Naomi

"Who's your best friend?"

"You are, silly," I said. Mia dangled her legs off the kitchen counter and gave me a hugely disapproving look.

"That's really lame," she said. "A grown-up should not have an eight-year-old best friend."

I did my best not to laugh. I may have technically been twenty-four but I still felt like I was nineteen and figuring things out. Being called a grown-up by anyone was ridiculous. But I guess when you're eight, even actual nineteen-year-olds look like grown-ups.

"It's not my fault you're such a great kid," I told her

"No," she agreed, very seriously. "But Hannah Franklin is my best friend so maybe you should find another one."

"I thought Jess Burnett was your best friend?" I said. She had more friends than I could keep track of.

"She was," Mia sighed. "But we fell out because she sat next to Gemma at lunch instead of me."

"Bummer," I said.

"Yeah," Mia agreed. "So you should pick another best friend because I've already got one."

"Okay."

"Did you have a best friend when you were my age?"

I glanced down at crescent moon shaped scar on my right hand which, for better or worse, always made me think of him.

"Yes."

"What was her name?"

"Him," I corrected her. "And his name was Daryl."

"Daryl," she said slowly like she recognised the name, a little frown crossing her face.

"You want a cheese sandwich for lunch or PBJ?"

"PBJ," she said immediately. I'd known which she'd pick, I'd only asked her to change the subject. I reached into a cupboard and pulled out both jars. She was still looking at me in that intense way kids do when they think you're hiding something.

"Bryce is taking you to school today," I told her, slathering peanut butter on one slice of bread and jam on the other. "I gotta leave early, I've got a job interview."

"Okay," she said but she looked a little disappointed and I hated that. "Hey, how come Bryce has got a car and you don't?".

"Because Bryce got himself a very rich husband who can buy fancy cars for him," I said.

"And that's why Bryce can't be your best friend either," she sighed like she was really, properly sad for me.

"Why?" I asked and cut her sandwiches into little triangles. "Because he has a fancy car?"

"No," she frowned like I was real dumb. "Because you're supposed to marry your best friend when you're a grown-up. Everyone knows that."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she said. "That's why people at weddings always say how happy they are to be marrying their best friend."

"You know a lot about this," I said, "for someone who's only ever been to one wedding."

"Yes, and it was Bryce's wedding and when he made his speech he called Andy his best friend so he can't be yours," she said.

"Can't you have two?"

"Two best friends?" she said, shaking her head incredulously. "No. Don't be silly."

She really had a lot of opinions about this. I packed the sandwiches and a few snacks into her lunchbox.

"Why are you so worried about this?" I asked her.

"Because I don't want you to be lonely anymore."

"I'm not lonely," I smiled and wondered why it tasted like a lie. Before I could think too much about it, there was a knock at the door.

"That'll be one of my friends now," I said, pointedly. She stuck her tongue out at me. "Get your shoes on."

She jumped down from the chair and ran into the bedroom to get her shoes while I went to answer the door. There was always something kind of funny about seeing Bryce all dressed up in his designer sweaters and Levi's in the dingy and dimly lit hallway of my apartment building. The faint smell of weed drifted towards us and it was impossible to say whether it was a residual hangover from the night before or if someone was just starting early for a Wednesday morning.

"Morning," I said. "Thanks for taking her."

"No worries," he said, with a tired smile. "It's on my way and she makes the journey more fun."

"She makes everything more fun," I said. He nodded in agreement. "You want some coffee? I've got a spare flask."

"Nah, I've got some in my car. Thanks though," he said. "When's the interview?"

"8.30."

"And it's for The Post, yeah?"

"Yup," I said, feeling the nerves twist my stomach already. "How's work?"

"Well, y'know," he said. "Politics journals don't assistant edit themselves."

"So… boring?"

"Unbelievably."

"Hey, Bryce!" Mia yelled, much too loudly for our tiny apartment.

"Hey, kiddo," he grinned. "You ready?"

"Yeah!"

"You need me to pick her up too?" he asked as Mia clung to his legs.

"Nah, I can get her. Thanks, though."

"Bryce," Mia looked up him.

"Yes?"

"Did you marry your best friend?"

Bryce frowned for a second. "Yes," he said slowly. "But me and you are good buddies too."

Mia didn't care about that, she just looked at me and said, "Told you so."

"Get to school," I told her, pretending to be annoyed while she giggled.

"Good luck," Bryce called over his shoulder, having to take off pretty quick to chase after Mia who was already running towards the elevator. I could still hear her laughing when I closed the door. I had just about enough time to dump our breakfast dishes in the sink and run a comb through my hair before I had to get going.

The bus was, mercifully, empty enough for me to get a seat and flick through the binder of things I had prepared for this interview; my resume, portfolio and lists of article ideas. I'd also stuck a few post-it notes with a list of questions that I thought might come up to the inside. I practised my answers to them on the way there.

The bus was ten minutes late but that was okay because I'd given myself enough time to be half an hour early.

Even the entrance was intimidating; all white brick and high arches and columns. I'd sat and looked at pictures of it online for what must have amounted to several hours of my life but standing in front of it, it felt much bigger than I expected. I waited for it to swallow me. I stood at the buzzer by the big, glass doors and took a deep breath. Then I pushed for the reception.

"Washington Post," a voice said through the tannoy. "How can I help?"

"Naomi Payton," I replied, finding it a little hard to speak past a lump of nerves in my throat. "I'm here for an interview."

"Come on in." There was a slight pause and then I heard the buzz as the security around the doors was released. I pushed on them and found myself inside the high-ceilinged Reception Hall of the Washington Post. The receptionist behind a large, semicircular white desk stood up when I came in. "Miss Payton?"

"Yes," I smiled.

"If you could just sign in to our visitor book, I'll get you a Pass," she gestured to the open guestbook on the desk. A thick, black pen lay beside it. I filled it out with my name, the date and reason for being there. She handed me a laminated white card with the word 'Visitor' stamped on it.

"Thank you."

"No problem, just take a seat and I'll let Ms Westbrook know you're here."

"Thank you," I said again and my nerves doubled in size. I hadn't been sure that my interview would be with Ms Westbrook herself.

I took a seat on a shiny, grey leather chair to the side of her desk and opposite a line of three elevators. I thought about shuffling my notes around again but knew that would just make me more nervous. I was as prepared as I was ever going to be. My portfolio was in the best shape it had been in for a while and, although I still wasn't sure which of my articles they'd seen that had made them offer me an interview, I was confident that everything I'd brought was something I was proud of. I knew the publication well. I knew Marianne Westbrook well, too. Maybe too well.

She was a journalistic goddess, famous for her take no-nonsense interviews and ability to dismiss -on the spot- any man who talked over her in a meeting. She'd been an idol of mine since I'd first learned her name. I absentmindedly ran a finger up and down the crescent-moon scar on the back of my hand. I didn't do it deliberately but it always made me calmer. By the time I was called in, my heartbeat had almost stopped racing.

Marianne Westbrook was smaller in real life than I had imagined her, a tiny firecracker of a woman. Her short, dark hair sat in perfect curls around her head. A dark navy pantsuit and a bold red lip. I dunno if it was just because of how much I idolised her but she had a presence far bigger than she was, like she could have walked into any room and had it bend to her will. I immediately wanted to tell her how much I admired her work and her work ethic, but I remembered reading in an interview somewhere that she hated ass-kissers so instead I stuck out my hand and said, "Thanks for seeing me, Ms Westbrook."

"Thank you for coming in." Her handshake was cold and firm. I wondered if she could feel how hard my heart was beating through the pulse in my hand. I worried that my hands were sweaty. Despite towering over her, I felt tall. "Please take a seat."

She gestured to a lime-green chair opposite a white desk. Most things in the room were white, save for the occasional splash of bright green from the chairs, a desk lamp, a potted plant by the window and a piece of art on the wall that was too abstract for me to even try and guess what it was.

"Thank you," I said as I sat down.

"Sorry about the green," she said. "This is not my office."

"It's alright," I shrugged. "I've seen worse."

She raised one eyebrow, like she couldn't quite believe there was worse than this. She ran through some fairly standard interview questions about my background, the classes I'd taken and my work history. We then moved on to look at the portfolio of pieces I'd written for the college paper and freelance pieces I'd managed to publish since graduating. She read them over. The silence while she was doing so felt huge. When she was done, she didn't comment on them, just put them down and fixed me with her unreadable brown eyes. "You understand that we are also looking at candidates from Princeton, Yale, Harvard.. places like that?"

"Yes, ma'am." I nodded. I wondered if I was meant to thank her for giving me a chance amongst all of those privileged assholes. Pride stopped me from doing so. A slight pause buzzed in the air along with my nerves.

"So," she crossed one leg over the other. "Why do you think you have an edge over those other candidates?"

"I didn't come from money," I admitted, like it was news to either of us. "Even with a scholarship, those Ivy League places were not a realistic option for me."

"I didn't ask for your sob story."

"I'm not giving you one," I said. "I'm just not going to pretend that it was a lack of good grades or work ethic that stopped me going there. It was circumstance, that's all. And I'll bet most of the people you've already hired have Ivy League educations."

She looked a little taken aback. "That may be so-"

"So you don't need any more of those kinds of perspectives," I said. I didn't care that I'd spoken over her. If she was going to be a snob about where I was from, me been meek and polite weren't gonna change that. I'd given up pretending to be someone else a long time ago. "They've got no idea what's going on with working-class Americans, what they care about, what they're worried about. That's why they don't read your paper."

Her lips formed one thin, surprised line. "Is that so?"

"Yes. When you're trying to make enough to feed your kids or you're worried about job security, it's hard to care what's going on in the Middle East because it feels so far removed from your own struggles," I said. "It's hard to care about whether or not it's more ethical to eat quinoa instead of couscous when you can't afford either."

"You speak like there's a gap in the market there."

"Maybe there is," I shrugged. I hadn't thought of it that way. "It's not that people are dumb, or wilfully ignorant, they just have more immediate things to worry about. Like surviving."

"Do you think these people who are, as you rightly point out, strapped for cash would shell out for one of our papers?"

"They would if they thought there was something worth reading," I said. "Like I said, they ain't dumb."

"We report global news as well as local."

"I know."

"So are you saying we should stop that to focus solely on what matters to the working class on the off chance they might start buying our paper?"

"No."

"No?"

"The global stuff affects them too. It affects all of us, it's just harder to care about if you only hear about it from millionaires who don't know anything about what you're struggling with." I said. "You just need a perspective that will show everyday Americans why they should care about it. And you ain't going to get that from any of those Ivy League, silver-spoon folks."

I sat back and felt my cheeks burn at how much of my home accent had slipped out. If Marriane noticed she didn't say anything, she just sat back in her own seat and gave me a look I was too nervous to decipher.

"Thank you, Miss Payton," she said, eventually. "We'll be in touch."

"Thank you for seeing me," I said, standing up to gather my shit together. She reached out and put a hand on my portfolio.

"Okay if we keep this?" she asked. "The Hiring Selection Committee will need to see it too."

"Of course," I said, although it was my only copy so if I landed any more interviews I'd have to pay to print it all off at the library again.

I don't think I breathed properly until I was out of that room. The receptionist behind the desk caught my massive exhale and smiled.

"She has that effect on people," she said, sympathetically. "Can I get you anything - water? Xanax?"

I laughed. "No, thank you."

I handed in my visitor pass and signed out. I glanced up at the list of people who had signed in before me and wondered briefly if any of them had come in vying for the same position.

I'd booked the rest of the day off, which I was starting to regret. I'd signed up to a temp agency and they called with some kind of work most days, from covering reception jobs to doing basic office admin. It was tedious but it gave me time to work on any freelance stuff that came in. Getting a permanent position would change everything for me and Mia.

I regretted not planning something else to do. Because all I could do was go home and stare at my phone in case it rang, refresh their emails in case their rejection process was just that quick.

When my cell phone actually rang I almost jumped out of my skin. It was a number I didn't recognize. I doubted the Post would call back already or from a cell phone. Still, I answered it almost immediately.

"Hello?" I said and cringed at how keen I sounded. I wished I'd thought of something more relaxed and sophisticated to say.

"Hey Naomi?" The accent was from back home. I was so shocked that for a moment I didn't recognize his voice.

"Er… yeah?"

"It's Merle."

I thought my heart had stopped.

"Merle?" I repeated, sitting up straight as panic rose inside me. I couldn't think of a single reason Merle would have to contact me other than if something terrible had happened to either Daryl or Momma.

"The one and only," he said. "I got this number for your Momma, that okay?"

Not Momma, then.

"Is Daryl okay?" I asked. "He hurt or something?"

Visions of bike accidents and drug deals gone wrong flashed through my head. It was only when I heard him chuckle slightly that I relaxed. Merle was an asshole but he did love his brother, I knew that much.

"He's fine," Merle said. "Probably better than usual, actually. Our dad's dead."

"Oh." I paused. I wasn't sure how to feel. It was big news. I was sure it would have a big impact on both brothers. I was also sure that neither of them would deal with it in a healthy way. "I want to say I'm sorry to hear it but I ain't."

"Nah," Merle said. "We ain't either. Weird though."

"I'll bet," I said. Even with everything Momma had put Mia and I through, everything she'd done, I knew I'd have some mixed feelings when she died. Parents are still parents even when they're crap. "When'd it happen?"

"Yesterday," he said. "Or at least that's when they found his body. Could've been before that I guess."

"Yeah."

I didn't say so but I was glad a man like Me Dixon had died alone. It was what he deserved.

"You guys having a funeral?"

I wouldn't have put it past them to have just burned the body on sight. But there were probably laws against it and they wouldn't have gotten away with it if it weren't them who found the body. Neighbors would ask questions.

"Yeah, it's on Friday but don't worry, you ain't expected to be there. I know you and Daryl ain't speaking right now. It just didn't feel right… you not knowing."

The moments where Merle showed he had a heart, were honestly the weirdest ones to know him.

"I appreciate that," I said. "And I'll be there."

"Honestly, it's okay," he said. "I know you're some big shot in New York now. Don't make the trip for that old bastard."

Usually, when someone from back home called me a 'big shot', it just felt like a dig at me for moving away but with Merle it didn't feel like there was any venom in it. He actually sounded kinda proud. I looked around at my crummy one bed apartment and wondered if he'd feel the same if he saw it

"Washington," I said. "It ain't that far. I'll be there."

"It's a long way to come to pay your respects to someone who don't deserve it."

"Yeah, I ain't doing it for him," I said. There was a silence where neither of us hung up. It was weird, after all this time, to be connected to Daryl again, even if it was through Merle. "Does he know you called?"

Waiting for the answer, I held my breath.

"Nah. Think he'd kill me if he found out "

Still not forgiven me then.

"Okay."

"Gotta go," he said, in a quiet and hushed kind of way that might have meant Daryl was suddenly nearby. "See you later. Maybe."

"See you soon." I said it like a promise and I gave that promise more weight than I normally would have with Merle. Because it wasn't a promise to him, not really, it was just passing through him.

He chuckled to himself, like he always did when I said something he thought was too serious, "Take care."

It sounded like he meant it and it made my heart ache a little. I remembered Daryl saying something similar when he'd dropped me at college. "You too."

And take care of him, too, I wanted to add but didn't because I was a coward. I heard a voice in the background, too far away to know if it was Daryl or not and then he hung up. In the crushing silence of my apartment, I took a moment to collect myself. And then I opened my laptop and bought two tickets to Georgia. They weren't cheap, it was going to be a tight month. But when wasn't that the case?

I went in to Mia's bedroom. I'd given her the one bedroom in the apartment when she'd moved out with me and invested in a good pull-out sofa for myself. I didn't mind much, I stayed up working late most nights after I'd put Mia to bed so it just made a lot of sense that she could have somewhere away from my frustrated sighs and keyboard-tapping to actually get some sleep. I'd hoped that it would be more temporary than it had proved to be. I'd hoped by now I'd be earning enough for us to be living somewhere nicer, without the damp in the corner and the mold around the windows. But Mia didn't seem to notice and at least she wasn't living with Momma any more.

I packed her a bag. And then I packed one for myself. Small ones, so we wouldn't have to pay for any extra baggage on the plane.

I was early to pick Mia up from school. That was usually the case, due to the way the buses worked out, it was either be super early or fifteen minutes late. And I never wanted Mia to feel the panic of coming out of school and not seeing the person who was meant to pick you up. I never wanted her to have to stand around while everyone else got to go home. It also gave me a chance to sit down and do some reading. Books had the added bonus of being a good way to block out the parents who'd stare at me, their judgements and assumptions that I'd gotten pregnant at sixteen written all over their faces.

It was usually a time I had to myself but not today. Today, a woman approached me as I sat on my usual bench.

"Hey there," she smiled at me in a way that didn't feel very genuine but it could have just been her unnaturally white teeth. Her smooth, shiny hair reminded of Abbie.

"Hi," I smiled back.

"I'm Julia. Huntzberger," she said. "Head of the PTA."

There was no need for her to introduce herself like that. I'd read all of their damn weekly letters, I recognised the name.

"Nice to meet you," I smiled anyway and held out my hand. "Naomi Payton."

She shook it. Her hands were cold like a dead fish. "Payton," she said. "So you're Mia's-"

She didn't bother finishing the sentence, just let it hang in the air and looked at me with expectant, wide eyes.

"I'm her big sister," I said, because I knew that's what she and all of the other Mom's at the school gates were here for; sniffing out a bit of scandal. "Half-sister, technically."

Her eyebrows shot up at that, clearly enough intrigue for her to want to pry more into my family history and what she probably assumed was a failed first marriage. There was also a hint of satisfaction in her eyes, like the half-sibling aspect of it explained the slightly bigger than average age difference between us.

"Ah," she smiled again. "We thought you looked far too young to be her mother."

I knew it was meant to be flattering but there were girls back home who'd got pregnant at the age I was when Mia was born. I wondered if they'd had to put up with all of this bullshit too. Mia had been at this school for almost three years now and it had taken anyone that long to approach me, they'd spent the rest of their time just staring and whispering.

"You're Gemma's Mom?" I asked, having run through all of the classmate's Mia had ever mentioned in my head. Of all the kids that Mia's old best friend could have sat next to at lunch, did it have to be the daughter of the Head of the PTA? Was that why she'd come over? Were we in some kind of feud now?

"Yes, I am," she said and paused. "So how come it's up to you to pick up Mia?"

"Our Mom… she's pretty sick," I said, which wasn't a lie. Addiction is as much of a sickness as any other. "So, she's back home in Georgia and Mia's with me."

I knew it wasn't the answer that Julia had been expecting. Maybe a real lie would have been easier to swallow, maybe I should have left out the part about Mia's biological Mom being in a whole other state, but I'd given up lying about my Momma. Just like I'd given up lying about myself after my disastrous freshman year.

"How long has she been with you?"

"Three years," I said. "I moved here after I graduated. Once I'd started working, I flew her out."

"That's a lot for you to take on," Julia said. I couldn't tell if she was impressed or scandalised.

I didn't much care. I shrugged. "I'm happy to do it."

The bell rang and an instant later there was the familiar sound of children screaming. The doors burst open and a steady stream of them poured out. Mia tumbled out with a group of other girls, including both Gemma and Jess so whatever argument had happened the day before had clearly already been forgotten. They were all giggling about something and it took an age for them to say goodbye to each other.

"Oh to be young again," Julia smiled with a slight eye roll. I smiled back, like I could in any way relate to having a ton of school friends that I couldn't wait to see every morning. It had just been one. Mia's life was so different to the way mine had been when I was her age. And that was a good thing.

I eventually managed to coax her away from her friends and we started to speed walk to the bus stop. Someone pulled up beside us and honked. I pulled Mia closer to me and dug my hands into my pocket to see if I could grab my keys in time to jab them in the eyes of whatever creep was following us to the bus stop. But then I heard, "You ladies need a lift?"

And Mia said, "Bryce!"

And my pounding heartbeat returned to normal.

He peered up at us out of the open window, his car crawling to a halt.

"You sure?" he asked.

"Yeah, jump in."

Mia ran to climb in the back.

"How was the interview?" he asked, as I sat in the passenger seat and strapped myself in.

"Good. I think. I hope," I hesitated. "I think I yelled at her."

"You did what?"

"I yelled at her. Just a little bit."

"God, Naomi," he heaved a sigh. "Why? Do you not want this job?"

"I do," I said. "But she kept going on about how everyone else they were considering were Ivy League assholes, so-"

"Did she call them Ivy League assholes?"

"No, those are my words."

"I thought as much."

"I just told her that a fancy education ain't everything," I said. "And that having some different perspectives in her dumb paper might not hurt."

"Well that's… bold of you."

I shrugged and changed the subject. "Anyway, how was work?"

"Not too bad, thanks," he said in that way that people do when they don't wanna actually talk about the day they've had.

"You're off early," I commented, checking the time.

"My last meeting of the day got cancelled," he said, not sounding too upset about it. I nodded and switched the radio on to cover the silence. "Andy's having a few people round for dinner tonight if you guys wanna come?"

"That's lovely, thanks. But actually we can't. We're heading home for a couple of days."

"Home as in Georgia?"

"Yup."

"Everything okay?"

"Are we going to see Momma?" Mia piped up from the back. I'd hoped the radio would have distracted her.

"Yeah, we'll see Momma," I said. Because the thought of someone finding her dead days after the fact like Mr Dixon made me feel weird. Not happy, not sad. Just weird. Mia whooped. I glanced at Bryce and said, "An old friend of mine's dad died. So, I'm going back for the funeral."

"An old friend?" he repeated.

"Yes."

I knew he expected me to say more but I didn't.

"You don't have any old friends. As far as I knew, I was your oldest friend. Unless you and Abbie have suddenly reconnected."

I snorted with laughter, "God no. I haven't seen her since she blanked me in the library after I moved out of that dorm."

"But you were a loner at highschool?"

"Do you mean loser?" Mia piped up from the back.

"Very funny, Mia." I glanced at Bryce, "It's Daryl."

"You guys back in contact?"

"No, his brother called."

Bryce nodded but I knew he was worried. I didn't blame him. He was the one who'd had to take me to the emergency room to get stitches in my hand that night. I'd told him that it had been an accident, that Daryl hadn't been aiming for me, that he'd be the last person on earth to hurt me, but I don't think it made a difference. And I knew how it looked to an outsider. Bryce and I were close now but compared to the way Daryl and I had been, everyone was an outsider.

"You sure you want to go to that?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "I've known the Dixon's since I was Mia's age. Mr Dixon was a part of my life for a long time."

I didn't say what kind of part he'd played. I didn't say that the smell of whiskey coming off him had always made me afraid or that I'd spent nights patching up the shredded back of his youngest son. I didn't say that I'd dreamed of his death countless times and only wanted to go to check that it had really happened, that Daryl and Merle were really free.

"Okay, well be sensible Naomi," Bryce said, sounding the closest thing to a parent that I'd ever had.

"Yes, Dad," I rolled my eyes.

Daryl

Death used to be this whole big deal, I think it's easy to forget that these days.

Just because he'd finally done the decent thing and died, people who hadn't seen our dad in years came out to sit around a box with his dead, bloated body in it and say some generic bullshit about his life. Like they knew anything about it. His drinking buddies slurred a few words about how much fun that asshole had been at the bar. Shame he'd never been fun when hed come home.

I think we sang some hymns although I don't remember which ones or why we picked them. They were probably just the first on the list of options Merle and I had been shown.

Funerals used to be expensive, too. Merle and I went for the cheapest options of everything, which were still too good for our dad. They were all still too damn expensive and our old man didn't deserve a penny of it. I'd wanted to burn the trailer down with him inside it but Merle said that weren't legal and the neighbours already knew he was dead so there weren't anything we could do about it. I guess people would ask questions if there weren't a funeral.

There's been people I've put in the ground since my dad kicked the bucket that deserved a proper funeral a lot more than he did. Of all the bodies I've burned or just left to rot, all the people I've had to wrap in a damn cloth and stick in the ground with nothing but a few sticks to mark the spot, I wish he'd been one of them. I wish we'd left him to be eaten by wolves and been able to give an actual funeral to people who ain't assholes.

People who die now don't even get a casket.

Dad did.

It was heavy too, especially with him in it. He'd gained a lot of weight towards the end. Merle and I carried him in. It saved us from having to pay for any more people from the funeral home to do it. I guess I was supposed to feel sad but I didn't feel anything, except maybe annoyed that I had to carry something I cared so little about.

I'd felt numb the whole time we were planning it, too. And when the minister asked Merle and me if we wanted to say anything about our dearly departed dad, I think we both laughed. It was only right at the end, when the minister was saying some bullshit about a next life that my old man certainly hadn't earned, that I turned around to look at the clock.

And I saw her.

Sitting at the back next to her Momma. She looked like herself again; all curly dark hair and fiery eyes. She weren't looking at me, her eyes were on the minister but I still spun back around to face the front as fast as possible.

"You seen a ghost?" Merle leant in real close to me and whispered. "Is dear old dad about to stumble in?"

"Nah," I said but my hands were shaking.

I'd started to feel. Everything. Like just having her close to me was enough to crack open defenses I'd built that I thought were air-tight. She could always make me feel like that. Like no matter how numb I got when my dad was beating me, no matter how dark things got in my head, her sad but kind eyes and her warm hands would always bring me back out into the light. Lying on my side because of the sores on my back never felt so bad when I was lying next to her. I thought after five years of building walls specifically to keep her out, I'd be stronger than this. I wasn't.

"This'll sting." She'd warn me before she cleaned me up and pieced me back together again. And it did.

But somehow it didn't matter.

I was angry now. I weren't just annoyed that Dad had drank away any money that could have gone towards his own funeral. It wasn't just the underlying anger of what a giant shitbrain he'd been to me my entire life. That anger was always with me, it was quiet and long lasting. The anger I felt now was the thought that if I hadn't gone to see him that day, if he'd had the decency to pass out or even die right then, there was a huge chance I wouldn't have stormed in to Naomi's party and been a huge waste of space.

Or maybe I would.

Maybe it was just a matter of time.

That kinda shit was in my blood, after all.

He passed it down to me like a sickness.

Before I realised I was on my feet, I charged at the coffin and sent it toppling off the dumb table it was sitting on. The impact caused the lid to spring open. His body flopped out onto the floor, smacking into it with a thwack. He looked pathetic. It was funny. How easy it was to knock him over now that he was dead. How I'd never managed to land a punch when he was alive but now he was a corpse, I could smash my fist into his cold dead face as many times as I wanted. I think it was the first corpse I saw, which is weird to think about now they're walking around everywhere.

It was Merle who pulled me off him, though I don't know why. He held my elbows back and dragged me away, turned me around. I saw the fire escape and pushed it open. It was hot outside. Quiet. I could breathe again. I was panting, I hadn't realised how much energy that had taken out of me. My arms hurt, my fists felt numb.

"You okay, little bro?" Merle said, his hand on my back. I nodded. "That was quite an outburst."

I just nodded again. I weren't in the mood to talk to him, mostly because it was rare for Merle to actually listen. Already, I could see that he was doing his best not to laugh. Everything was a joke to him, things washed off him like water off a duck. I wished I could be like that instead of just angry all the time. How was it that he inherited less of the anger from our dumbass dad? Why had I got most of it?

Inside the Church, I could hear people talking, hear the sound of the furniture I'd knocked over being righted. Merle disappeared back through the door we'd come out of, probably to fix my mess and say something quippy about how hard I was taking our dad's death. Then, from round the corner of the Church I heard someone shout, "Daryl!"

I think it was her.

But I didn't wait and see.

I just turned and walked as fast as I could away from the dumb Church and the dumber people inside it. I headed for the trees because I knew they'd hide me faster if anyone came round the side of the building trying to find me. I walked amongst a few very old graves, so old that whoever had put their family members or whatever in there was so long dead that they'd let trees spring up, the grass was overgrown. Weeds grew through cracks in headstones. I remember thinking that death looked nice and peaceful.

Which is hilarious when you think about the way it looks now.

But back when the dead stayed dead, death didn't look so bad. It at least looked quiet.

I found a bench far from the Church and close to a stream. I sat down, tried to switch off everything in my brain. It had been ages since I'd been outside like this. I didn't do much hunting with Merle. Actually, we didn't do any hunting. Merle wasn't one for sitting outside. Or shutting up. He had a loud and disconnected group of friends, the members of his group changed from week to week without him seeming to notice. They were all as loud as the bikes they rode. It had been years since I'd had this kind of peace.

It lasted less than five minutes before I heard footsteps. A kid ran around the side of a nearby tree and stopped abruptly when she saw me. She might have felt bad for interrupting me. I was about to tell her that it was fine, when I looked at her properly and found something familiar in her face.

It was Mia.

She'd grown so much. She had her sister's nose.

I tried to do the maths. Eight. She must've been eight by now.

"Hey," she said, looking unsure what to make of me.

"Hey." It hurt to look at her so I looked at my feet in their scuffed black shoes.

"Sorry about your dad."

"Don't be," I told her. "I ain't."

"Oh. Okay," she said. I thought she might run off again but she sat down. "You're Daryl, ain't you?"

"Yeah."

"You know my sister," she said. I didn't answer so she must've thought I was confused. "My sister, Naomi?

"I knew your sister, yeah."

"She's looking for ya."

My stomach dropped. "What. Now?"

"Yeah." I must have looked worried because she said, "Don't worry, you're not in trouble."

That's what you think.

"Don't tell her you found me, okay?" I said.

"Okay," she shrugged. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her legs swinging back and forth. She was so big now. I must have missed so much. "I remember you."

"Yeah?" I wondered how much she remembered me. There were things she couldn't possibly remember. Like the first time I held her when she was three days old; just me, her and Naomi cuddled up on her Momma's stained couch. We'd been so good at playing like we were a family that I had believed for a second that we actually were. I wondered if she remembered that she'd called us Dar and No-mi, if she even knew that this was the first time I'd ever heard her use my full name. I wondered if she remembered the birthday party we'd thrown on her first and second birthdays, the cake we'd made her that wound up with a hole in the middle that Naomi had just filled with icing.

"Yeah." she said. "You used to look after me sometimes. And you'd visit when Noami came back from college. You were nice."

"You were nice too."

"I still I am," she said, all offended that I might have thought she weren't.

Well I ain't.

"My sister remembers you too," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But she don't talk about you much because it makes her sad."

Makes me sad too.

"She doing okay? Your sister?" I didn't want to ask, but I couldn't help it.

"Yeah. We live in DC now. She's gonna work at the paper and write the news.

"Good for her," I said and I meant it. I'm not sure it sounded like I did. Then I caught the 'we' part of her sentence. "You live there too?"

"Yup."

"Full time?"

"We come here on holidays sometimes," she shrugged. "But Naomi's been looking after me since I was five. Maybe you should visit sometime, then No-mi can stop being sad about not having a best friend anymore."

"I'm sure your sister's doing just fine," I laughed. It sounded meaner than I meant it.

And I'm double sure me showing up would make her 100% worse if she ain't. It did last time.

That dream I had of her and me and Mia safe in an apartment somewhere… it was nice that one of us got to have that.

"Mia!" I heard someone yell, I panicked for a while that it was Naomi but it was her Momma.

"Gotta go," Mia said. "Not sorry about your dad."

"Thanks."

"See you around Daryl."

"See ya."

And then she was gone, running back around to the front of the Church in that way kids do when they kinda stomp and it makes them sound twice the size they really are. I thought about going back out there with her. After she'd made the effort to come, maybe Naomi and I could manage to say hello without ripping each others head's off. Maybe it had even been long enough that we could do some small talk.

The thought of that kept me rooted to the bench.

Small talk.

With Naomi.

Small talk was something you did with strangers, people you didn't really want to talk to but had run into grocery shopping or at the bar.

Nothing about our friendship had been small.

So, I didn't go after her. I didn't go and see why she'd bothered to come or why she'd come looking for me. I didn't go and apologies. Or pretend like nothing had even happened and just try and talk to her like normal. I would regret that later. But right at that moment, I was too proud.

So I sat alone and listened to the sound of people talking at the now distant Church. I heard it die down slowly, heard the cars start. Bikes too, probably Merle's friends.

He found me eventually. When everyone else was gone. I heard him calling but I didn't say anything, just sat there and let him find me. I half expected him to give up. To leave like he always did.

"Wanna tell me what that was all about?" he said. I couldn't tell if he was annoyed or not.

I shrugged. "Just got mad."

"Right," Merle nodded.

"Having to sit there while everyone pretended to like that useless prick," I said, trying to justify my outburst, even though if anyone should've understood me that day, it should've been Merle. "It's bullshit."

"Yeah," he agreed. "But it's gotta be done."

"Why?" I said. "Just let him rot."

Merle looked like he wished he'd taken me up on that suggestion when I first made it, back when we got the call about him being dead.

He managed to sit quiet for about ten minutes, which I think was more than he'd ever managed before. Then he turned and said, "Drink for dad's sake?"

"Yeah," I said, though it sounded like the dumbest way to commemorate a man who'd drank himself to death and weren't worth commemorating in the first place. My head was buzzing in a way it hadn't in years. I needed something to shut it out.

We made our way to a nearby bar. We hadn't arranged a wake or any kind of celebration afterwards so we avoided everywhere that had once been our dad's usual haunts in case his drinking buddies were in there tryna give him some kind of a toast. I couldn't hear another story about just how damn fun our dad had been for all of those nights at the bar before he'd stumbled home, taken his belt off and left deep gashes across my back.

They must've looked gross, those wounds. I don't know how she managed to touch them so gently.

"This one do?" I asked, coming to a stop outside a bar that was neither of our favourites but also not one our dad had gone to a lot.

"Sure." If Merle was surprised by my sudden stop, he didn't show it, he just let me lead him in.

I got the first round. We sat at the bar and said nothing until we were a few drinks in. It wasn't drowning things out the way it used to, the way I wanted it to. I looked at my brother, "Merle?"

"Yeah?"

"You invite Naomi to this shit?"

I already knew the answer, it had just taken me a while to get there with all of the other shit that had gone on. I studied his face anyway. He said, "No"

I took another drink. So did he. "Then how'd she know to come?"

He raised his eyebrows like he was surprised, like he hadn't given it any thought at all. He's always been a shit liar, which is weird because he does it so often. "I thought you told her, little brother."

"Bullshit."

I put my glass down. Normally, I didn't get that mad when he lied to me, but I was still full of anger. The alcohol was like pouring gasoline onto an already lit fire. I knew this was how I reacted to shit, I'd proved it a thousand different times in a thousand different drunken fights. Never stopped me, though.

Merle shrugged, "Maybe she heard from someone else."

"Yeah? Like who?"

"I dunno. Her Momma, maybe?" he suggested. It was quick thinking but I still knew it was a lie. "Take it this means you didn't speak to her?"

"Nah. I didn't."

He sighed, didn't say anything else. Just took another drink.

"Why do you care all of a sudden?" I asked. "You never gave a shit about her before."

"That ain't true," he said. "Looked out for you both, didn't I?"

I shrugged. Because I couldn't deny that he had. "When you were around, I guess."

"Low blow," he said. "You just been so mopey since you had that dumb fight. Thought you might have spoken to her is all. Bet neither of you can even remember what you argued about."

The blood. The glass. I'd never forget any of that.

"So you did invite her?"

"I didn't say that," he said, annoyed I'd almost caught him out. "But she did come all this way."

"She didn't speak to me either," I pointed out.

"Probably cause you pulled a Houdini and bounced before it was even over."

"Makes a change, I guess," I said. "Seeing as it's usually you leaving."

He put his glass down so hard on the bar that I felt it shake my own. "You didn't call dibs on being the asshole today," he snarled. "We both lost our dad. We both get to have a shit day today.. So shut your damn mouth."

"Yeah?" I yelled after him as he started to walk away. "Or what?"

"Or I'll shut it for ya."

I ran at him, tackled him to the ground like I'd done to the coffin. I heard the smack as he hit the floor and I think it must have knocked the wind out of him for a second because I got about two and half punches in before he managed to twist around underneath me. He grinned. There was blood on his teeth.

"Big mistake, little brother," he said, grabbing the back of my head and pulling me to the side so I wasn't pinning him down any more. I felt his fists, felt myself get a few punches in, felt the floor under me. I could hear people in the bar shouting things, I think some of them cheered.

I felt calm again for the first time that day. Because the physical pain weren't so bad. And it drowned out all the rest; all of the noise in my head and the pain in my gut. I knew how to deal with this kind of pain. I'd been living in it for as long as I could remember. It was like an old friend. The kind of old friend who didn't change and turn their back on you when it suited them. Another burst of anger fuelled a kick that dislodged Merle from on top of me. I had seconds to scramble to my feet again. We circled each other, a tight wall of spectators had formed around the fight.

I ran at him. I'd lost the element of surprise so couldn't get him to the ground this time. I think he was laughing but he could have been yelling. It was all just noise to me. My fists slammed into his torso. The leather on his jacket made him kinda slippery.

His knee slammed into my stomach.

I doubled over, trying to fight the impulse to throw up. There was acid in the back of my throat.

He shoved me. Hard. My right shoulder hit the ground first. I twisted, trying to get back up but Merle had already grabbed the front of my shirt. He punched me round the side of the head so hard I hid the ground again. He pulled me up. Hit me again.

And again.

And again.

There's a point when someone's hitting you so hard and so much you stop feeling it. That was what I'd wanted, what I'd been looking for when I started this whole fight. Sometimes, just before you black out but after your vision has faded, or maybe it's actually while you're unconscious I dunno, it's like you get smacked so hard you jump in to another moment. You can't see it but you can feel it, like your brain is trying to protect you from the pain you're actually feeling by letting you relive something better.

I think somebody tried to break up the fight but they didn't get it. This was better than all that talking. I knew Merle would be feeling better too. Better than if we'd tried to do something to commemorate dad's memory.

Blood and fists and pain.

This was the legacy he left us.

This was how Dixon men showed love.

When Merle's face faded, surrounded by darkness, I felt something different. I felt like I was standing on a hill and all of Atlanta was glittering in front of me. There was a fire crackling, cooking something freshly caught. And I felt like wasn't alone anymore.

A/N: Walkers coming in the next chapter so hold on to your crossbows everybody