on board."

She flinched but continued to say, "The doors have closed," in her pacifying flight attendant voice. "I'm afraid we're unable to let any more passengers on."

"You're tryna tell me you're going to let those folks out there die?"

"If we stop, we are risking the lives on this plane—"

"Who said anything about stopping?" A stout, young American man crowded into the galley.

"There are people out there," I huffed at him.

"Yea—and also the dead assholes they're leading to us." He looked at the Flight Attendant. "You're not thinking about stopping this thing?"

"No, sir. Will you just..." She moved away from the door to usher the man out of the galley. "Please take your seat."

I hurried to the cockpit door and banged. "Stop the plane!"

"Ma'am!" The Flight Attendant yelled. "Step away from the door."

"Stop the plane," I shouted, paying her no mind. "You have to stop this plane."

"Are you insane?!" the American roared, and at the same time, a thick hand grabbed my shoulder, but just as quickly it was gone.

"Ay, mate! Hands off," I heard Bishop order.

When I turned around, Bishop was pushing the American into the galley's metal cabinet.

"Who the hell are you?" The American thrashed against Bishop's hold.

Bishop shoved him deeper into the cabinet. "Someone who will put you on your ass."

The American sized up Bishop, who, though lean, had a muscular build.

"So how about you sit down and leave this between the two lovely ladies, yes?"

He stared at Bishop a moment longer, before huffing out, "Fine. Okay."

Bishop released but kept his eyes on the American as he stomped out of the galley.

And then it was just Bishop, the Flight Attendant, and I standing frozen in the galley, as the tension deflated.

I glanced at the Flight attendant, whose professional facade had fallen. The poor child was hugging herself and trembling like a leaf. That's when I noticed just how young she looked. She couldn't have been too much younger than my girls. I stepped up to her. "Honey, I know this is terrifying. But those folks out there don't deserve to die because we're scared. The dead are far enough behind 'em for us to get 'em on board... Please get him to stop the plane."

Her mouth parted slightly, she breathed out slowly before moving to the red telephone beside the cockpit door.

As she spoke into the phone, I stepped toward Bishop. "Didn't know you had that in you."

"Me neither," he said, almost giddy. "That wanker needs to learn how to speak to a lady."

My hand braced against the galley wall when the plane screeched to a halt. I looked at the Flight attendant who hung up the phone. "He's giving us three minutes." She grabbed a neon green vest off a hook on the wall and threw it over her head. She hurried to the door, unlocked and pushed it open. Grabbed the hatchet sitting on the galley cabinet and turned to Bishop and me. "Will you two help me get the rest on board?"

Bishop and I followed her down the stairs.

---

I stared out the window, at what I could see of the few rudderless clouds in the darkness the plane floated through. Buoyed in the calm of this higher earth, untouched by the wave of death washing over the one below, it was easy to imagine anything was possible. The reports kept saying America was holding out, but after what I'd seen Sweden become—the absolute carnage—hope felt foolish. I had to believe my family was okay. I had to, it was all I had left.

My husband's face flashed in my mind; there was a tingle in my tear ducts. He was a gentle man, a man not made for what the world was becoming, which was why I hadn't stopped fretting over him since the siren had gone off.

He wasn't good with technology and rarely turned the TV on... how would he know where the army camps were?

He was an annoyingly staunch pacifist... what would he do if he had to kill one of those things?

If it got as bad as Sweden, surely one of the kids would go get him and make sure he was safe. They would. It's what I kept telling myself.

"You ever been to Philadelphia?" Bishop asked. "Philly. It's what you Americans call it, yes?"

"I've never really left Georgia. This was my first time overseas." I rolled my head toward him. "And you?"

"If you can believe it, this is my first time in the States. Always wanted to go but never got around to it..." His face went serious. "Were you able to reach your family?"

My stomach lurched. "No." As soon as the global state of emergency had been declared, things escalated quicker than anyone could have anticipated. Within hours, the networks were down.

"Well, I hear the Americans are fairing far better than the Swedes," Bishop said softly. "The communication breakdown is probably just an international thing. I'm sure you'll be able to reach them once we're in country."

Her eyes went to the window again. "I hope so... what about you?"

"Nah, but it was just my father. Rich fuck is probably holed up in a bunker somewhere with some other elitist fucks. Sipping old fashions and reveling in the good 'ol days..."

"I take it y'all weren't close?"

"I hadn't spoken to him in nearly ten years. Hell, he could be dead for all I know."

"Jesus... I can't imagine not speaking to one of my kids for that long."

"How many do you have?"

"Four. My first husband and I had three together. After he passed, I met Freeman in a grief support group. He lost his wife. And he had a daughter." I'd never wanted to be a stepmother, not sure I could love someone else's child as much as the ones I'd birthed. But after some turbulent waters, Michonne had warmed to us, so much so that when we were together people couldn't tell we weren't blood. I'd never imagined nor requested Michonne call me anything but Dorothy, but it'd touched my soul when she came home from her first semester at law school and introduced me to her new boyfriend as "my mother".

"Even though she was in her early twenties when her daddy and I married," I continued. "I've always seen her as my child."

He nodded and the conversation faded to a lull.

"So..." he said, cutting into the silence. "Any of your daughters single?"

I stared at him, puzzled. Who was this child asking such an asinine question when we were on a getaway plane, running from a country overrun by flesh-eating corpses? "You're worried about a date? Right now?"

He shrugged. "Well, I can't pop over to the corner pub to meet a lass, anymore, now can I? And if your girls take after you… then..." He raised a suggestive brow.

"Am I supposed to be flattered?"

"It was merely an observation of your timeless beauty..." He said it as if he was quoting Shakespeare.

I shook my head. "You're laying it on a little thick now."

"So?" He leaned on the armrest. "Your daughters?"

I sighed. "Are all spoken for."

"You don't sound too pleased about that."

"Two out of the three, I adore. But my youngest daughter's boyfriend, I've never liked. He's a good guy, don't get me wrong. But nowhere near good enough for her."

"Did you tell her?"

"Uh–no." I bugged my eyes at him. "That is a rookie parenting move." Michonne was the most stubborn of all Freeman and I's children. Voicing my dislike of the man she thought she loved would have done absolutely no one any good. "I figured she'd realize he wasn't right for her. But, then they had a baby boy together."

"Oooh."

I smiled, picturing Andre's big eyes staring back at me. "My husband and I's first grandbaby. He's—Andre—he's our whole world. Just the most precious little thing. And he changed everything for me as it concerned my daughter's boyfriend. I still feel she can do better, but he's Andre's daddy..."

"Is he a good father?"

"He is," she admitted.

"Take it from me." Bishop went serious again. "That counts for something."

---

I'd managed to doze off, but it wasn't long before I woke to the plane dipping, shaking violently, and the passengers screaming in time to the plane's drops. My hand flew to the armrest, but Bishop's was already there. When I looked over, his body was rigid and his eyes were squeezed shut. I let him have the armrest and grabbed the cushion of the seat in front of me.

"What's going on?" I shouted at Bishop.

"Turbulence, I suppose!" He yelled, opening his eyes to look at me. He shut them again, a second later, when the plane dropped. "Really! Bad! Turbulence!"

A fresh wave of screams rolled through the cabin.

I placed my hand over his and braced until that sinking feeling was gone.

"I need your help!" I heard. My head whipped to the aisle where the Flight Attendant stood, trying to stay steady against the rough air current. "Both of you. Follow me, please."

Bishop and I hesitated before unbuckling our belts and stepping into the aisle.

Heart racing, I grabbed the back of the seats along the way to the galley, to keep me steady, my body jerking with every jostle of the plane. I latched onto an overhead metal railing when I reached the open space of the galley.

"The pilot is not responding," the Flight Attendant said. She looked and sounded about ready to hyperventilate.

"What?!" Bishop and I yelled at the same time.

"He's not answering," she repeated.

"Don't you have some kind of... override code or something for that lock?" Bishop asked.

"Yes." Her hand went to her forehead. "But I don't remember it."

"What do you mean you don't remember?" I asked, trying to keep my voice calm as the plane whipped us against the wall.

"This was only my second week on the job. But I was the only one left! They're all fucking dead! And now..." She clutched her chest and slid against the wall to the ground. "Oh, God." She sobbed and started praying, intermingling English with a language I could only assume was Swedish.

I stepped over her and went to the door, and was about to bang on it, but my hand froze when I heard a distinct growling. No, there's no way. It can't be... pressing my ear to the door, I closed my eyes and listened…

It was.

"What is it?" Bishop asked.

I looked back at him. "He's—he's dead. I—I think he turned."

"What?!"

"He's—"

"Fuck! What do we do?!"

My eyes caught on the hatchet on the counter, behind Bishop. "Hand me the hatchet," I demanded. "We gotta get this damn door open." What we would do after, I had no idea.

Bishop handed it over.

"Find something heavy," I ordered him. "Whatever you might think could break through this door. See if some other passengers will help, and if one of them can fly this thing when we get in."

"It won't work!" the Flight Attendant cried. "Nothing you find will help. It's bulletproof. Impenetrable. Made of some kind of composite material, it's got layers of ultra-high molecular weight fibers with phenolic resins—"

"So you remember that," Bishop raged sarcastically. "But you can't remember the damn code? Great."

"We have to try. Bishop, go!" I planted my feet, held my ground against the turbulence, and thrashed the metal of the door, over and over and over again. A new face flashed in my mind with every blow: BANG. Freeman. BANG. Elodie. BANG. Micah. BANG. Yvette. BANG. Michonne. BANG. Andre.

That's where I was, banging away at that door, holding on to the last shred of hope I had when the plane plunged uncontrolled into the earth.

---

—Day 4,480—

Rick stood at the kitchen counter packing peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, into a picnic basket, when RJ strolled in tossing a football.

"Hey, Dad?" RJ hopped onto the counter.

Rick smiled at him. "Hey, son."

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask me anything." He ruffled his son's hair before he leaned his side against the counter and crossed his arms.

"What does Rick mean?"

He raised a brow. Not the question he'd been anticipating. He'd assumed it'd be another about his time in the Civic Republic, which the kids were endlessly curious about. They wanted to know every detail of every year he'd been away and he'd told the story of what he and Michonne had done at the Summit about twenty times by now. He was happy to answer anything, grateful that his time at the Civic Republic was only a story to tell now. Somehow, answering this question unsettled him more.

"I asked Mom," said RJ. "But she said she didn't know. Since you have the same name... I thought you would."

"Well... it means... brave ruler," Rick said, sheepishly. He hadn't ever felt like he'd lived up to his name. Still didn't. The Brave Man... what his family called him, how they saw him. He wished he could see it too. But everything "brave" Rick had done since the start, he'd done scared shitless.

"Coooool," RJ drew out, his eyes went wide, bright with excitement.

"Yep. It's pretty cool." Staring at his son's face, Rick savored the pure joy he saw. Michonne had told Rick that RJ looked the most like him, and after seeing him he'd had to agree, but Rick saw his wife in their son when he smiled or laughed. RJ's joy, like his mother's, was infectious.

"I can't wait to tell my friends at school." RJ hopped off of the counter.

"Hey," Rick said, stopping him before he could walk off. "You ask Mom that question?"

"Yup."

"What's hers mean?"

"Gift from God," he said, with an indifferent shrug.

"Hmm..." Rick nodded slowly; now that was a fitting name if he'd heard one.

"Not as cool as our name. But, whatever."

"Here." Rick lifted the picnic basket from the counter and handed it to RJ. "Grab a blanket and the kites, we're leaving soon."

"Okay, Dad. Can I bring my Gameboy?"

Rick hesitated, a "sure" on the tip of his tongue. "Not this time," he said gently, instead.

"Pleeeease. I promise I won't play it the whole time."

"It's family time. Sorry."

RJ frowned and his shoulders slumped as he turned around.

Damn it. "But—but how about when we get back, you show me how it works," Rick tried.

RJ murmured a less than enthusiastic, "Okay", as he sulked away.

Watching his son, it was all Rick could do not to give in. All RJ had heard from him since he'd gotten back was "yes", and Rick had been dreading the looming moment when real parenting would need to begin. His son's disappointment stung more than he'd imagined it would.

Rick sighed. He moved into the hallway and made his way to stand beside Judith under the living room archway.

His daughter watched her mom pace in front of the front window, she hadn't taken her eyes off, since she'd set up camp there first thing.

"She's still at it?" Rick whispered to Judith.

"I've never seen her like this."

"Yeah... me neither."

Rick set a hand on Judith's shoulder. "Help your brother get everything together." He gave her a slight smile. "I'm going in."

Judith reached up to pat the hand he had on her shoulder. "Good luck," she said before walking away.

Rick shuffled into the living room unnoticed, Michonne's gaze laser-focused on the window. He stood there a few minutes waiting to be acknowledged before he stretched his arm out to catch her waist mid-pace.

Michonne was startled. "Oh," she said, seeming genuinely surprised by his presence. "Hey."

Rick brought her into his space and pressed her body into his, his lips onto hers. It took her a second to relax into the kiss. Then her arms crossed around his neck and she moaned against his mouth, deepening it.

For once, it was Rick who pulled away first, but they stayed in each other's hold. "The kids and me are leaving for the park... Come with us."

"Yumiko's gonna come here once she finds something out."

"The park's on the way. She'll see us."

She looked past him, her face thoughtful. "Rick, the note on the Wall of The Lost... it was old, frayed. Seems like it'd been there for a long time." Her eyes shifted back to him. "What if she's gone?"

"No."

Michonne's gaze dropped to his chest and he dipped his head, guiding it back up.

"She's not gone. I wasn't. And if you can believe that, despite everything, then you can believe she's not either."

Michonne nodded.

"Come on. It isn't a family day without Mom. And it'll help to take your mind off things."

She expelled a heavy breath. "Yeah. Okay."

---

Rick had been right. Flying kites with the kids and battling alongside Judith against her husband and son in a surprisingly competitive game of soccer, had been just the distraction Michonne had needed.

She ran behind the soccer ball. Her eyes bounced between it and Judith, who was at the other end of the park's open field with her hands stretched out as she blocked her brother. Michonne gasped when an arm grabbed her waist from behind, to stop her pursuit. "Hey!" She giggled, at the wetness of Rick's lips on her neck. "Really?" she said, turning in his arm to push him away.

"What the heck, Dad!" Judith yelled, indignant. "That's illegal!"

"Let's go, Dad!" RJ cheered.

"Sorry." Rick pecked her neck again, before releasing and sidestepping past her toward the ball.

Michonne raced after him and managed to grab a handful of his t-shirt, pulling him away from the ball.

Rick stumbled. "RJ!" he yelled, before kicking the ball in their children's direction and tumbling to the ground.

She tried to let go of his shirt before he could take her down with him, but it was too late. Michonne stumbled and fell on top of him. They lay there, heavy breathing and staring at each other, with twin impish grins. When Rick's smile waned and his hypnotized eyes flicked down to her lips and then he leaned up for a kiss, Michonne dodged it. "Payback," she said, patting his chest, then pushing off of it. She extended her hand and helped pull him up.

"It's alright, I'll get mine tonight," he whispered, low and sexy in her ear before jogging off toward the kids.

---

"So you two are like married, married now?" Judith asked. She held her peanut butter and jelly sandwich, in one hand and in the other, she had her mother's hand. She was examining the ring on her finger.

"That's right," Rick said, taking a swig of water.

"We're married, married," said Michonne, from where she sat crisscrossed beside Judith on the picnic blanket, RJ and Rick were on the other side.

Judith brought the ring closer, inspecting the intricate details of the thick band. She looked at her father. "You did good, Dad."

"Well, I had a little help."

"This is not it, though, right? You're still gonna have a wedding?" she asked, like it was the most obvious next step in the sequence of events. Her gaze darted between her mother and father. "Right?"

Rick caught Michonne's eye, he looked just as interested in her answer as Judith did.

"I hadn't thought about it," said Michonne. "Kinda feels like the deal's already sealed, baby girl."

"No. You have to have a wedding. If anything, for RJ and I. We deserve to see our parents get married," she said, vehemently. "Right, RJ?"

Her brother shrugged, dutifully eating his sandwich, and not at all interested in the conversation. "I guess."

"We do. People get married here all the time. And there's a chapel by the river. It's so pretty, Mom. And they even have wedding dresses at the consignment shop." Michonne had never seen her baby girl so impassioned. "We could invite everyone we know here and from Alexandria." She glanced between her parents. "So?..."

"I think that sounds like a fine idea," Rick said to Judith before he looked at Michonne. That softness she loved so much was in his gaze. "If it's something mom wanted."

She hadn't been one of those little girls who'd pictured herself as a bride, she'd been far too unfettered. And as she'd gotten older, the thought of tying herself to someone felt so restraining, no matter how meaningless the certificate of paper was. Her mother—Dorothy—had always told her that with the right man, it would all of a sudden mean something to her. She'd refused to buy that, if only because she'd been with Mike at the time, and still had no desire to be tied to him in that way. "What we have is already so good, why try and make it something else," she'd told him when he'd proposed to her. But now, she realized that'd just been an excuse, because staring down at Rick on bended knee in that forest, there'd been no hesitation or second-guessing her 'yes'.

Her mother had been right, it could have only ever been Rick.

Michonne ran a hand over her daughter's hair and kissed her forehead, then she looked at Rick when she said, "I want that."

They watched each other until Rick's eyes slipped past Michonne and he rose.

Michonne looked and saw Yumiko jogging towards them. She stood just as Yumiko reached them and Rick stepped in beside her and set his hand on her lower back. "Did you find her?"

Yumiko smiled and handed over a piece of paper, with an address written on it. "She lives in the ward three apartment complex, but this is where she is right now."

---

Michonne stood at the center of the plaza, teeming with White Coats and college-aged students rushing wherever they were going. She checked the paper in her hand, then looked up at the sign that said the same thing: 'Commonwealth Science and Research Center'. Situated in the part of the city Michonne and Rick had yet to venture to, the Research center was tucked away at the far end that had been developed after the start. The University building sat beside it, in the cul-de-sac of modern architecture.

She'd been thankful for the time it'd taken—thirty minutes—to get there from her side of town. Time to get her shit together, to shed some of the anxious energy she had been cloaked in all morning. Rick and the kids had offered to come, but it was all too overwhelming: the prospect of seeing her mother again after over a decade and introducing her to her husband and kids, without the context of everything that'd occurred between now and then. There was so much that'd changed for her since they'd seen each other last. Just thinking about it brought on a jittery feeling, and made her brain short-circuit.

Michonne flexed her hands, at her sides, but the tingling feeling wouldn't go away. Just go in, she told herself, and marched into the building, stopping at the circulation desk.

"Hi, can I help you?" A woman at the desk asked.

Michonne noticed she wore some sort of high-tech prosthetic hand, and the fingers moved freely with the precision of a robot. She made a mental note to ask about it later. "Can you tell me how to get to the labs?"

She pointed with a prosthetic finger, in the direction of the hallway to the right. "Go all the way to the end and take a left. Then through the double doors."

"Thank you."

Michonne's boots squeaked on the linoleum floor of the hallway. Every step echoed loudly in her ears. She passed others on her way but didn't see a single one of them, her tunnel vision focused on the path that led to yet another piece of proof that maybe there was such a thing as miracles.

Michonne turned and slowed her steps to the double doors. She stood in front of the window, her hand went up to touch the glass and her heart stopped cold.

Her mother was right there, seated in front of a laboratory workstation with her eye pressed against the eyepiece of a microscope. She glanced up and Michonne's breath caught when their eyes met momentarily before her mother's fell to the papers on the table. A second later, after she'd processed what her eyes had beheld, her mother slowly raised her gaze back up.

Michonne's lip quivered as she fought to form a smile.

They stared at each other through the window, matching expressions of utter shock.

Her mother broke the stare and snapped at the man beside her, then pointed to the door.

Michonne stepped back when he approached and buzzed the door open.

The man held it open for her. When Michonne stepped inside, the room fell silent. All work had ceased and all eyes were on them, the White Coats were inexplicably aware of how momentous this moment was.

And then Michonne watched her mother roll the wheels of the chair she sat in, backward, away from the table, and out in front of her. She was in a wheelchair? How had Michonne not noticed that before? A million and one questions cluttered Michonne's mind, but none seemed as important as this one: how was she here?

Her mother shook her head. "Michonne?" A tear slid down her cheek.

Michonne couldn't have spoken if she'd tried. All she could manage was a nod, as tears cascaded.

Her mother held her arms out wide. "Come here, baby."

Michonne rushed toward her mother, knelt in front of the wheelchair, and fell into her arms. She rested her head against her mother's chest and sobbed into it as she listened to her heartbeat. It was confirmation this was real... she was real, and still here.

---

"This place is so you." Michonne ran her hand over one of the woven, tribal-patterned baskets that hung on the wall of her mother's apartment. The whole place was as eclectic as Michonne remembered her mother being: colored lamp shades and chromatic paint splashed artwork on the walls.

She'd also noticed the accommodations made for her wheelchair. Besides the fact she lived on the first floor, there wasn't much in the way of furniture aside from a couch and a small, round dining table where her mother sat now, silently sipping a cup of tea and watching Michonne.

Michonne had been there an hour already and they still waded in the shallow end of the water, neither of them emotionally ready to reveal it all—the rivers crossed and mountains scaled by them both to survive a time in history that had wiped out most.

"I like it," Michonne said, sitting in the chair beside her mother. She took a moment to take inventory of how she'd changed. Her sandalwood-like skin was a bit more weathered, with lines and spots the years had painted on. And the coils of her short bob of curls were completely gray, with only a trace of black.

"You always did have good taste," said Dorothy.

"I get it from you."

Her mother smiled at her, but it fell quickly. Her eyes dropped to Michonne's finger, which was wrapped around her cup of tea. Michonne didn't need to look to know it was her wedding band sparking the curious look on her face.

"You're different. I see it in the way you walk now. Talk. You carry it all, better than most." She slid her hand across the table and took Michonne's free hand. "So... who are you now, baby?"

She couldn't even remember her former self enough to articulate the difference. Who she'd become, who this world had made her was all that was left. "I was... a wanderer for a long time. Then I was a stranger to people who became family... I was a leader..." Michonne wiped a tear that slipped free. "I thought I was a widow. But now I'm a wife..." She laughed. "If you can believe it... And I'm a mother."

"Andre?"

God, his name. It'd been so long since she'd heard anyone say it. Michonne could only shake her head in response.

Her mother's lip trembled, but she nodded, like somehow she'd already known.

"He would have been fifteen," Michonne said, softly. "I—I still think about him, every day. What he'd look like. How he'd be. I've fought hard to keep his memory there, in my mind." Michonne closed her eyes and shook her head. "No matter how much it hurts."

Her mother's cold fingers cleaned up the tears that escaped through her shut lids. "That's how I felt about you and your sisters and your brother." She held her hand at the side of Michonne's cheek. "Being a mother is a blessing, but oh what a heavy burden it is too."

Michonne took her hand, kissed it, and held onto it. "What happened? How did you get here?"

Her mother took a deep breath and launched into it. "Once the sirens went off in Sweden, the whole country went into lockdown. The resort where the medical conference was happening, was in a remote place. Away from the worst of it. They kept us there for a few weeks. Everyone was tryna get a flight back home, but everything shut down so fast. I didn't think I'd get home. Then this organization chartered a commercial flight for us. They said they required scientists and doctors to fight the virus. It was a free ride to the U.S. I was gonna try to get back to Georgia." She shook her head. "I realize now how absurd that plan was. I wouldn't have made it from Philly to Atlanta alive."

"The plane was taking you to Philadelphia?"

"Yes."

Could it be... "Was the organization called The Civic Republic?"

"I don't know. They never said. Why?"

"It's..." She hesitated and waved her hand. It didn't matter. "Probably just a coincidence. Go on."

"Uh—the pilot of the plane, he was bitten. I think he thought he could get us to Philadelphia before the worst happened. But he turned in the air and the plane went down. Just outside of a little fortified suburb. It wasn't called The Commonwealth yet... They found me. I was in bad shape. After finding out I was a Scientist they thought I could be useful. They nursed me back to health... but my spinal cord was crushed in the crash."

"God, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I was the only one to survive, Michonne." A shadow of grief crossed her face. "I'm blessed, baby. I didn't know just how much, until right this moment."

Both their heads turned at a knock at the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Michonne asked.

Her mother leaned back in her chair, a bright smile on her lips. "Yes, I was. Will you get it for me?"

"Yeah." Michonne walked the short distance to the door, pulled it open, and was at risk of having a heart attack for the second time in a single day.

The woman standing on the other side of the door, Michonne almost didn't recognize at first. All her hair was cut off, into a pixie cut that made her look more fragile. And she was skinnier; she'd had to have lost at least twenty or thirty pounds. But it was her. Her sister, Elodie, standing there, rifling through the grocery bags in her hand. "Hey, Ma. Got your groceries. Dammit, I think I forgot the oats again. Imma go ba—"

"El–Elodie?" Michonne said, through an unbelieving laugh.

Her sister's head shot up and the grocery bags fell to the ground to the beat of cracking eggs and breaking glass. Elodie's quivering hand went to her chest, traveled up to her mouth, and then she had her arms around Michonne. Rocking side to side and clinging so tight it was hard for Michonne to breathe.

But Michonne didn't tell Elodie to let go, her sister's arms around her were the only thing convincing her she was real. They were both a blubbering mess of snot and tears when they pulled apart.

"You're alive!" Elodie ran her hands down Michonne's arms and held her hands, her eyes doing a once-over on the way down.

"You're alive!" Michonne laughed.

Then the joy on Elodie's face faded to a look of worried anticipation. "Andre?"

Michonne shook her head.

"Oh... sis." She tightened her grip on Michonne's hands.

And Michonne had to ask, "Denz?"

Elodie dropped Michonne's hand and hugged herself, her eyes fell to the ground.

Michonne was taken aback, She'd never seen her sister so outwardly vulnerable; she'd always been a rock on the outside, sometimes guarded to the point of annoyance. Elodie had hidden behind a borderline bad attitude and resting bitch face for as long as Michonne had known her. Never letting people close enough to see the heart of gold inside. And Michonne had never seen her sister cry. The only person she'd ever truly let see her like that had been Denzel.

And here she was now, shivering with emotion.

Michonne cautiously stepped toward her older sister and was surprised when Elodie allowed her to wrap her up in her arms.

---

"Anything I should know before they get here?" Rick stared down at his wife with a hand resting at her hip as she latched the button of his dress shirt. They stood beside the bathroom counter and its foggy mirror, fresh from the shower they'd just taken together.

He was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that not just Michonne's mother, but her sister too, were alive and here, on top of trying to ease the tightness in his chest. It was stupid really, he had all the faith in his relationship with Michonne. They were a family. No matter their opinions of him, he and Michonne were unbreakable.

He'd long since ceased to care what most thought of him, but he found himself worrying that maybe there was a chance he wasn't the type of man they'd wanted for the Michonne they'd known.

"My mother's sweet, but a tough cookie. Doesn't seem like much has changed there. My sister..." Michonne blew out a breath. "She's unpredictable. She seems so different from what I remember. Just really broken, you know?"

"Anyone surviving this long's been through the unimaginable."

"Yeah..." She finished with the top button and rested her hands on his chest. "We kept it pretty superficial. It didn't feel like the right time to get into everything, at Mom's apartment."

"Give it time. Give her time."

She nodded.

Rick pressed her towel-covered body to his and set a kiss on her lips. He slid his arm around her back to give her a tight hug. "We got 'em back, it's what matters most." He felt her body stiffen and leaned back to find a look of sadness on her face. "What is it?"

A tear escaped from her eye. He wiped it away.

"They asked about Andre... it's been so long since I've talked about him."

A pang of guilt shot through him. There'd been so many times over the years when he'd wanted to ask about Andre. Only, out of fear of opening the wound, he'd kept quiet. After Carl had died, the topic of the children they'd lost had felt dangerous to Rick. But she'd given him Carl back, and he wanted to do that for her. "Would you be alright if we did that more," he asked, keeping his hand at the side of her face, to take care of the slow trickle of tears that continued to fall. "You tell us what you remember, so we can keep him alive. Andre's part of this family. The kids should know him like they know Carl. I wanna know him."

She nodded, her lip quivering. "Thank you."

"Already told you, you never have to thank me, ever."

The doorbell rang downstairs.

"They're here!" Judith yelled excitedly, from somewhere in the house.

Rick reluctantly let go of Michonne and moved to the bathroom door. "You get dressed—take a minute. I'll let 'em in."

"You sure?"

"Better to jump right in, right?" he said, with a nervous chuckle.

She stared at him a moment, before closing the space between them and lifting to give him a soft kiss. "I adore you, you know."

Rick's eyes all of a sudden stung. He gave her a small, side smile. "I adore you."

---

Dorothy hadn't taken her eyes off of Rick, since he'd opened the door to welcome her and Elodie into their home. She'd been perfectly pleasant to him, but reserved. Watchful.

With the kids, on the other hand, she was a whole different person. She'd smothered them in hugs and kisses and they'd taken to her in kind. Nervous as all get out, Rick had been thankful for the never-ending stream of questions they'd thrown at their newfound nanna, who'd graciously answered them all when they'd sat down in the living room to wait for Michonne. He wouldn't have been able to get a word in edgewise if he'd wanted to.

RJ and Judith had tried with Elodie, who seemed just as uncomfortable as Rick. But after a string of unenthusiastic one-word answers, the kids had taken the hint.

Rick had tried to catch Elodie's eye, to give her an apologetic look that'd hopefully make her feel like she wasn't the only one feeling uneasy, but she wouldn't look at him. Or anyone, for that matter. She'd sat on her hands, with her gaze trained in her lap, looking like she was trying to blend into the upholstery of the couch. He'd thought maybe she'd relax a little when Michonne came down, but the appearance of her sister seemed to cause the tension in her body to intensify.

"And Mom and Dad and the rest of the community took on an entire horde," Judith explained with pride. "It took all night. I was only a toddler—"

"I wasn't born yet," RJ said through a mouthful of food, coming up for air for the first time since they sat down at the table and made their plates.

"Baby, don't talk with your mouth full," Michonne told him, smothering a laugh.

"And Carl was okay?" Dorothy asked, her face full of concern.

"He was okay," Judith said. "That night he was okay."

"I wish I could have met him." Dorothy locked eyes with Rick, and the softness in her gaze, which he hadn't seen directed at him all night, caught him off guard. "It seems he was a lovely young man. It sounds like you did a fine job with him."

"Thank you. He—he was."

Dorothy glanced between Rick and Michonne. "The two of you, together... I'm proud of what you've done."

Rick set his hand over Michonne's, on top of the table.

Elodie scoffed, it marked the first sound she'd made in the hour they had been seated at the table.

He glanced at her and saw her glaring at their intertwined hands.

"You okay, El?" Michonne asked and Rick heard a lot of concern and a tab bit of irritation in the tone of her voice.

"Fine," said Elodie, dropping her fork to the plate with a loud clunk. She snatched up her glass of wine and downed the rest of her half-full glass, which Rick had noticed her top up a few times. "I am perfectly fine."

Michonne sat up in her seat and narrowed her eyes at her sister. "You don't seem fine."

"How could I not be, Michonne?" Her voice was overly pleasant. "Sitting here in your beautiful house. With your beautiful li'l family. How could I not be just peachy keen?"

A fresh wave of unease washed over Rick.

"Elodie," Dorothy said, cutting a sidelong look, Rick could feel the heat of from across the table, at her daughter. "Please. Whatever this is about—"

"What? I can't big up my li'l sis for everything she's managed to hold onto, while the rest of us are out here burying our—"

"Oh, you can not be serious." His wife let go of his hand and crossed her arms in front of her chest. "You don't know half of what I've lost." Her voice remained in control, but he suspected it wouldn't stay that way for long.

"I mean from here, it seems you're sitting pretty at the end of the world." Elodie folded her arm on the table and tilted her head at Michonne. "Tell me, what have you lost, Michonne?" she spat.

Michonne stared at her, dumbfounded.

Rick clenched his jaw; the blood in his veins boiled.

His wife's voice trembled when she spoke again. "How the hell can you ask me that, knowing ab—about Andre?" His name choked out as a sob.

Rick slid his hand across Michonne's back, to rest there.

The table went silent.

And as if Elodie had been possessed, she jerked to sit up straight and seemed to come back into herself. Seemed to realize the weight of the words she'd so loosely let slip from her mouth. "I…" She stared at Michonne, remorse etched into the lines in her forehead. "I didn't—" She shook her head, and her next words were spoken more to herself than to Michonne. "Shouldn't have come tonight." She pushed away from the table and stormed out of the dining room, leaving it in silence.

A second later Rick heard the front door shut.

"I don't know what's gotten into her," Dorothy said. She wiped her mouth and set her napkin on her plate. "I should see after—"

"No." Michonne stood and held up a hand. "I got it," she bit out.

---

"I sent the children to get ready for bed. They were fighting to keep their eyes open. And I know they've got school tomorrow."

Rick turned to Dorothy with a stack of dirty plates in her lap, wheeling herself into the kitchen, where he was putting the leftovers away. He hurried to take the plates from her. "Thank you. For this and that. They would have talked your ear off all night if you'd let 'em."

She laced her hands in her lap and seemed to settle in. "I can't say I would have minded that, but then, what kind of Nana would I be," she said with a little wink and smile. "It feels good to be one again."

"They're lucky to have you." He leaned against the counter. "I wish they coulda met my Mom. She lived for her grandkids."

"Tell me more about yourself, Richard."

"Well, I was a sheriff before. And—"

"No, baby. Back then doesn't matter anymore. Who are you now?"

"...I'm a father. A husband. Michonne, the kids... that's who I live for. Who I fight for.

They're who make me what I am."

Dorothy nodded. "I never liked Mike for her," she said casually.

Rick raised his eyebrows, not sure how to respond to that.

"I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but Mike was never good enough for her. No man she was ever with was." Dorothy smiled at him. "Until now."

He dipped his head in thanks. "I consider myself lucky."

"You are... but so is she."

He thought for a moment. "I—I don't know if she told you, but we were apart until recently."

"We hadn't gotten there yet."

"Well, I was taken. Separated from them for years. And during that time I realized... she's what's been keeping me alive, since as far back as at the prison, where we found each other." He scratched at his scruff. "I sometimes think about those days, before and after she showed up. And I don't think—no, I know I wouldn't be here without her."

"I can't tell you how grateful I am that you two found each other... And since her daddy's not here to say it, I feel obliged to... if you hurt her, I'll take you out with my Smith and Wesson, then I'll roll over you with my wheelchair to finish the job."

Rick stared at her, unsure of how to respond, yet again.

Dorothy laughed. "Relax, baby. I kid—I kid."

He smiled and nodded good-naturedly. Between Dorothy and Elodie, the Hawthorne's would no doubt keep him on his toes.

---

Michonne took a breath and knocked on the door of her sister's apartment. No response. She knocked again. And again. And after the fourth time, the door swung open to Elodie's red eyes. "Really?" Michonne said.

Elodie walked into her apartment but left the door wide open.

Michonne stood there. So, I'm just supposed to... okay. She let herself in but stayed near the closed door, and observed the space: bare save the few pieces of required furniture. No sign of permanence anywhere. It was a stark contrast to her mother's apartment.

Her sister stood at the window, staring out through it at the city.

"So, we find each other after more than a decade of thinking the other is dead," Michonne said, slowly, trying to make it make sense for them both. "In a world where people don't just find the ones they love, and this is what we're doing? Reverting to our bullshit pattern of dysfunction."

Elodie was silent.

"El, I'm having a hard time understanding what happened between Mom's apartment and my house? I thought you were happy that I was here."

"I was," she barely said.

"And you're not now?"

"I... I..." Her voice was fragile, paper thin. "I... can't do this." She marched away toward the bedroom. "See yourself out."

Michonne hurried around the couch and cut her off. She saw the tear tracks on Elodie's cheeks before she hung her head.

"Get out of my way!" Elodie tried to sidestep past her.

Michonne grabbed Elodie's shoulders. Her sister fought against her hold, but Michonne tightened her grip. "What happened?! I need you to tell me what happened."

Elodie sobbed. "I lost them," she blurted. Head hung, with her eyes on the ground, her shoulders vibrated in Michonne's hands.

Them? "Den—Denzel, you mean?"

She shook her head and spoke through shuttered breaths. "The night the world tu—turned, Xavier brought us to Ca—Camp David. I—I thought we'd only be there for just a li'l while. Then it was two years later and we were living there. Building whatever life we could, away from everyone and everything." Elodie took in a deep, steadying breath. She wiped at her face, before walking to the couch and dropping down onto it.

Michonne stayed rooted in her spot, sensing her sister needed space to work things out.

After a prolonged moment of silence, Elodie went on. "As soon as he realized what this was, Xavier sent the Marines and Secret Service Agents who were protecting him away, to try and find their families. Or help out wherever they could. And after a while, it was just the three of us. When we ran out of food, Denz. volunteered to leave the park and go to the city to find some. I wanted to go with him, but he wasn't having it..." She shook her head. "I should have pushed, I should have..." Her words trailed off as she stared into the air. "The next day when he didn't come back, I told Xavier I was going after him, but he wouldn't let me go alone. So we went together... And we found Denzel's body—what was left of it—outside of a supermarket next to a cart full of food."

Michonne dropped down to the sofa, beside Elodie.

"We buried his bones at Camp David." Elodie sniffed. "And we stayed there another year. Each of us in our own cabin. Staying out of each other's way. But there just came a point, where we both realized we couldn't survive there. And he was the very last person on earth I wanted to be stuck with, but I didn't think I'd make it on my own. So we left. And we spent months trying to find other people." She let out a small laugh. "We barely spoke to each other along the way. And then one day, we stumbled on this grand lodge, tucked away in Bluestone National Park. About fifty people living there. Families. They were doing well. Farming. The kids had school. They took us in. I felt so out of place in the beginning after so many years of not being around other people. And Xavier, as strange as it sounds, he was the only thing that felt like home. He was the closest I could get to Denzel." She shook her head. "I hated him for so long that I never got to know who he'd become. And Just letting go of a little bit of that hate, that was all it took... for love to wash the rest away."

"You fell in love with him?"

She nodded. "We were there for six years. We built a life together. Got married... and I had a ba—baby."

Michonne stared at Elodie a moment, before she bent her leg to rest it on the couch and turned to face her sister. She reached out, set a hand on her forearm, and Elodie grabbed a hold of it.

She shut her eyes as she continued. "One day people found the place. The wrong people. The people this world makes. They set it on fire while we slept. Xavier, he told me to take our daughter, and he stayed back to protect us, to fight for our home. He said that he'd meet us at this treehouse we'd found a few miles away. It was our spot, where we'd meet if things went bad. It was stocked enough to sustain us for a few days. But I couldn't wait that long. After a night, I hid my daughter in a house nearby. And I went back for him. The place was destroyed. They took whatever they thought they could use and they left. I stayed there for hours, putting down all the people who'd become my family. And I found him last, just aimlessly wandering..." She wiped at her face with the back of her free hand. "I took care of it and I buried him. And I went back for my baby girl. The whole time I kept tryna figure out how to tell her about her daddy. I hadn't even imagined—" A strangled sob escaped her mouth. "I didn't imagine she'd be gone."

Michonne fought the emotions threatening to spring free; she bit down on her trembling lip.

"My baby, she was gone. Just gone. Something must have scared her. Or someone took her. I don't know. I must have searched for months. And she was nowhere to be found. And I didn't know what to do. After that, I didn't have anything left to live for. So I just walked... for days, until my feet were bloody and I couldn't stand any longer." Elodie opened her eyes and a pool of water flowed from her lids. "I was in this meadow, it was so beautiful. I thought it'd be the perfect place to die... I could feel that it was close. I was just skin and bones. So I laid down in the tall grass. The sun on my skin. I still remember how warm it felt. And I closed my eyes, ready for it to be the last time I ever opened them. But they did open again, and I was in a hospital. Here."

"How long ago was that?"

"Three years. It was a year before I found Mom." Her eyes flicked to and then quickly away from Michonne. "I've never told her any of this. I've never told anyone."

"You buried it."

She nodded.

Michonne squeezed her arm. "What was her name? Your daughter?"

"Aaliyah. Sh—she was so beautiful. Looked almost exactly like mom."

"I'm so sorry, El."

She looked at Michonne, and this time held her gaze. "I saw you and Rick and your kids and it all just came back. I saw what could have been if I'd found this place with my family. What I could have had. And it reminded me of what I lost. I'm sorry, I know you've lost too, and—"

"You don't need to do that."

"It was shitty of me to say what I said."

"I'm not angry."

Elodie was quiet for a moment, before she slipped her hand free of Michonne's. "I don't know that I can do this—be a part of your lives. I'm just not ready for that."

"Okay. Then we'll give you time."

"I don't know that I ever will be."

"No. That, I don't accept," she said firmly. "You get to feel however you need to feel to make it okay. But, I refuse to just ignore that you're here. And if that means that you need to take baby steps with us. Then that's what we'll do. I waited seven years for Rick. I can wait for you."

Her sister's expression read as confused.

"It's a story for another day."

Elodie nodded. "And if I never get there?"

"You will," Michonne said with all the confidence in the world, because she already had it set in her heart that she was going to make for damn sure her sister didn't stay in this place. "Trust me."

"Shit. I forgot how stubborn your ass was."

Michonne tilted her chin up. "People keep telling me that. It's a trait I'm starting to be proud of."

Elodie reached out to take her hand again. "I am happy that I have you again. I don't want you to think I'm not. And... I'm happy you found Rick. He seems decent. I'm glad you have the kids, too. But, God, I never imagined myself as the drunk Auntie."

"Really? Kinda fits your whole... vibe."

"Ha-ha."

Michonne yanked Elodie into her arms.

"I love you, li'l sis."

"Oh... I love you too."

---

"Where's mom?"

Rick turned away from the dresser to find Michonne walking into the room. "In the guest room. Was gonna walk her home, but I didn't wanna leave the kids here by themselves. Elodie okay?" He pulled out a t-shirt and slipped it on.

Michonne dropped onto the edge of the bed. "She will be."

Rick nodded and shuffled to sit beside her. "Ya know..." He stared at the ceiling for a moment, before his eyes dropped to his lap. "I was thinking, Ward Three's kinda far. I know the kids are gonna want to spend as much time with Dorothy as they can." His gaze lifted to Michonne. "What if we asked her to stay in the guest room, permanently?"

"You mean... move in with us?"

"If it's something she—and you—wanted."

"There's no way I'm saying no to that."

---

"Come in," Michonne heard, after knocking twice on the guest room door.

She peeked her head in and found her mother sitting up in the bed. "You need anything?"

Her mother patted the comforter. "No. I'm perfectly comfortable. Rick got me all set... He's a sweet man. Kind."

"He is."

"I like him." Her mother patted a spot on the empty side of the mattress. "Come sit a spell."

Michonne stepped in and closed the door. She went to sit criss crossed beside her mother.

"How's your sister?"

"She's going through it."

"Yeah." Her mother crossed her arms and studied the comforter. "I suspected. When she found me here, I tried to ask about Denzel—what happened. But she didn't want to talk about it. I thought she'd open up when she was ready. And she seemed to be coping fine, as fine as one can be in this world. But I saw it, she's carrying something."

"She is—was—keeping a lot in." Michonne sighed. "But you can't do that forever."

"No, you most certainly can not." She narrowed her eyes. "And what are you keeping in, baby?"

Michonne sat up; her hand went to her chest. "Me? Nothing."

"Oh, Darlin', you forget how well I knew you. Time hasn't changed that. You're carrying something too."

Michonne had barely been able to keep her suspicions from Rick, but she'd forgotten just how intuitive her mother was. In her younger days, she hadn't been able to hide shit from her. "It's nothing bad, just extremely unexpected." Michonne sat up straighter. "Thing is... Rick and I, since we found each other again, we've been a little... careless." She gave her mother a suggestive look, hoping she'd get what she was insinuating without her having to spell it out. Because talking to her mother about her sex life, no matter how grown she was, was just still really undesirable.

"Okay..." Her mother's face looked confused for a split second. "You mean—oh. Oh! Right. Okay. That's—that's understandable. I mean, you were apart for years."

"Yeah, and I don't know for sure, but... I think that I might be pregnant."

Her mother stared at her in stunned silence.