Thank you sweetbabyboo, Str1der2015, speachestx, galwidanatitud, DarylDixon'sLover and to all the other readers who have taken the care to leave feedback & concrit on other chapters throughout this story.

Simon runs, breathing heavily, dodging between trees and brush, resisting the compunction to turn around and fire, knowing they'll need those rounds. Behind him shots crack and pop; he can hear Daryl moving positions. Simon reaches the grade. He breathes in, bears down, and climbs. Above him, he can hear Beth firing her gun, but it isn't toward the fight that she's shooting. Tirelessly Simon pushes himself upwards. What will he find when he reaches her? Walkers can't have made it up to her…? But the road– All the gunfire– Where is the herd? "Beth!" he pants. "Beth!"

"Simon!" Beth is on her feet, rushing toward him as he makes his ascent. She looks behind him and sees only trees. "Where is he?"

"He's coming– Where's the herd?"

"Scattered," she breathes. "When the gunfire started they broke away. Most're down th' road. I been tryin' t' push them that way."

"Where's the car? Is it clear?"

"We c'n get to it. The way we came in 's not clear, but it's th' best route."

Simon nods decisively. "Go. Get to the car."

Beth's voice breaks, "Simon, where is he?"

"He's coming. Go, now. I'll cover you." Beth looks paralyzed. "He'll get there, I promise. Y'gotta go."

Beth turns. With blade in hand and gun in the other, Beth side steps down the grade, leaning her 135 pounds backward uphill until she lowers herself and lets the hill more or less slide her down. At the base, swinging her cane blade she rises to move through the trees. At the fastest speed her body can reach, so stiff from the cold is she, Beth races for the car, fighting her way clear.

Behind her, Simon stands over the ridge watching both sides, both Beth and Daryl. Daryl's running, firing shots and slipping back and forth between the trees. The cabin isn't on fire. If the flames caught they were stomped out, or else it's slow-burning, neither had much accelerant. The men still standing volley gunfire into the woods, striking trees and walkers, hitting the truck and searching for Daryl.

With nothing down there left to fight for, save for revenge, Daryl turns his back on all of it. He shoulders the rifle and swings round the bow as he fights his way back to his where he belongs. The walkers are thickest behind him, nearer to where the road must bend, but he fires into a jawless mess staggering toward him then strikes hard with blunt force into something that once had been a postal worker.

Gunfire spits across the clearing in rapid mechanical vigilance. The assholes behind him are trying to take him down, but as he charges ahead, making for the hill, Daryl trusts the walkers will close in on them, forcing them back inside or better. He leans forward and begins the climb. To his right, the trees rupture and splinter as a torrent of bullets swipes across them. Daryl pushes harder, but when the second spattering of artillery gives chase, Daryl falls. Clutching for a pocket in the terrain as he skids down, his freehand searches for something in the earth to grab hold of.

"Daaaryl," Simon calls out to him. In an instant, Simon's side stepping down to him, ignoring the curses the archer's spitting at him for going after him. By the time the kid gets to him Daryl's up. Simon shoulders him and together they move. Behind them walkers encroach upon the clearing, seizing upon the freshly fallen bodies. "We're nearly there," the kid pants.

On the road, Beth's nearly at the car. She hacks off a hand that was reaching to grab her then steps back to thrust her long blade through for the kill. She reaches out for the passenger door handle–

"He's been shot!" Simon calls out as he and Daryl make a run for it down the steep grade, weaving through trees and leaping over unsettled ground. Daryl's moving by his own volition, adrenaline pushing him forward through the trees, down to where they thin out into the road and the waiting car.

Beth flings open the passenger door and scrambles in – over the passenger seat and into the driver's seat. She turns the ignition and roars the engine to life. Shifting the vehicle into reverse, she keeps her foot clamped on the break, ready to explode into motion once the doors are safely shut. At the sudden noise of the engine, the nearer walkers turn to advance on and throng around the vehicle. Gripping tightly to the steering wheel, Beth clutches and reclutches the vinyl grip as she looks past the dead and through the trees, watching as the two figures bound closer. Simon fires three rounds into the remaining walkers, then suddenly they're both there at the car and Simon's pulling open the back side door and pushing a hunched-over Daryl in before him then climbing up behind him, shutting the door. "Go! Go!" Simon shouts, even as he's leaning over the passenger seat from the back, stretching outside the front passenger door reaching to pull it closed. Beth takes her foot off the break and slams it onto the gas. The SUV charges backward, swiping two of the dead and slamming against another, but still it drives. The dirt clots and rain ruts of the neglected backwoods road jostle Simon about as he works to grab hold of the waving passenger door. Once through the thickest part of what remains of the herd, Beth shifts into drive, and without much reduction in speed veers off the road some to make room for a Uturn. Rounding back onto the road, Beth swerves to avoid hitting a walker headon. Eyes trained straight ahead, she keeps control of the heavy vehicle and corrects her course. The passenger door still open and flapping, Simon scrambles into the front seat and, holding onto to the overhead grip rail, swings himself further out from the vehicle to catch hold the door and pull it shut. Just as quickly as it's shut he rolls down the window and thrusts his head back out. "There're walkers on th' road–" His eyes strain. "Not too thick – we can get through, I think."

Beth risks a glance at him, "Think it's safe t' turn on th' lights?"

"Not yet, too many 'f 'em. Better t' get past 'em without telling' we're comin'." Beth nods, reigning in her nerves and settling herself; she can't afford distraction. "J'st get ready t' dodge 'em." Again Beth nods; she steadies her hands on the wheel. "Hand me your piece." Simon reaches for it and Beth glances from the road to him. Taking one hand off the steering wheel just long enough to unholster her pistol, she passes it to him. Simon takes the gun and with it leans further out the window, taking aim at the walkers threatening to block their escape.

Beth doesn't dare take her eyes from the road, but still she's compelled to look behind her. "Daryl?" She risks for a fraction of a second a glance into the rear view mirror. He's slumped back against their gear, his face hidden from view. "Daryl?" Simon takes aim and fires. Beth skirts the falling walker. "Simon, is he alive? Is he awake?"

"He's alive," Simon confirms. He shoots down two more. "How many rounds d'you have left?"

"Two, now." Beth raises her voice to the backseat, "Daryl– stay awake."

"That way–" Simon directs, and Beth veers the car to avoid a cluster of the dead. Simon shoots another. "Think we're nearly through." The teen wipes sweat from his brow. He takes aim again, but holds his fire, saving the shots for life or death.

"Simon–" Beth breathes. "Daryl, is he–?"

For the first time since getting him in, Simon looks back to Daryl, now crumpled in on himself. "Shit–" Beth flinches. Simon crawls over the seats to Daryl. He props him up, pats his face. "Daryl. Daryl."

"Simon?" Beth is urgent but composed.

"He's bleeding– Can't tell from where–"

"But he's breathing, right?" She casts a quick glance behind her shoulder.

"I– I–"

"Sy– He's breathing?"

Simon listens to his chest. "Yes."

"Okay." Beth nods, steadying herself. She regrips the steering wheel and focuses. "Keep him awake."

Simon slaps Daryl's face. "Daryl– Beth, I don't know–" Simon's at a loss. "Think we should pull over."

"We can't pull over." Beth keeps her eyes trained on the road. "You left some of them alive, right? Then we can't pull over. We need to get out of here, now. You have to do this, Simon. Find where he's bleeding and apply pressure. Now, Simon, he's losing blood."

"I saw him get shot, I saw it happen. But he was running… How can he be out like this?" Aloud, and out of his depth, Simon works through the events as he opens Daryl's shirt to search for a wound.

"He's in shock," Beth guesses. "You have to wake him up."

"Here!" Simon finds the wound. "Under his left shoulder. There's a lot of blood."

"Did it go clear through? Check his back, is there an exit wound?"

Simon pulls back Daryl's shirts and leather cut as best he can then feels around. His fingers are steeped in blood but he finds a hole. When he touches it Daryl grunts and moans. "Found it."

"K," Beth breathes. "You h've't pack it. Fast. Tear up the blankets. Anythin' tha's clean enough. Pack the wound and apply pressure. A lot of pressure."

Simon hunts for anything he can cut into bandages. "Do I clean it?" The pressure is getting to him. The gunshot and more so what he saw back there: What he saw done and what they were not able to undo. His hands quiver as he works. Beth reaches and tosses a half-full canteen back to him. Simon unscrews the top and douses the open wound with water then splashes some over Daryl's face. The archer bucks and grimaces, but his eyes do not open. Simon packs the wound as best he can with linens then binds it tight around him. Done, he does his best to reposition Daryl so that he's reclining on the makeshift bed. Only then does he see there's more blood. "Shit," he mutters to himself.

Beth's body sharpens instantly. "What?"

"Nothin'."

"Simon."

"He's got another hit."

"Where?"

"Above his right hip, I think. I don't see an entry point, j'st blood." The boy tugs and pushes away Daryl's shirts and waistbands, but he can't see a wound. "Gotta, turn him over." On his knees, Simon reaches over Daryl and takes hold, "Sorry," he says as he grits his teeth, then leans back, pulling the full brawn of the man over onto his lap. Daryl releases a guttural moan. Simon feels around. There, in his lower back, a hole. Simon bunches up a shirt and applies pressure over this new wound. He looks about, desperate for what to use. Finally he undoes Daryl's belt, he yanks it hard from the belt loops then wraps is around Daryl's torso, fitting the packing tightly inside it. Rolling Daryl down again onto his back, Simon closes the belt around him then cinches it tight. It'll have to do. He checks the pressure applied by the bandages at Daryl's shoulder.

"Simon, how's his color?"

"I– I can't see." He reaches up and feels around, no doubt leaving traces of blood all over the roof of the car until he locates the switch to flick on the overhead lights. "Okay," Simon breathes. "He's okay. He's pale for sure, but he isn't grey or ashen."

Beth nods. "How's his breathing? Any better?"

Simon ducks his head to Daryl's chest. "Labored, but I c'n feel it."

"Try to get him to drink. He needs water. And talk to him. Daryl?"

On his knees, Simon does what he can to keep pressure on Daryl's hip. The SUV bounces and the bedding shifts and that's when he sees the dark stain of blood pooling on the sheets. Simon looks again for a wound. Then he sees it, a knife slash cut across Daryl's thigh. Simon scours the backseat for more water and a flashlight, pulling things out of bags, and tossing things to the side.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing." Simon finds more water, undoes the cap with his teeth and pours it onto the gash. Shining a light on it between his teeth, Simon peels back the frayed tatters of Daryl's worn-through trousers to inspect the wound. It's wide but thankfully not too deep. It doesn't look like it's cut through the muscle, but he can plainly see blood pulsing from the open cut. Again Simon packs the wound then binds it tightly. He's running out of materials he can use for bandages. The bed around him is soaked in blood. Daryl wheezes.

Beth risks another backward glance. "He wakin' up?"

"Dunno," Simon shakes his head. "He's gonna need stitches. Prob'ly blood."

Beth sideswipes a walker as she steers clear of several on the other side of the road. The vehicle echoes the thud of the heavy impact. "I've seen my da' do it but I don't know how. We don't have a hollow needle, or th' tubing. I don't know his blood type."

"Beth, I don't know what t'do. His leg's bleeding bad."

"His leg?" Her voice piques in a betrayal of the franticness bearing down on her.

"Knife cut."

For just an instant, Beth's eyes fall shut in one extended blink. She breathes. And resets. This will turn out okay. Once reopened, she's all right. She loosens her grip on the wheel fractionally. "Bind everythin'. Elevate his leg. If the bleedin' don't stop, tie his belt and yours on either side." Beth steps harder on the gas. "We've gotta get off this road."

"Want me t'drive?"

Beth shakes her head. This isn't the sort of driving to trust to a beginner. Anyway, she won't spare the time it would take to stop and switch. "We need some place off the road."

Simon switches off the light above him and looks back through the rear windows. There's no car in pursuit. "There's no one on our tail. Beth, we gotta stop now." Daryl mutters and groans; his eyelids flicker.

"I'hm gonna find a spot." Her Georgian drawl thickens in her distress.

Beth drives on, searching through the night for a road to cut off on, for a place to take shelter. Simon settles next to Daryl, wetting a cloth and dabbing it on his forehead and face, washing away the blood from the branch cut to his cheek. Daryl stirs, grunting and breathing heavily. "Hey, Daryl," Simon speaks softly. "We're all okay. We made it back to the car. Beth's driving us someplace safe." Simon looks to his hands, covered in blood. He tries to breathe. He focuses on Daryl and his breathing; he pushes down what happened back in those woods. The car bounces and jolts over the old road. Simon thinks about survival. He keeps the pressure tight on Daryl's leg and hip.

"Any change?"

Simon brushes his eyes. He clears his throat. "Think he might wake up soon."

Beth reaches a cut in the road and slows down to make the turn. "I think there's something up ahead. Some place we c'n stop. There've been signs." The car jostles through the turn, traveling over train tracks. "Ughhh–" Daryl jostles into consciousness. His eyes blink open.

"Hey," Simon smiles softly. "Beth– he opened his eyes." Beth pulls off into a small cluster of buildings. It's too dark to know what they are. She drives behind them, looking for coverage. She's not planning to go inside, they don't have time to clear and secure. Beth parks the vehicle, shuts off the ignition and unbuckles her safety belt in order to climb into the back with the others.

Before she reaches them Daryl grips Simon and furtively tugs him closer. Gruff and gnarled, Daryl growls with urgency, "Not a word." Beth isn't to hear of what went down. Daryl releases Simon and then grows limp.

Beth crawls over to him. She turns on the overhead lights and Simon, in turn, holds up a flashlight. "Daryl," she speaks softly to him. "Daryl." Daryl's eyes flicker open again. He grimaces in the pain, his faces streaked with blood and dirt and tears and sweat. "You've been shot," she tells him, "but you're going t' be alright."

Daryl blinks, trying to focus his eyes on her. His voice is raspy and full of gravel as he grunts and breathes. "Where's I hit? Hurts all over."

"Couple of places," Simon confirms.

"But you're gonna be fine," she tells him.

Daryl snorts at the lie. "You two alright?"

They nod. "Mm,hm." Beth breathes and bites her lips, "Daryl, one of the bullets 's still in you. I don't know if we should leave it in or try t' get it out."

"Gonna need better lighting than this," he grunts his strained retort.

"We're gonna have to stitch you up, maybe clean the wounds more. It's–" Beth's blue eyes dart across his wounded body and bloody face "–gonna hurt."

"Already hurt," he consents. Beth nods. She turns away and rifles through their supplies until she's able to produce two gallon-size ziplock bags of scavenged medical supplies. The meager cache consists only of what they pulled from medicine cabinets and generic first aid kits, but it may be enough to get them through. She has to trust that it will be, not wish for what they do not have. Simon shines the light overhead for her as she digs through for what she needs. Her hands tremble sorting past bottles of Tylenol, ace bandages, tweezers, hydrocortisone, eyedrops, a bottle of three Vicodins, a thermometer, decongestant, and a bottle containing seven ciprofloxacin tablets and four amoxicillin tablets. She pulls out a half-full bottle of peroxide and another of rubbing alcohol. Also some gauze, antiseptic, and a spool of thread and a plastic wheel of sewing needles. Simon rolls up a tight wad of fabric and offers it to Daryl to bite down on.

Daryl nods appreciatively. "Prob'bly should've stayed unconscious."

To conserve their supply, Beth first squeezes hand sanitizer over her hands before then using splashes of rubbing alcohol. Simon pours water over them as she scrubs at her hands. She pulls out the needle and thread. Wetting the thread tip in her mouth, Beth holds her hands steady as she first threads the needle then holds the silver point near the open flame of Simon's lighter, careful not to let it blacken with smoke. Furtively she pulls back a corner of the packing in his leg. It's soaked through. She looks to Simon, "Does it look any better?"

Simon leans in, looks, then nods. "Bleeding's gone down. T'was pulsing b'fore."

"Daryl," Beth turns her attention back to him. "Can you feel your leg? Move your foot, can you move your right foot?" Simon shines the light and both he and Beth look to see if the archer still has control of his leg. The foot moves. "Good," she smiles and exhales in relief. "You're still getting blood to your leg. No arteries, I think. Simon, get his boot off; check the color of his toes."

"Don't do nothin' with m' toes," Daryl grouses, attempting to alleviate the tension.

Simon gets the right boot and black sock off. He shines the flashlight over the foot. "Not grey or blue," he reports.

"Move them," Beth orders.

"Yes, ma'am." Daryl wiggles his toes.

"Okay," Beth breathes in, "I'hm startin' with your leg then." She raises the needle.

Daryl's hand lifts up to stop her. "We still on th' road?"

"We found a spot," Simon tells him. "We weren't followed."

"Not yet," he rumbles. "We left those assholes breathin'." He coughs. "They're comin'."

"I slashed two of their tires," says Simon. "I didn't see another vehicle."

"Never know," Daryl cautions. "Where there's a psycho with a will, there's a way."

"Shh," she calms him. "We drove as far as we could. We have to do this now, it can't wait any longer. Then we'll keep going." Beth raises the needle. With the back of her wrist, keeping her hands sterile, Beth tenderly pushes back the mat of hair from Daryl's sweated brow. She smiles at him and kisses his forehead. "Okay."

Beth watches as Daryl sleeps. Once his bandages were set and bound they'd driven further, thankful for the comfort their car could afford him, thankful for what gas they had. As the long black night grayed into daylight, they'd driven until a crossroads. Meaning to protect themselves and cover what traces they're able, Simon and Beth parked the SUV on the far side. Leaving Daryl to sleep, they'd pushed two abandoned vehicles across the intersection, creating a blockade behind them. If not scrutinized too closely, the constructed pileup might pass for having stood in that place for years. Should anyone have pursued them, they might, with luck, lose them here.

Still fearing danger on their heels, they'd moved on, driving further down the new road. As the miles passed the fuel gauge lowered, and around them the sky lightened into day. Through the car's jostling over potholes and debris, Daryl never woke. He hadn't woken when Simon'd stopped the car, pulled off the road and driven them into a rickety wood-slatted barn. With little gas left in the tank, and none left in their drums, they'd needed to stop and they needed the coverage. Daryl sleeps still, bandaged and bloodstained in their backseat bed, Beth and Simon both silently beside him. In this moment there is no plan. There is little gas and no destination. They're low on ammo and greatly weakened. The morning comes. Outside birds chirp and call. Bright rays of sunlight break through the weathered boards of the aging barn, casting slats of light across the earthen ground. Inside the vehicle, they wait.

Beside him, motionless, Beth takes in every rise and falling of his chest, every intake of breath. She doesn't know if what little she could do will be enough. She waits. Holding in one long extended breath as vigilantly she monitors his. His shoulder she'd dressed and cleaned. With the bullet through, there's little else she could do. Just pray it heals and does not too severely limit his movements. His leg she'd stitched up. She cleaned it, waited for the bleeding to decrease. Because the cut had been quick the edges were clear, but the cut was also deep, and it seems unlikely a spool of thread and a sewing needle should be enough to heel it. The sutures make a severe grimace across his thigh. It had been the stitches that had caused Daryl the most pain, but he'd gritted his way through it. But it's his back hip, the lower side-end of his torso that most worries Beth. The bullet's still in there. She can't tell if he's bleeding internally. There'd be nothing to do about it if he were. With Simon's help, she could try to extract the bullet but she doesn't have the tools. Doesn't have the blood. Does not have the skill. Doesn't know what to do beyond reach around with her fingers. She saw what was involved with removing the rifle shot from Carl. Judging by his revived lucidness, and that he still has the mobility of his leg, she's convinced attempting to extract the bullet would likely cause more harm than leaving it. And so she waits, tirelessly, without rest, vigilant in willing him to recovery. She does not pray, but by force of will she makes herself believe. If her father could survive the loss of his leg, if Judith could survive the violence of her birth, surely Daryl can survive this. There's no playing out scenarios in her head. No second guessing their choices or thinking back to the events in that clearing. She thinks not of violence or cruelty, not of risks taken or threats ahead. All of that may come to her in time, but there's nothing in her to entertain them now. As she sits there, beside him, monitoring every fluctuation of breath, every flutter of an eyelid, Beth Greene is a solid stalwart bulwark of resolved and focused strength. This is all there is. Just this car. Just these breaths. Just this blood flow. Just this.

There's a strained release of anxious breath from Simon where he sits by Daryl's feet, motionless and stuck. Beth adjusts her gaze from Daryl to the boy hunched over in the corner. The car is silent. "How are you?"

Simon shakes his head. He's okay. He isn't ready to talk. No one is.

Beth sits there, impervious to the chill.

Groggy, Daryl stirs. His eyes flutter open as slowly he wakes. It takes a moment for his eyes to focus but then he sees her. Beth's tearless weary eyes watching him intently. Daryl reaches, and with what little energy he has, lightly pats her leg for reassurance. His voice is shallow and ragged as he speaks his first words. "'Last man standin'.'" Beth, her eyes having long been fixed on him, at once tears and nods. Her staunch yet stricken face crumples in an immediate release of tension and with an exhaled breath of mounting uncertainty, she drops her head to his in relief and exhaustion.

At last asleep, Beth lies nestled against him. Exhausted and drained, she only let herself lie down once he was awake and alert. She'd fed him water and would not relent until he'd agreed to a Tylenol after he'd refused any of the Vicodin. Satisfied enough that there wouldn't be any drastic changes, no surges of high alarm, she resigned her watch and gave in to her fatigue. It had been hours since Beth had slept and she was out nearly as soon as her head met the pillow. Disregarding the bedding's now steeped in her love's blood, she'd curled up beside him and let go.

Taking some comfort in her there, breathing deep steady breaths, audible as though in her exhaustion even sleep is a strain, Daryl stares at the ceiling of the car. Looking up, he's faced with the streaks of his own blood. He doesn't entertain the pain. What throbs, what's numb, he doesn't care to discern. He's been shot before, he can get through this. He keeps his mind off infection. He keeps his mind off a lot of it. What he does do is think ahead, think about what they'll do next. As he lies there, stiff and depleted, he looks past the misery of his body and looks ahead, calculating what this recovery will cost them. His head is full of ciphers and judgment calls as he works out how to make this work.

Simon too is at work. Having been unable to sit quietly any longer with the weight and the horror of the what transpired, he'd risen some time ago to start making camp. It was an awful night, one that won't soon leave him, but they still have to eat. Still have to keep going. Having set out the solar oven, Simon'd used what they had on hand to put together a sort of stew to cook. He then ventured out to an equipment shed to pry away boards to use for firewood when the night again turns cold. He'd been out there for some time, kicking and wrenching free the aged unfinished planks. Exerting more energy in the endeavor than the task truly needed. Two splinters and a substantial pile of wood later, still not able to rest, Simon'd set snare traps in the fields. He walked the property looking for a well, looking for liabilities, looking for anything they could put to use. He found no water, no store of gasoline. He did find an axe and he used it to take out three walkers, but three was all he found. He looked round once more for water, for a creek or a rain barrel or something, but when he again came up short he'd returned to the barn.

Seeing no purpose in risking waking Beth, Simon forgoes the back portion of the car and climbs instead into the front, settling in against the passenger side door, propping his feet up across the center divider. Behind him, flanked by pillows and bedding and Beth, Daryl rests, wordless and still. Without occupation, Simon sinks into himself. His hands fall idly between his knees, his fingers endlessly worrying and picking at his splinters.

They sit there in silence so long could not be faulted for thinking the other asleep, but neither is asleep. And, eventually, Simon does speak.

"We didn't help them at all." Simon's young voice is a shallow echoing of itself.

Daryl stiffly shakes his head. "Nah," he mutters. "We did."

"They're dead," the boy states flatly, to which Daryl can only nod in affirmation. But Simon shakes his head again in a repudiation of their actions. "We didn't save them. If we hadn't gone down, at least—"

"No," Daryl rumbles in his gnarled baritone.

Silence settles between them, but the weight of it proves too heavy to bear. "We would've felt it – our not trying." Simon picks at his splinter, using his knife to cut back a layer of skin, digging maybe deeper than is warranted. "—But they'd still be alive."

"M'ybe they're better off."

Simon's eyes raise. He weighs the possibility of this, but what bears more truth to him is this: "We didn't give them that choice."

"They didn't have a choice either way." Daryl's words are grim and stoic. "You didn't see. What was back behind that house— Bodies. Whole pile 'f 'em. Not walkers. In that cabin, they didn't stand a chance." Daryl scratches at his lower lip, contemplating the stakes they'd come up against. "Quick death sparred 'em." For some time, neither of them speaks. Then Daryl breaks the quiet. "... Least they died knowin' somebody was fightin' for them. They weren't alone."

It's a hard thing to take comfort in. They stop talking. Daryl shuts his eyes. Beside him Beth's breathing quiets; she is motionless in her sleep, never stirring at all. She is warm where she lies, despite the chill in the air, her body generating its own heat in the absence of another source.

In the quiet, Daryl can sense Simon's mind at work, churning in that way it does. He speaks, quiet and solemn. "Some thing's y' come up against, there j'st isn't any getting out of it. You try."

Blood surfaces where his knife's edge digs, scraping at the splinter of wood, incessantly troubling the hurt. "... You should've let me stay." Simon stares at his hands, his voice low and hollow. Daryl cracks his eyes open, just far enough to squint up and behind him to where the kid sits, knees up, slouching over himself. "You should've gone first, I should've stayed back."

"Y'wanna trade places? Done," Daryl quips though his words are darkened by pain and exhaustion. "Don't envy bein' shot."

Simon looks at him. "There was a good chance you weren't going to make it back up that hill, but you sent me." Daryl says nothing. "It should've been me to stay behind. You've still got a family."

Daryl grimaces involuntarily as he shifts his body some in his blood-stained bedding. He doesn't open his eyes. "Anybody I've still got, you've got."

The sentiment means everything to the kid, but the logic in it is lacking. "I could run into them one day. Maggie, Glenn, Rick, any of them. I could be that close to them, that close to you reuniting, and I wouldn't know them. Beth," he speaks softly, "the baby, they need you much more than they need me."

"We need you," is all he says.

I may still make some edits, I'm going a little cross-eyed rereading this chapter at this point, so I'm just going ahead and posting it. (If you find anything that seems like an error or in need of clarification or further development, feel encouraged to point it out.)