A Rare Sameness

by LaMorenaReina

An AU slow burn in which Michonne and Rick meet earlier in the ZA. Lori and Mike are alive. How does our group survive? How do Rick and Michonne negotiate their inimitable connection when they already have responsibilities to others?

5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Thank you for reading. Hope you enjoy.

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Downtown Atlanta

Morning

Rick stared.

Jesus fuckin' Christ.

Merle's hand. Dangling. Without Merle attached.

The image plunged Rick back into childhood. To their barn. The one with peeling red paint. The one his father never got around to fixing despite his many promises.

His parents ran a farm. Crops mostly—corn, wheat, vegetables. Strawberries for picking in the spring. That's where a lot of the real money came from. It was a good family spot. And a fun spot for tipsy adults who wanted to stumble into the field and kiss with strawberry-tinted lips. Working the fields, Rick overhead a lot some nights.

(Rick didn't work the customers too often; he wasn't "gregarious" enough, according to Jeff.)

They had animals too. Only chickens at first, for the eggs. Then goats. Cows. Two alpacas named Buddy and Missy.

Glenn doubled over and heaved.

Blood tricked from the crudely severed wrist. Flesh clumped along the saw's serrated blade.

They didn't use the animals for meat. Rick's mother was vegetarian and loathed the idea. She was an anomaly in their small conservative town. But things got bad for a while. And, well. They needed to eat. A man had a right to eat his own animals, Rick's father ranted. He ranted a lot.

His father and Jeff did most of the killing. In the barn. Far away from the house so his mother didn't hear the screaming. Rick hated it too. But his dad insisted after a while.

Gotta do the hard things, Rick.

Rick stared at the blade and the remnants of Merle and marveled at similarity between animal and human flesh.

T-Dogg stumbled back.

"Fuck."

Daryl howled.

His chorus of NO-NO-NO! sliced through the drone of walkers below. He spun in a perplexed circle, as if Merle was simply hiding among the ballast and piping.

Rick rolled his shoulders, dispelling images of dismembered men and slaughtered cows.

Work the scene, Grimes. Come on.

He knew how to do that. He was good at that. Real good. Better at that than being a husband.

Cut that shit out.

This was not the time.

Rick took stock of what he saw.

Hand: Severed. Left behind.

Instrument: hand saw.

(Shane would make a joke. He was prone to dark humor.)

Blood: smeared along the piping; gathered in pools in a disoriented trail across the roof; smudged against the opposite door and its handle. Dark. Dry. From injury that likely occurred the day before.

Merle: Missing.

It took Rick less than ten seconds to catalogue this.

It wasn't fast enough.

Daryl swung, pointing his crossbow at T-Dogg's waxen face.

"I should put an arrow between your fuckin' eyes."

T-Dogg put his hands up. He peeked at the severed hand again. His face paled further. Rick raised his colt and stepped forward, cocking the hammer and aiming it at Daryl's head.

"Put it down."

Flexing dirty fingers on the trigger, Daryl ignored him. His temple throbbed. Right where Rick would put a bullet if he had to.

"Come on, man." Glenn approached. "Nobody wanted this to happen. You know that."

Daryl pressed the bow right to T-Dogg's forehead.

"I don't know shit."

Rick knew the look. The look of a man too wound up to weigh his options with a clear mind. Many men had worn that look in King County. Men who worked farms and mills in the day and spent evenings at Gary's, drinking and ideating with little more than high school diplomas, some not even that. Men who abandoned their dreams of leaving or never had any to begin with. Men who just shambled through life until they grew angry enough to throw drunk punches on a Thursday night.

Rick kept his finger steady on the trigger.

"Put. It. Down."

Daryl's jaw tensed. He was itching to hurt.

Someone moved in Rick's periphery. He and Daryl tracked them without taking their eyes off their respective targets.

Michonne.

Kneeling, she inspected the hand, tilting her head with the dispassion of a practiced medical examiner. She stood after a few moments.

"He may still be alive. If so, let's find him before he bleeds to death."

Daryl watched her walk to the other door out of the corner of his eye. Rick kept his eyes on Daryl. Michonne examined the doorknob.

"This blood is dry."

Meaning: Merle left a while ago.

If they had any chance of finding him alive, they needed to move. Now.

Daryl returned his eyes to T-Dogg, considering. Finally, he lowered his crossbow. Rick stepped away, waiting a beat before re-holstering his gun.

"You got a durag or somethin'?" Daryl asked.

T-Dogg stared.

"What?"

"Ain't that what it's called?"

"Why would I have one with me?"

"You got one or not?"

The men had a silent stand off. Rick flicked his gaze to Michonne just as she turned to him. She nudged her head and moved to the roof's ledge.

"The guns?" she asked.

Blinking, Rick snapped back into focus. They couldn't leave without the guns no matter what they found or didn't find of Merle. Going back to camp empty-handed was a no-go. Especially after the case he'd made to Lori and Shane.

His stomach blazed at the thought of them. Did they realize how symmetrical they'd looked standing side by side, glaring at him, mirrored in their disbelief and irritation?

He didn't blame their resentment. He'd only found the camp the day before. Leaving so soon after had to seem insane to them. It was absurd even to him though it felt like the right thing to do.

But did his departure also relieve them? Did they appreciate the chance to be alone for a few hours?

Focus, goddamit. This ain't the time.

Rick led Michonne further down the ledge and peered over. He scanned the street and pointed.

"There. On the ground next to the tank."

Three blocks west was the tank. But Rick could see the large bag from their vantage. The walkers surrounding the tank shambled in no specific direction. The never-ending wave of them swallowed the bag in and out of view as they parted around it.

Flattening her palms on the ledge, Michonne stood on a lip of concrete to get a better view. The lines of her arms tightened as she leaned forward.

"Whoever called the walkers didn't take them," she said.

She leaned further forward. Rick glanced away. He dug his thumb into the skin just above his eyebrow.

"Hard to see from this high. Hard to see from the ground too. If you don't know to look for 'em."

"That's good for us," she said.

He nodded to a side street. It was different than the one Glenn led him to the day before.

"Probably our best bet. Goin' out the front door ain't gonna work."

"I'm certain that alley has a fence. It's a loading area."

"How do you know?" Rick asked.

Michonne dismounted the ledge.

"I used to live here."

She noticed his look and clarified.

"Not this building. The condos here are hideous." She flicked her hand in a dismissive gesture. "In this neighborhood."

Judging by the building, the condos were the luxury type. Granite counters. Open concept. Floor-to-ceiling windows. The kind in Home and Design Lori was always gazing at, her face scrunched in wonder. The kind they could never afford. Rick wondered what Michonne found so distasteful about them.

"Probably fancier than anythin' I ever lived in."

She gave him a small, indulgent smile but said nothing. That seemed her style—saying only what needed to be said. She positioned herself next to him, speaking while watching Daryl wrap his brother's hand in a bandana.

"Even if he's not dead, he'll be a problem."

Putting his hands on his hips, Rick kept his eyes forward. The corner of his mouth curled at Daryl putting Merle's hand in T-Dogg's backpack.

"Yeah," Rick said.

He considered another problem. One he'd started to ask her about earlier that morning.

"What you said to Shane, about the camp."

Michonne watched him out of the corner of her eye. He swallowed his hesitation, the one that kept him from sharing his concerns with Shane and Lori. The problem was that his silence on the matter only bred more disquiet.

"You don't think the camp is safe."

"I don't."

Her overt discomfort deflated the balloon of unease in his stomach.

"The guns will give us a little more protection. I ain't sure how much though," he said.

"Not enough."

Rich exhaled.

"Naw. Not enough."

She turned her head to look at him, assessing.

"It's easier to stay. But that doesn't mean safer."

Her conviction further eased his dread; her bluntness eased him. He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, considering her words.

"And you?" he asked.

Again, she waited for him to elaborate.

"You're still at the camp."

He'd nearly said with the camp but that struck him as inexact.

She was there. But he thought of her tent, at a distance from the others. Her absence from dinner and "breakfast." Her perimeter check that kept her away for hours. The way she hovered at the periphery until her presence was absolutely needed.

Her eyes narrowed on him, and heat shot up his neck. He shifted his weight to his right leg.

"And?"

"Why don't you leave?"

It was a bold question. One he didn't have a right to ask. They'd only met yesterday. But she'd pushed him earlier at the fire pit, forcing him to be honest, so he took his chances.

She turned her head to look at him, eyes latching onto his. She had a way of taking things in, analyzing, making quick judgments.

Trained to do the same, Rick was especially attentive to the skill in others. He wondered. What had she done before the outbreak?

Daryl marched toward the door. His every step demanded they follow. As if his rage hadn't held them up only minutes earlier.

Her eyes locked on T-Dogg and Glenn who exchanged a wary glance. She frowned before exhaling.

"I made a promise."

Rick waited, curious, but she didn't say more.

Was her promise to the tall, strikingly handsome man she'd walked off with earlier?

Mike.

Last night, Rick had wondered if she was with the other man, Terry. But there was something about Terry's statement—"He'd be better if Mich came to see him"—that had given Rick pause. And then he'd seen Mike hovering behind her, wearing the displeasure of a lover. There was a pronounced limp in his left leg as he followed Michonne to their tent. The skin around his knee was swollen and bruised. A recent injury—one that gave meaning to Carl and Lori's concern for his well-being.

Daryl grunted.

"Ain't got all damn day."

Michonne gave Rick a look before meeting the others at the door. Lingering behind, Rick examined the scene one more time. Then he joined them, taking up the rear. Daryl put his hand on the doorknob and looked back. It was time. Ready or not.

Rick glanced behind them. The sky was perfectly blue and clear. His stomach sank.

We're running out of time.

The thought startled Rick with its urgency. He couldn't pinpoint where the sudden paranoia had come from.

Daryl opened the door and pushed forward. The stairwell swallowed him into darkness. They followed.

The Camp

Morning

White people always got something going on.

Jacqui was good at minding her business. Always had been.

Keep your eyes down and mouth shut.

She had her mother, Agnes, to thank for that precept. It was a lesson courtesy of Agnes' Apostolic upbringing.

She'd attended Faith Tabernacle Apostolic Church all her life. Briefly Faith Tabernacle Apostolic Ministries. Either way, it was never to be confused with Grace Tabernacle some three miles down the road. They were Baptist and there was a "helluva damn difference." Extra emphasis on hell. It was as close to cussing as Jacqui's mother got.

Jacqui's father hated church but loved the meekness it instilled in his wife. And the wildness it inspired in Bishop Lawrence's eldest daughter Stephanie.

You ain't see nothin', her mother said after Jacqui saw the Bishop's daughter writhing underneath her father.

Eyes down. Mouth shut.

Jacqui discarded her shyness when she left for college, but she never gave up the sense that other people's business was their own.

This camp was small though.

Secrets were hard to keep.

Though she kept her eyes on the laundry—how did the women end up doing the laundry again—she noticed Shane and Lori on the shore.

Two days ago, Shane would have followed Lori up the slope, into the woods. They seemed to think no one noticed the timing. Or the way Lori returned to the others with bright eyes and flushed skin. Or Shane with an added swagger to his gait.

Now Lori's husband was back.

Jacqui minded her business. Especially when it came to white folks. But the camp was small.

Jacqui liked Lori and didn't care about who was sexing who. She cared about the group. She cared about surviving.

Problem was, white folks' drama had a way of spilling over. But that was just like them. Going where they had no business being.

So she kept Shane and Lori in the corner of her eye until only an agitated Shane was left standing on the shore.

"I miss my Maytag," Carol said.

She wrung out a shirt with deft hands, whipping it in the air, ridding it of excess water.

"Maytag, huh?" Jacqui asked.

Her mother had owned one too. Sturdy. White. Top-loading. It worked like a dream even if squeaked and groaned during the spin cycle. Or when her father entertained the Bishop's daughter in the laundry room while Jacqui's mother attended Bible study.

Carol shrugged.

"It never quit."

Jacqui was sure her mother's Maytag had run up until the walkers took over. They didn't talk much before the world turned. As the news reports worsened, Jacqui reached out only to be told that the Lord will provide. Don't you worry. Jacqui called again the day before the phone lines went down. No one answered.

"I miss texting," Amy said.

Texting was for the young, and Jacqui had never liked it. She was a whiz on a real keyboard, but the keys of her cell phone were way too small for anything more than a few words.

"I miss my espresso machine," she said.

Andrea smiled.

"I miss my vibrator."

The women shared a commiserative laugh. It felt good. To laugh. To remember. To miss.

Carol glanced behind her, her eyes skimming the husband that always loomed. She faced them again. Her hands never stopped kneading a pair of torn jeans.

How the hell did they get saddled with laundry duty again?

"Me too."

Jacqui, Andrea, and Amy paused. Then they guffawed, their laughs growing louder. Carol was a timid thing. But there was steel buried there too. Maybe the end of the world would bring it out.

"What's so funny?"

Ed's voice was sand tossed onto a flame. Carol's body locked, her shoulders curling forward. Jacqui's mother used to do the same when her father walked into the room.

Carol yelped when Ed yanked her to her feet. Jacqui and Andrea leapt at him, smacking and scratching and pulling. Amy screamed. To no avail.

Ed was hulking and angry. He held Carol to his side with one hand and shoved them away with the other. Jacqui stumbled and hit the ground hard. Andrea fell beside her. Within seconds, they were on their feet again.

But Ed howled before they could reach him. His body coiled to the side. His hands, formerly gripping Carol, clutched his ribs. Carol sank to the ground in tears. Ed emitted a loud, gurgling squawk as the collar of his shirt squeezed his neck. The shirt was bunched tightly in Shane's fist.

Arms taut, Shane hauled Ed away from the group so forcefully that Ed could barely catch his footing, his boots slipping and dragging in the dirt. Instinctively, Carol crawled after him. Jacqui dropped to her knees and held Carol in place.

"No, honey. No. Let him."

Carol wailed and wriggled but Jacqui held on.

Shane threw Ed to the ground and pounced on him. Jacqui couldn't see Shane's face, but she could hear him. Grunting and huffing with each hit. Shane's fist were a mallet against a tough cut of beef, meeting Ed's face with a meaty thwack.

Jacqui couldn't see Shane's face.

But she could see Ed's each time Shane yanked him close before pummeling him again. Each glimpse was more bloody and raw than the last.

She felt a wave of satisfaction even as Carol twisted in her arms. Jacqui held tighter.

"Shane, stop! That's enough," Andrea said.

But she knew not to approach. Amy stood, her hands covering her mouth in horror.

"You ever touch your wife or daughter again, I'll beat you to death, Ed."

He walloped Ed again. Once. Twice. A third time. So hard that Ed's skull bounced off the ground.

"I'll beat you to death!"

Panting, Shane stood. His hands were as bloodied as Ed's face. Ed wheezed, his breathing watery and stuttered. Carol crawled to him and draped her body over his.

Andrea approached Shane as if he were a skittish animal.

"You good?" she asked.

Shane stared, eyes unblinking and dark. He smoothed his hair from his forehead before stumbling away, kicking up dust as he went.

As she watched Shane lumber up the shore, Jacqui knew two things.

Shane had done the right thing.

And he was dangerous.

The Camp

Morning

The gun was heavy in Mike's lap.

Heavy in a way that made his stomach clench.

Mike despised guns. Always had.

His squeamishness drove his mother's half of the family crazy.

They were country folks from the outskirts of Fort Valley, Georgia. They had seven acres that backed up to the woods and a small armory.

No matter how many lessons and safety demonstrations they offered, Mike wasn't interested. Guns held too much power—more power than Mike ever had any use for.

Take a 9mm handgun for instance. A bullet from something like that could travel more than 1,200 miles per hour. Or more than 1,700 feet per second. You picked up a gun when you wanted to kill someone or something.

Nah. Mike was good on that.

His cousins teased him for it. He took the jabs in stride.

Book-loving ass nigga. Ole uppity ass nigga.

Uppity ass nigga was their favorite. He was an uppity ass nigga when he got his scholarship to play football; when he tore his ACL the first time and focused more on academics; when he went to law school; when he started working at one of the largest firms in Atlanta.

Alright, fine.

He was an uppity ass nigga.

And he still hated guns.

That side of the family always irked him. But he loved them just as much. He hoped they were okay. If anybody could survive this shit, they could. They had all the skills he'd never bothered to learn.

Mike lost contact with his parents and siblings in Chicago, and he knew he would never see them again. But he hoped they'd made it, that they were still alive somewhere.

He glanced up. The tent was empty, but his skin twitched with paranoia.

It was smart. Keeping the gun a secret. These people were nice enough. But they didn't know them.

With shaky hands, he rewrapped the gun in the Army t-shirt. The shirt that once belonged to Michonne's father. Mike had never graduated beyond calling him Mr. Hawthorne.

He tucked the gun deep in his duffel bag.

Michonne thought he might need it. She'd shoved the gun at him and then, supposedly, left to get more.

She had that look in her eyes when she slid into the back of the van. The only one she wore now.

Skeptical. Tight. Expectant.

Mike sat forward on his cot. His knee ached. He massaged the skin around it, wincing. He felt it more now that he wasn't drinking to dull the pain.

She hadn't answered his question.

Why did she need to go to Atlanta? Again? Why was it so often her that went?

His jaw tensed.

A half empty bottle of Jim Beam poked out from underneath Terry's air mattress. It was the last bottle they had. Two weeks ago, Mike would have guzzled it. Today, it only turned his stomach.

He hated the slight upturn of Michonne's nose when she smelled liquor on his breath. He hated that she leaned away from him. He hated the blankness of her face, the one that concealed all that she didn't say.

Mike rocked to his feet, his teeth gritting at the sharp tug in his knee. He limped to the bottle, yanked it from under the mattress, and ripped open the tent door.

Grateful their tents were somewhat removed from the rest, Mike stumbled into the woods. His knee screeched with every stride, but he staggered until the camp disappeared from view behind him.

An alarm raised somewhere in his psyche.

He ignored it.

When his knee locked, he stopped, collapsing against the nearest tree.

He emptied the bottle. The dirt grew moist and pliant as the bourbon splattered out. After, he heaved his arm back and pitched the bottle into the woods. It whistled before shattering against something in the distance. A tree. A boulder. Mike didn't give a fuck.

Falling back against the tree, he closed his eyes. He never came out this far.

Michonne did though. Often.

She spent most of her time out here. Scouting. Watching. Waiting. It was as if she preferred the dark silence of the woods to the safety of camp.

It's not safe.

That's what she said to him three nights ago. When he wondered, again, why she'd gone on another run, why she stayed out so late on watch even when others had taken their shift, why she took in everything as if it would crumble at any moment.

It was the same look she wore back at his condo and the refugee camp. The constant shifting of her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way her hand twitched, seemingly involuntarily, longing for the hilt of her sword.

A sword! A fucking sword.

He still couldn't wrap his head around it.

Yeah, well, she was right about the Atlanta. And the refugee camp.

Mike allowed that.

But this settlement offered them safety. Stability. It had for weeks. Nearly a month.

Until today.

The lone walker.

An anomaly.

A frightening one, yes, but an oddity.

Today was the exception.

No, Mike thought, his head pounding.

He pressed the tip of his fingers into his temples.

Yesterday. Things changed yesterday.

He'd listened from his tent as Andrea filled Michonne in about Atlanta. He listened again when Michonne retold the tale, not knowing he'd already heard.

The deputy. Rick.

Storming into Atlanta. Setting the walkers off. Trapping the run group in the mall. Chaining Merle to the roof. (Not that Mike gave a damn about Merle.)

Mike had practiced law for more than a decade. He'd led and witnessed countless trials.

Every good trial had a wildcard. The one who sucked the air out of the room just by entering. The one who put the defendant on edge when taking the stand. The one who turned everything on its head.

Deputy Rick Grimes.

He was the wildcard.

Mike knew something had changed when he heard the car speeding up the mountain, alarm and horn blaring.

He knew it as soon as he saw Rick Grimes for the first time, weeping, clutching his wife and son, miraculously back from the dead.

He knew it as he watched Shane watching them, relegated back to friend and uncle, no longer the surrogate husband and father.

Mike knew it when the deputy sought Michonne with his eyes before he dropped the bomb: He was going back to Atlanta for Merle.

And Michonne had gone with him.

For the guns. Because the camp wasn't safe, she insisted.

Mike ruminated on this thought day and night.

Atlanta. The refugee camp. The Highway. This settlement.

Safety.

Michonne thought he didn't see the danger. She thought he had his eyes and ears closed.

The initial outbreak had rendered him inert. He could admit that.

It was like watching a VHS tape skip, the frayed inner reel looping back to the same shot over and over until the screen blanked.

But it wasn't because he didn't see. It was because he did. He saw what Michonne couldn't see. What she refused to see.

She wanted to leave. She'd wanted to leave since the moment they arrived on the mountain. She never said so to him. One of the many things she wasn't saying.

Because of his knee. Because she didn't trust him anymore. Because she…

No, Mike thought, shaking his head . Don't.

He swatted that specific thought away.

She didn't understand. That's what mattered.

It wasn't just fear or his torn ligament that rooted him here.

There was something building in him. A pressure in his chest and stomach. It was blistering and odious.

He felt it in Atlanta as the reports worsened. (He read and heard them, unbeknownst to Michonne.) The drinking dulled it some but not completely.

He felt it the first few days after his injury, staring at the nylon ceiling of the tent.

He felt it, blazing and urgent, when he heard Michonne return to her tent early in the morning instead of coming to him.

He felt it when she'd climbed into the back of that van today and rode off to Atlanta. Again.

He felt it now in his shoulders, in the back of his neck, in his temples.

Throbbing-throbbing-throbbing.

A branch snapped.

Mike's heart slammed against his ribcage and stopped. His eyes sprung open as he tore himself away from the tree.

Lori gaped at him.

"Jesus," she said, breathless. "I'm so sorry."

Mike held his hand against his chest, willing his heart to stay put. He collapsed back against the bark.

"Shit."

"I didn't mean to scare you. I wasn't paying attention."

Mike nodded, his head and heart still pounding.

"It's cool. I wasn't either."

He bent forward, his hands instinctively going to his knees. Bad idea. He jerked upright with a hiss.

"Fuck."

Lori watched him for a moment before glancing behind her. Mike was too startled before to really look at her. He did now.

She was flushed, her hair matted to her forehead. She craned her neck, eyes darting between the trees.

"You looking for something?" Mike asked, his eyes narrowing, trying to see what she did.

The relative silence was eerie. The pulsing in his temples flared.

Lori tore her gaze from the woods.

"No. Just paranoid. After the walker today."

Mike eyed her. Truth or not, she was right. The woods were the last place they should be.

Again she looked behind her. A reflex. Instinct.

The hair on Mike's arms rose.

"I'm gonna head back," Mike said.

He began limping in the direction of camp. He'd come out too far. And the last thing he needed was to be alone in the woods with a white woman.

The world had changed.

But it hadn't changed that much.

She caught up to him. She was tall for a woman, and her stride was long.

"Sorry, I don't mean to follow you," she said. "I just don't want to be out here anymore."

Her voice barely carried the few feet between them.

Mike shrugged.

"All good."

Low branches extended their hands as they passed. They scraped across his forehead and cheeks. He welcomed the slight sting. It kept him from drifting. The way he'd been before Lori startled him.

He'd always been focused and clear-headed. It's what made him a great athlete and lawyer. But these days he disappeared for minutes or hours at a time, emerging back into the present as if he'd fallen asleep underwater.

Lulled by the crackling of leaves and twigs, he was doing it now. Drifting. He looked at Lori before turning his eyes forward.

"You must be relieved," he said.

A beat passed.

"Hm?"

Mike pushed a low branch aside so Lori could pass. It whistled through the air when he released it.

"Your husband finding this place."

She blinked. As if the mention of her husband surprised her despite his appearance being big news in their small settlement.

"I am. And stunned. Like I'm dreaming. I feel a bit drunk actually."

Her mouth formed a small "O" of surprise. She glanced at him, blushing. Mike paused to give his knee a break. He'd pushed it too hard earlier.

"I didn't mean to imply—I'm not judging," she stammered. "Lord knows, I don't have the right."

Because she was fucking her husband's best friend. Or had been, at least. There were only so many times they could sneak by Mike's tent before he put two and two together.

Lori and Shane hovered around each other the way lovers did. Glancing. Following with their eyes. Exchanging small, discreet touches.

"It's cool."

And it was. He didn't care what she thought of him. He had little if any attachment to these people. Their relational complexities were the least of his concern.

But he did wonder.

Did Lori notice the way Shane looked at her when her back was turned? Did she perceive that simmering somethingunderneath his skin when they fucked?

She raked both hands through her hair.

"Ignore me," she said. "It's been a fucking day."

Mike straightened. Her crassness was unexpected. She laughed. It was more sincere than the smile she'd given earlier.

"My mother used to give me that look too. 'Lori Anne, southern girls don't talk like that.' Drove me batshit."

"A true southern lady, huh?"

Lori rolled her eyes.

"Until she got some whiskey in her. Then she cursed like she was working the mill, I swear to God."

"She sounds like good people."

"She could be."

Lori spoke in the past tense. They all did.

"Your family," she said.

Mike wiped the sweat from his forehead. Fall approached. The days started off cool until the Georgia heat had its way.

"Lost contact."

Lori gave him a sympathetic look.

"I'm sorry."

"Your people?" he asked.

She kept pace with him when he started walking again. He walked more gingerly than he had before.

"I don't know about my parents. But I'm lucky. The people who matter most to me are here. And I thought I'd lost one of them."

"Tough dude," Mike said.

He could give the man that. Gunshot. Coma. Apocalypse. Yet here he was.

"He's stubborn."

"I know all about that."

Tartness bled into his words, and he felt helpless against it. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. Sweat slid past his ear and melted into the collar of his shirt.

"They'll be back soon," Lori said.

Her expression was plain, but he heard it. The worry. The ire.

Blood pulsed in his temples and he wondered if she had the same acid in her throat.

"With Merle. If he's still alive."

She glanced away. It confirmed what he'd suspected.

The top of Mike's tent came into view. A few feet away, Michonne's stood next to it. Empty.

The wind picked up, whipping Lori's hair across her face. She left it there for a moment, obscured by the wave of it, hidden from Mike and the world. She trapped it in her hands and held it when it became too unruly. Her face pinched in thought.

"Was Michonne military? Before all this?"

Mike blinked, taken aback. A chuckle tore itself from his throat. He hadn't laughed in weeks.

"Nah. She'd hate anyone thinking that she was."

"Oh. She seems like it."

"Her worst nightmare. Trust me."

It wasn't much of an exaggeration. She loved her father desperately, but the military was everything she hated. Lori smiled, shrugging.

"She's tough."

She was. Even when her world was crumbling—as it had been the day he met her—Michonne met it and him with a coolness that intrigued as much as it aroused.

"Yeah," he said. "She is."

The acid moved to his stomach.

Back then, her composure fascinated him. Now it unnerved him, incensed him, increased that persistent pressure in his belly.

And it blinded her. She didn't know it, but it did.

Breaking the tree line, he and Lori paused. He would return to his tent. She would return to her son. Perhaps her lover. But for a moment they lingered in the sunlight.

"It's hard," Lori said, exhaling.

"What is?"

She looked at him, her eyes filled with understanding.

"When they leave."

She gave his arm a gentle pat and walked away.

The pressure in his skull lightened.

Atlanta

Morning

Daryl peered out of the shattered window.

Dried blood coated the bottom right pane, where Merle had burst through. Daryl stepped back and gestured with his chin.

Rick replaced him at the window, sticking his head out to see. The white shirt Merle had been wearing the day before lay in bloodied strips on the fire escape landing.

The good news: Merle was probably alive.

The bad news: They had no idea where he was.

Rick sighed as he brought his head back in. Glenn tossed his hands up.

"Why would he do that?"

"Why not?" Daryl asked. "He thought he was alone. He's doin' what he gotta. Survivin'."

T-Dogg gaped at him.

"Surviving? By passing out in the street with those things? What are his odds?"

"Bout as good as bein' chained to a roof like a fuckin' dog."

Rick put his hands on his hips, considering. He'd expected to find Merle on that roof, dead or alive. Now the search area had widened considerably. And they were running out of time.

Glenn shook his head, throwing his hands towards the window.

"There's 1,000 geeks out there."

"So? Y'all do what y'all want. I'm goin' to get him."

Daryl moved towards the window, but Rick stopped him with a hand to his chest. Daryl shoved his arm away.

"Get the fuck outta my way."

Glenn shushed them, worried about attracting walkers. Rick held his hands up. He looked Daryl in the eyes.

"I get it. He's your family. I went through hell to find mine. I know how you feel. Your brother? He's injured. He couldn't have gotten far. We'll help you look, but goin' off half-cocked ain't gonna do Merle much good."

They stared at each other. Rick implored Daryl with his eyes. Finally, Daryl nodded.

"Aight."

Rick then looked at T-Dogg, Glenn, and Michonne. The former two sighed simultaneously. Michonne only stared back, one hand on the hilt of her sword, the other on the scabbard. As always, she'd watched the dialogue unfold without input.

"I'm not running around Atlanta without those guns," T-Dogg said.

Fair. And practical. A search and rescue without the guns was a shit plan. Far too many of Rick's plans the last few days had been haphazard.

A few minutes later, they hovered over the map Glenn had sketched on the back of a food safety poster.

"By yourself?" Rick asked, skeptical.

Daryl grunted in agreement.

"I don't even like you and I think it's a bad idea."

"Hear me out," Glenn said. "I'm faster alone. As a group, we move too slow and draw too much attention. Look."

He placed a binder clip in the center of the map and used the sharpie to point.

"This is the tank. Three blocks from our location, right?"

He balled up a sticky note and placed it next to the binder clip.

"The bag of guns are there. And here's the alley I dragged you into yesterday. But we aren't gonna use that one. Well use this one."

Glenn added a pink beveled eraser to indicate. Rick glanced at Michonne, who leaned against a desk, her arms folded and eyes focused on the map. It was the same alley she'd pointed out earlier from the roof.

"This alley is a loading area so it has a fence. Good for us since there are a bunch of geeks out today. That's where me, Michonne, and Daryl will go."

"Why me and her?" Daryl asked.

"Your weapons are quieter than his gun." Glenn gestured at Rick. "Like I said, we don't want to draw too much attention."

Daryl shrugged, agreeing. Michonne tilted her head, still looking at the map, her silence her agreement. Glenn tapped the eraser.

"While they wait in the alley, I run up the street and get the bag."

"You have me and T-Dogg elsewhere. Why?" Rick asked.

Glenn slid a stick of gum into position two blocks south of the tank.

"If I can't go back to Daryl and Michonne, I'll come to you. Walkers move. A lot. Especially if there's someone out there directing them. Which is insane, by the way. They might cut me off. I'll go forward to the alley where you guys are. That way I've got two sets of people covering me. Afterwards, we'll meet back here."

It was a good plan. A damn good plan.

"What'd you do before this, kid?" Daryl asked.

Glenn frowned.

"Delivered pizzas. Why?"

Rick, Daryl, and T-Dogg exchanged glances. Glenn looked between them, confused.

"It's a good plan," Michonne said in her low voice.

"Oh. Thanks," Glenn said, pleased.

She winked and the kid blushed. She breezed off the desk and headed to the window that Merle had used. Rather than crawl through the broken glass, she disengaged the lock and slid the window open. Some of the glass from the broken pane trembled but held.

"Why didn't Merle do that?" Glenn asked, standing from his position on the floor.

Michonne raised an eyebrow. Glenn winced.

"Missing hand. Right."

She disappeared onto the fire escape. Rick expected the metal to groan beneath her but heard nothing. She was light on her feet. Her head reappeared in the window.

"The alley is clear."

Then she was gone again. They stared after her.

"You guys think she's FBI or something?" Glenn asked.

Daryl pulled his crossbow over his shoulder. He looked Rick up and down and scoffed.

"A cop? Fuck no."

He angled his large frame out of the window.

The Camp

Late Morning

Shane's skin hummed.

The way it did after a good fuck.

His hands were clear of blood, but his knuckles continued to swell. He pressed on them. The bite of pain increased the buzzing under his skin.

He could see Lori from his perch on the RV steps. Even as she scanned the camp, no doubt waiting for the sound and sight of Rick returning, she avoided looking at Shane.

Before, he'd be sitting next to her and Carl. He'd sit as close to her as he could, letting the combined warmth of their skin tide him over until he could be inside her again.

Now, he had to watch from a distance, semi-veiled underneath the awning, as she laughed and leaned away from Amy and Andrea's haul of fish.

He used his thumb to press the bruised knuckle of his forefinger and hissed at the sting.

Amy gestured. Lori laughed and said something to Carl that made him grin and wrinkle his nose.

The last time they'd made love, he'd taken Lori from behind. She liked it that way. On her stomach, his weight pushing her into the ground, his fingers tangled up in hers. Sometimes, with her hair gathered in his fist as he told her how gorgeous she was, how tight, how wet.

Shane pressed his knuckle again. Harder. His groin stirred.

She'd come while whimpering his name, her hand clutching the grass so hard that she unrooted it. Right next to where she'd laid Rick's wedding ring. And Shane had fucked her through her orgasm while he stared at the silver band glinting in the sunlight. It was the hardest he'd ever come with her.

The ring was back on Rick's finger now.

Rick. Fuck.

Shane had never been happier to see his best friend. Or more perplexed.

He had put his ear to Rick's chest and listened, praying. Praying harder than he ever had. Nothing.

Lori hadn't let him explain that, but it was true.

The hospital had erupted. Screams. Gunshots. Barked orders. And there was the sound of his own racing heart in his ear even as he listened for Rick's. He never would have left Rick there if he'd known for sure that he was alive. Never.

Shane loved Rick as much as he loved himself. Probably more.

Shane loved Lori too. He hadn't planned for that anymore than he'd planned for Rick to get shot or for the world to implode. But it happened.

Rick always told him that he would fall in love someday, that it would just hit him. Neither of them could have predicted that it would be with Rick's wife.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

It happened, and Rick was back now.

No, Shane thought, a bitter taste in the back of his throat, he's in fuckin' Atlanta.

Shaking his head, Shane spit.

After everything, Rick had run off to Atlanta. For fucking Merle of all people.

It bewildered Shane. And infuriated him.

What the fuck are you thinking, Rick?

The guns, in part.

Guns they needed, Shane granted. King County's Sheriff's station was small by comparison. Much smaller than even the smallest of Atlanta Police Department stations. But the guns would be enough for them now. More than they had at camp currently.

Yeah, they needed those guns.

Shane's eyes narrowed.

Michonne had known about the guns before he did. If Shane had to guess, Rick told her that morning at the fire pit.

Shane saw them. Heads bent together, voices low, talking.

Conspiring.

The thought thrust itself on him, reflexive and irrational. Unfair, even.

Shane exhaled a bitter chuckle. He could hardly accuse Rick of keeping secrets. And for all of Shane's bristling irritation, he knew that Rick hadn't concealed the guns from him even if he'd told Michonne about them first. Rick had barely been at the camp for twelve hours before he left again.

That's what pissed Shane off the most. Leaving and taking some of their most capable people on the small chance that Merle was alive.

Leaving Lori and Carl behind after everything. After everything Shane had done to keep them safe. When Shane now couldn't even get Lori to look at him.

Dale emerged from the tree line with his hat in his hands and head bent low. When he looked up, Shane's stomach clenched. Something was wrong.

Shane stood and joined them. Dale gestured with his hat. Sweat gleamed on the top of his balding head.

"We might have a problem."

Further up the mountain, partly obscured by brush, Jim bent low. The tip of a shovel disappeared and reappeared against the sky.

Shane and Dale exchanged a look.

Dale irked Shane on principle. He was self-righteous and philosophical, often waxing poetic about the supposed real meaning of things. Shane never liked that in a man. Abstraction. Those kind of men lacked courage and resolve. They could never do what needed to be done when it needed doing.

But sometimes Dale's philosophizing—nosiness, really— lent itself to observation. He noticed shit sometimes. Shane had to give him that.

On the hill, Jim barely spared them a glance.

Shane and the group took in the scene. Holes were spread out across the opening. There was at least seven of them and each was at least three feet deep.

Titling his head, Shane asked, "Everythin' alright?"

Based on Jim's appearance, no. Skin red, shirt soiled, face dirtied—the man was a mess. He kept digging. Shane ignored the hot rush of irritation.

"Jim, hol' up a minute, man."

Jim huffed, stabbing the shovel into the ground.

"What?"

"You've been out here for hours," Dale said.

"So what?" Jim said, wiping his shirt across his face.

All the good that did him.

"What you diggin' for?" Shane asked.

"What's it matter?"

Jim's tone was short. He was usually a quiet, easy-going man. This belligerence was new.

Jim peered behind Shane at the gathered group, squinting. His eyes fell back on Shane. He waited.

"It's one-hundred degrees today," Dale said. "Why don't you come back down with us. You can't keep doing this."

"Sure I can," Jim said, gripping the shovel to start digging again. "Watch me."

Lori stepped forward.

"Jim, they aren't going to say it so I will. You're scaring everybody. You're scaring the kids."

Carol hoisted Sophia onto her hip and put an arm around Carl. The side of her face was reddened from Ed's slap.

"Ain't no need to be scared. I ain't botherin' nobody. I'm up here by myself. Just gon' back down the hill and leave me be."

Shane sighed, putting his hands on his hips. He glanced back at the group. Lori shrugged.

"Why don't you take a break," Shane said. "Tell me why you're diggin' and, shit, I'll help you myself."

Puffing his chest, Jim asked, "Or what?"

"Or nothin'. I'm askin'."

"Naw. You ain't askin'. That ain't your style, is it?"

Shane's patience thinned. He took a step forward, but kept his hands at his side. He didn't want this to escalate.

"Come on, man. Don't make me take it from ya."

"Thought you was askin'?"

"Jim," Lori pleaded. "Just give him the shovel and let's talk."

Shane's heart stirred at her voice and closeness. At her support. She was still with him in a way.

He knew it. He damn well knew it. She couldn't put what them aside anymore than he could.

Jim ignored her. It was then Shane noticed how hazy Jim's eyes were. Shane had seen this before.

Heat stroke.

"Jim," Shane said, his voice calm.

He meant it as a gentle warning. An appeal.

"What you gon' do if I don't, huh? You gon' bash my face in like you did Ed Peletier?" Jim gestured to the group. "Y'all seen his face. What's left of it. That's what happens when you cross him."

Shane's nostrils flared. He pointed. They didn't have time for this. Not today.

"That was different."

"Leave me be."

Jim turned his back to them and pierced the ground with the shovel. Shane reached for it and Jim swiped at him. Someone shrieked. Shane ducked and rushed Jim, tackling him around the waist. Jim let out a winded grunt as he hit the ground. Shane muscled him onto his front. He felt more like a cop today than he had since the bombs dropped.

"Hey, hey, hey. Nobody's gonna hurt you, man."

And Shane meant it. He just wanted Jim to take a breather. Shane didn't like what he saw in Jim's eyes. He pulled out his cuffs and restrained Jim as gently as he could.

The bluster went out of the man. He moaned and began to weep. At first his worlds were unintelligible. Then, horrifying.

"They took my family. Just snatched 'em. My wife. My girls. So many of 'em just came out of nowhere. That's how I got away. They were too busy eatin' my family."

Regretting his earlier irritation, Shane put a soothing hand on Jim's back. Jim's shoulders heaved as he wept. Shane looked up. Lori's eyes were wide, her hands covering her mouth. Carol ushered the kids away. Dale's face twisted with pity.

Jim spoke more muffled words into the dirt. Shane strained to hear them. After a few moment, Jim turned his head. A sudden calm over him then. His body stilled and he stared with clear eyes. It startled Shane.

"They're comin'."

Shane, Lori, and Dale looked at each other, unnerved. The words were ominous enough on their own. But it was Jim's certainty that alarmed them most. Shane remembered, suddenly, the way Jim had swerved his car onto I-85 South, certain that Atlanta was doomed, only a few minutes before the bombs dropped.

"They're comin'."

He repeated this until Shane's skin began to hum again.

Atlanta

Afternoon

Shouting.

It was so loud it traveled three city blocks. A bad sign. The goal was quick and quiet. Even from this distance, Rick could distinguish multiple voices. Most of them unfamiliar.

Rick and T-Dogg looked at each other.

"Goddammit," T-Dogg said.

They bolted. Despite his size, T-Dogg was quick. Rick had a few years on him, and he felt that fact in every one of his muscles.

They dodged walkers as best they could. Rick didn't want to fire his gun and draw even more to their location.

They raced around the corner just as two unknown men dragged Glenn to the back door of a waiting car.

Glen's eyes widened as he spotted them.

"Help!"

Rick raised his gun but didn't have clear shot. Daryl did. Rick heard the snap of the bow, and one of the men staggered forward, yelping. He gripped his back leg and slammed into the car from his momentum.

The other man pushed Glenn inside before hauling his partner in behind him. He fired two shots forcing Rick and T-Dogg to flatten themselves against the building. The man disappeared inside the car and it sped off even before the door closed.

"Ay! In here!" Daryl yelled.

Rick kicked an approaching walker and took off, T-Dogg right behind him. Daryl slammed the gate closed behind them just as a swarm of walkers reached it.

Rick's eyes tore across the alley, searching for the remaining member of their party.

Michonne stood, composed, pointing the tip of her sword at yet another unknown man. Rick looked closer. Not a man. A boy. He couldn't have been more than seventeen.

The boy concentrated on avoiding the tip of Michonne's blade, trembling and pressing himself against the brick wall. Had he been less frightened, he might have noticed the distance Michonne kept between the tip of her sword and the soft flesh of his neck.

Daryl had no such compunction. He charged. The newly loaded arrow was only centimeters from the kid's eye.

"This little fucker and his homies took Glenn and tried to take the guns."

Walkers clawed at the gate, their hands slipping through the gaps, and the chainlink gave a high whining screech. They couldn't stay out here.

"Let's get inside," T-Dogg said, reading Rick's mind.

Daryl grabbed the boy by the scruff of his shirt and marched him down the alley. T-Dogg followed to make sure the boy didn't escape. Lowering her sword, Michonne nodded her head towards the mouth of the alley. Rick turned.

The guns.

He dashed to bag and wrenched it onto his shoulder. His deputy hat fell to the ground and Rick turned, prepared to leave it. He took two steps and paused. Then he turned back, scooped the hat onto his head, and took off down he alley.

He was surprised to see Michonne waiting for him even as T-Dogg, Daryl, and the kid were halfway up the fire escape. He nodded at her in thanks and they rushed to the waiting ladder.

He gestured for her to go up first and she rolled her eyes but went. She reached down to take the bag from him when she reached the landing, making the last few rungs of his climb easier.

Inside, Daryl forced the boy into a chair. T-Dogg found a roll of duct tape and was fastening his arms and legs to it. The boy squirmed until Daryl threatened to shoot him.

"Now, you little fuck, tell us where they took him."

The boy's earlier fright gave way to indignation. He glared at Daryl and said nothing.

"You want an arrow in the ass too?" Daryl asked. "Start talkin'."

Daryl's threats were good incentives, but Rick wondered if the boy would talk. He wasn't the same frightened boy as he was outside. And Rick was sure Daryl wouldn't actually hurt the kid.

Just as that thought passed, Daryl fingered the KA-BAR on his hip. Rick reconsidered and stepped forward, his hands raised for the kid to see. The boy's eyes shifted to him.

"We ain't gonna hurt you," Rick said. "But you need to talk."

The kid assessed him and sneered.

"I ain't talking to no cop."

He had an accent. Noticeable but not thick. Rick shrugged.

"Here's the problem. You gotta talk, kid. It's the only way you're gettin' back to your people." Rick leaned his thighs against the nearby desk. "So help me help you."

The scene was familiar to Rick. He'd done this countless times with Shane at his side over the years. Uncooperative witnesses were a dime a dozen. And the kid's next words—

"Man, fuck you."

—were as familiar as anything.

Rick wasn't sure where this bluster had come from, but he didn't blame the kid. He was surrounded by strangers. All of whom had weapons and one who seemed intent on using it. The kid was young, but he probably wasn't dumb. He knew they needed him to find Glenn.

"Aight. Fuck it."

Daryl grabbed the knife from his belt.

"Daryl."

Michonne barely spoke above a whisper, but they turned to her as if summoned. In fact, it was the calmness of her voice that commanded attention. Daryl paused and gritted his teeth. Michonne gestured.

Let me?

Contemplating, Daryl glared at the kid, and then retreated with a shrug.

"Be my fuckin' guest. But he keeps talkin' shit, I'ma hurt 'im."

The kid zeroed in on Michonne when she pulled her sword from her back and laid it across the same desk Rick leaned against. Michonne pulled up a rolling chair and set it in front of the boy. She sat down, and he looked at her with suspicion.

"What you 'sposed to be? The good cop?"

Michonne crossed her legs. It was an elegant gesture, incongruous with their environment and the circumstances. Jeans and combat boots notwithstanding, she looked refined.

"I'm not a cop."

The boy appraised her, curious.

"What you used to do then? Some military shit?"

She pursed her lips in distaste.

"No."

"CIA?"

An indulgent smile.

"No."

It was fascinating to watch. Michonne gave little away, and the kid, who just minutes ago refused to talk, let his curiosity get away from him.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"What's yours?"

"Michonne."

"Kinda name is that?"

"French."

"You don't look French."

"No? What do French people look like?"

The boy gestured at Rick and Daryl. Michonne glanced back. She smiled.

"Believe me, they don't look like that."

Rick scratched his eyebrow.

"So you're French?" the kid asked.

"No."

He frowned in confusion.

"Your name?" Michonne asked again.

He considered, looking from Michonne to the men who hovered. Rick realized that he, Daryl, and T-Dogg probably looked like Michonne's goon squad. The kid's eyes fell on Michonne's sword. Then he looked at the smaller one on her hip.

"Emmanuel. Everybody calls me Manny though."

Michonne leaned back. The chair gave a soft squeak.

"Which do you prefer?"

"What?"

"Which name do you prefer. Emanuel or Manny?"

The boy blinked as if he'd never been asked before. His head titled back as he considered.

"Manny, I guess."

Michonne said nothing. When the kid didn't amend his statement, she nodded.

"Hablas Español?"

Rick knew the barest minimum of Spanish, having had to take two language courses to pass high school, but he understood her question. Her accent was easy, smooth. The kid—Manny—must have thought so too because he reared his head back in surprise.

In English, he demanded, "Do you?"

"Si."

"Nah, don't start this shit," Daryl said. "We gotta know what he's sayin'."

Rick held up a hand, and Daryl sucked his teeth. Glaring at Daryl, Manny spoke to Michonne. Only a few words, as far as Rick could tell. She responded. Manny's eyebrows shot up.

Rick didn't know Spanish, but he knew body language. The kid was testing her. She passed.

Rick effectively lost the trajectory of the conversation as they spoke back and forth. It was odd to be on the outside, especially during what amounted to an interrogation, but he was impressed. Michonne kept her cool, remaining still and even-tempered as they talked even when Manny grew stiff with hesitation, glancing behind him out of the window as if considering his next words.

Daryl shook his head and paced back and forth. Less agitated, T-Dogg settled on the ground with his back to another desk. Rick worried that if he sat down, he wouldn't be able to get back up, so he remained standing.

Manny gestured with his chin to the desk and asked something. Rick understood without understanding.

"It was a gift," Michonne said. She touched the one on her hip. "They both were."

"Know how to use 'em?" Manny asked, reverting to English because Michonne had.

"When I need to."

"Cool shit."

Manny was indeed just a kid, impressed by a lady with a sword.

"Ay, we ain't got time for this," Daryl said. "They got Glenn."

Michonne stood.

"Yes and now we know where he is."

…

The plan was simple. An exchange. Manny for Glenn. Even and fair.

But Rick knew better.

They stood outside of a brick building. A broken window once covered in iron security bars was now partly covered by chainlink. It led to a courtyard of sorts. This was their entrance.

Rick handed T-Dogg a rifle and the bag of guns.

"You good?" Rick asked.

"I guess."

T-Dogg glanced at Michonne, who stood, as always, quiet and calm.

"I ain't never been in this much shit 'till I started hanging with white people."

To Rick's surprise, she giggled, giving T-Dogg's cheek an affectionate pat. There was a curious fondness between them that Rick hadn't noticed earlier. They rarely spoke, as far as he could tell, but, then again, Michonne rarely spoke at all. But they seemed familiar in a way that Rick wondered about.

"You'll be okay up there?" she asked.

T-Dogg grinned. He was decidedly more enthusiastic now than when Rick had asked him mere seconds ago.

"Yeah. Hopefully, I won't have to use this."

He lifted the rifle onto one shoulder and the bag on the other. She gave him another pat, to the shoulder this time, and he hurried off to take position.

Hands taped behind his back, Manny glanced at Rick and Daryl before he looked up at Michonne from his position on the ground. He said something to her in Spanish. She smiled.

"Mhm," she said, glancing at Rick.

Though Rick didn't know what Manny said, he knew for sure he and Daryl were the butt of the joke for the second time.

Having been Shane's friend for years, Rick was used to jokes at his expense. He was the quiet and serious one of the pair, which Shane found endless amusement in. God forbid Shane and Jeff were ever in the same room. Trying to get a rise out of him was their favorite pastime. Rick had long since developed a shield against their childishness, particularly Shane's.

But now, under Michonne's fleeting gaze, Rick's face warmed. He looked down, checking his shotgun for the second time in less than five minutes.

"Kid, I swear to fuckin' God," Daryl said.

Rick noted that the threat was only directed at the boy and not Michonne. Manny rolled his eyes. Sitting at Michonne's feet seemed to give him a sense of safety. He muttered what Rick was sure was a curse.

"Keep talkin' shit. If anythin' happens to our man, you're gettin' an arrow in the ass too. Just so you know."

"Yeah, and if anything happens to me, G's gonna take that arrow and shove it up your ass," Manny said. "Just so you know."

"G?" Rick asked.

"Guillermo. He's the man around here."

Rick pulled Manny to his feet.

"Well, let's go see Guillermo then."

They went in a line. Rick, Manny, Daryl, and Michonne. Rick didn't want Manny running off and disappearing so they sandwiched him between he and Daryl. Michonne took up the rear with her sword drawn. Rick glanced back and their eyes met. She nodded, letting him know she was alert, and Rick faced forward again.

An enormous brick arch led into a courtyard of sorts. It was cavernous, surrounded on all sides by fading brick. Ivy spilled out of every crack. Burned pallets lay in piles across the space. The courtyard's vastness was beautiful, its emptiness haunting. And it was quiet. Eerily so. As was most of the world now.

"What is this place?" Rick asked, in a low voice.

Behind him, Manny remained silent. Rick turned and Manny jerked his chin. In front of them was a towering wooden door embedded into the building's side. Daryl nudged Manny in front of Rick and kept his crossbow pointed at the back of his head.

A whistle rang out.

Rick lifted his shotgun.

The door groaned open. Rick peered into the darkness behind it, but couldn't make out anything except a figure. A man, flanked by two more, emerged from the shadows.

The man in the middle—Guillermo no doubt—was shorter than Rick but his eyes were sharp. The two men beside him were both taller and stockier. The man on Guillermo's left limped as he came forward. Each man held a gun at their side.

"You alright, papi?" Guillermo asked Manny.

The kid shrugged.

"They're fucking crazy, man."

Though the men hadn't raised their weapons, neither Rick nor Daryl lowered theirs. Michonne kept her sword at her side. Rick saw Guillermo's eyes fall to it, intrigued, before raising his eyes again.

"You have our man," Rick said.

"Yeah."

The word tumbled slow from his lips. Rick gritted his teeth. Guillermo wasn't going to play ball. Not at first, at least.

"Let's make a trade then," Rick said. "Fair and even."

Guillermo sniffed.

"Who said that was fair?"

"Plenty fair, I'd say. A man for a man."

Guillermo shook his head. He gestured to the man on his left. The injured one.

"And what about my boys' pain and suffering? Your redneck over there shot Miguel. Almost hit my man Felipe too."

"After you grabbed our man," Rick said. "You can hardly blame us."

"I can blame you. And do. Not to mention you took our guns."

Rick's finger flexed on the trigger.

"Your guns?"

Guillermo took a step forward, which prompted Daryl to do the same. He placed the bow directly to the back of Manny's head. Manny flinched.

"Yeah, my guns. The ones on the street we were about to grab before you came along."

"No," Rick said. "You mean my guns."

"Could belong to anyone. They were on the ground."

"Yes, where I dropped them," Rick said.

Guillermo gave a conciliatory nod. But his eyes remained shrewd. He whistled. Shadows fell across the courtyard.

On the roof, two men marched a gagged and blindfolded Glenn to the ledge. He resisted, tripping once. They snatched him to his feet before ripping the blindfold off. Glenn let out a panicked, muffled screech.

"You coming in here with your dick out, Sheriff. Tryna run shit. But what's to stop me from tossing your man off the roof?" Guillermo asked.

"You could, but I wouldn't recommend it," Rick said. "Less you feel like dyin' today."

Daryl whistled—two short notes. Guillermo and his men glanced up, drawn to the new glint of T-Dogg's rifle. Guillermo smirked.

"Tell you what. You want your man back? You get my guns. Then we can make a trade," Guillermo said.

His eyes fell to Michonne again.

"Maybe I want that sword too."

"You ain't gettin' shit but this kid," Daryl said. "We ain't got time for this."

Guillermo shrugged.

"Make time. You come back with with Manny and my guns, we'll make the trade. Everybody walks. Or you come back locked and loaded. We'll see who spills the most blood."

He didn't wait for an answer. He flicked his hand, and Glenn was dragged from sight. Guillermo and his men backed into the building. The door slammed.

…

Time was running out.

Rick was sure of that.

They had the guns. But no Merle. And, now, no Glenn.

Fuck.

He couldn't shake his foreboding. It was more than the dwindling day, more than the threat of being caught in Atlanta after sunset.

They needed to get back to camp.

Rick couldn't say why. He just knew it.

The only sound in the room was the rustling of the duffel bag and the click of magazines as Rick loaded them.

Daryl watched.

"Them guns is everythin'. We give 'em up and we're fucked. They worth more than gold. Gold ain't gon protect your family or put food on the table."

He was right. The guns were a priority. Going back without them or Merle didn't feel like an option. Not after Glenn had been taken in the quest to get them. Not after Rick had practically begged Lori to understand.

"If I knew for sure we'd get Glenn back, I might agree." T-Dogg slid a hand over his head. "But you think that man is just gonna hand him over?"

Manny sucked his teeth. He wasn't tied up anymore. There was little point. Too many people in the room to subdue him if he tried anything. So far, he'd sat still and quiet.

"G ain't a liar, man."

Daryl reached over and slapped the kid on the back of the head.

"Keep quiet. Or I'll take your goddamn hand."

"Yeah right."

Daryl stared at Manny. Then he reached into his pack and tossed something at him. It plunked into Manny's lap. Manny jerked, looked down, and hollered.

"What the fuck, man!"

He scrambled away from Merle's severed hand. Eyes gaping, he looked from the hand, to the adults in the room, back to the hand.

"What the hell is wrong with you people?"

Daryl retrieved the hand and rewrapped it in the bandana. He stuffed it in his pack.

"Like I said, keep quiet."

Manny shut up and cowered in a corner, his skin pale. It didn't escape Rick's notice that Manny situated himself near Michonne. Manny shot a look at her shorter sword, eye level to him now. She glanced down at him and winked. He paled.

"The question is," T-Dogg continued. "Do you trust that man's word?"

"Naw. The question is how much you willin' to bet on it. Could be more than them guns. Could be your life. Glenn worth that?"

"A life I wouldn't have without Glenn. I was a stranger to him. He saved me anyway. I ain't leavin' him behind." Rick said.

"So you're givin' up the guns?"

Rick holstered his Colt.

"I didn't say that."

He saw the look Daryl and T-Dogg exchanged. They understood the implication. Rick directed his gaze at Michonne. Arms crossed, leaning against the wall, a shivering kid at her feet, she looked the picture of ease. His next words were for the whole group, but he looked at her as he spoke.

"There's nothin' keepin' you here. Y'all should head back to camp."

"And tell your family what?" T-Dogg asked.

Rick pursed his lips. It was a fair question. More than fair. The last time he'd left Lori and Carl, he'd nearly died. He left again this time with the promise to return. And he would. But there was no sense keeping the others here for his mistakes.

Truth was, Rick didn't have an answer. Not a satisfying one. He knew that no matter his noble intentions, them going back without him would prove Lori and Shane right. And what would it do to Carl?

Michonne eased out of the corner, patting Manny on the shoulder as she went. She examined the guns Rick had taken from the bag and laid out on the table. Wordlessly, she selected a standard issue Glock 22. Keeping it angled at the ground, her finger flat against the barrel, she pushed the slide back. Once she saw that the chamber was empty, she took one of the magazines Rick had loaded, inserted it into the grip until it clicked, and pressed the slide release.

She laid the gun on the table and rummaged in his duffle bag until she found a duty belt and holster. After she affixed the belt to her hips, she holstered the Glock, slipped a magazine in her back pocket, and reached to load another gun.

The men stared. She kept her head down, focused on the task.

"We need to go," she said.

They kept staring.

Her head snapped up with a stern look. Chastened, they sprung into action—checking, loading, and distributing the guns amongst themselves. Hands working from memory and practice, Rick observed Michonne.

What they were risking their lives for had little to do with her. Merle, which she had no part in. The guns, which he had dropped on a fool's mission into Atlanta. Sure, the guns were for camp. But—and Rick couldn't put his finger on why—she only seemed reservedly attached to the camp and its people.

"Look, I ain't tryna tell you what to do," he said.

"But?"

"But you ain't gotta be here. You don't have to do this."

"I'm aware, Deputy."

Her voice was calm. Professional. He started to speak. To say what, he wasn't sure. He only knew that the idea of her getting caught in the crosshairs was disagreeable to him.

And, yet, oddly, he felt better for having her there. He didn't know her from Adam. But she was competent. Frighteningly so. And she hadn't shown an ounce of fear since they left the camp. Here she was, ready to join them in a shootout.

"We're back to Deputy?"

"If you insist on acting like one, yes."

They stared at each other.

She reminded him of Ruth Allen. A ballsy woman who owned the cafe across the street from the station. She also happened to be the Sheriff's high school sweetheart—not that the Sheriff had ever gotten over her. (But that was another story.)

The deputies used to spend a lot of time at Ruth's. And they were mostly well-behaved. But sometimes, mostly after a few drinks, some deputies liked to preen, reveling in the power and so-called prestige of the badge. Showing off for whatever woman was around to witness.

They'd roll into Ruth's, badge shining, and a hankering for apple pie and attention. Leon was especially prone to this. Shane too sometimes. Especially after a breakup.

Ruth would issue the same rebuke each time any of them got out of line.

Your badge and your dick don't mean shit here.

Out of sight, her hand would hover over her Smith and Wesson revolver. A well-kept .44. Classic. Deadly. Rick knew because he signed the permit for it. And they all knew Ruth could and would use it. Her ex-husband could attest to that from the grave.

Rick's eyes flicked down to the gun holstered on Michonne's hip. She gave him a look that would make Ruth Allen and her .44 proud. He nodded just as Michonne slid another mag into place.

…

The metal doors clanged open before they had to announce themselves.

Shotgun raised and ready, Rick pushed Manny in first. They'd blindfolded and restrained him this time.

If he were easily frightened—or less reckless—Rick might have balked at the number of men in the room. At least twenty. Far more than their group of four.

Guillermo and his men formed a circle around them, keeping them from going further. All were armed, but most held melee weapons. Pipes. Crowbars. Bats.

The room was vast with high ceilings and concrete floors. Most of the space was filled with equipment: cables, machinery, pallets, unlabeled boxes. And tanks. Lots of them. Tall, green, and slim. They piqued his interest, but he didn't have time to linger on them.

"I see you brought my guns," Guillermo said. "But they're not all in the bag, Sheriff."

"Because they aren't yours. I already told you that."

Miguel, the injured one, glowered. It was clear he was Guillermo's right hand. He was tall, as tall as T-Dogg, and he wasn't deterred by the gun in Rick's hand.

"Let's just kill them now and get it over with," he said.

Guillermo held up his hand in a pacifying gesture, but Miguel had the same restless energy as Daryl. He silenced but swayed side to side in anticipation.

With a tsk, Guillermo narrowed his eyes.

"Sheriff, I don't think you appreciate the gravity of the situation here."

Rick pulled a folding knife from his pocket and produced the blade. In a swipe, he slit the tape bounding Manny's wrists and pushed him forward. Miguel caught him and Manny removed the blindfold.

"You have your man," Rick said. "We want ours."

Guillermo's lip curled.

"No. Since you can't follow directions, I'm gonna cut him up and feed him to my dogs. Three big motherfuckers who like to eat. I told you what it would it be. I couldn't have been clearer. You got trouble hearing, Sheriff?"

"Naw. I heard you just fine. You said come locked and loaded."

Rick racked his shotgun. He heard T-Dogg and Daryl do the same behind him. He couldn't see Michonne without turning, but he knew she was ready. Guillermo's men raised their weapons. Those with guns and those without.

Everything stilled.

The air in the room hovered.

Rick calculated. It was easy math. The numbers were not in his favor.

But with his shotgun leveled at Guillermo's forehead and a healthy dose of 'fuck it,' Rick had some of the advantage. He needed to drive that point home.

"Question is, Guillermo, you think your men are faster than this bullet?"

For the first time, Guillermo hesitated. He stared Rick in the eye, searching, gauging his seriousness. Whatever he saw made his Adam's apple bob.

Rick thought of Carl.

And prayed.

The silence persisted.

There was a shuffling of feet. Light. Airy. The way Carl sounded when he was little, whispering across their hardwood floors in his Batman slippers.

"Miguel."

The voice was as soft as the footsteps. Softer.

Guillermo tensed and cursed. He closed his eyes. Miguel spun around, startled.

"Abuelita!"

An elderly woman pushed forward. The men parted for her without question. She was small, her back and shoulders bent with age. Feathery strands of hair stuck out from two plaits. Her curved fingers—arthritis, likely—gripped Miguel's arm with surprising strength. She pulled him as she spoke in rapid Spanish. Gently, Miguel took her hands in his, bending his head low to speak with her. Whatever he said dissatisfied her. She tutted and swatted at his hands, raising her voice. Rick recognized the look on Miguel's face. Embarrassment.

What the fuck was going on?

The woman turned to Guillermo. She spoke to him in the same urgent and commanding tone. When Guillermo whispered a few words to her, again she grew exasperated, throwing her hands up as if to appeal to a higher power for patience. Her eyes landed on Rick. They widened at the presence of strangers and guns.

"Oh, mijo. What have you gotten into?" she asked.

Her English was clear if accented.

"Nothing, abuelita. Come on," Miguel said, attempting again to pull her away.

Rick lowered his gun. Daryl and T-Dogg did the same. Before he could turn to search for her, Michonne came to stand next to him, watching the events unfold with an unreadable expression. The woman's eyes fell on her immediately. She approached.

"Don't hurt him please. He is a good boy. He takes care of us. We need him."

Michonne leaned down so she was eye level with the woman. She extended both hands and the woman took them, smiling. Michonne said something in Spanish. The woman grinned, delighted.

"Oh, mija! Your Spanish is good," the woman said. "Very good."

Before Michonne could respond, someone else rushed through the crowd.

"Abuelita!"

Another woman emerged from behind Miguel. She was younger. Probably early 30s. She was comely, her long dark hair pulled into a high ponytail. Her brown eyes widened at the scene.

"What is going on?" she asked. She whirled on Guillermo. "Why is she in here?"

Guillermo hissed.

"I should be asking you that."

The woman turned back to Rick and the others. Her eyes narrowed on where the elder woman—abuelita—clutched Michonne's hands.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Her question and ire was directed at Rick. Probably because he had a gun. Though it was now pointed at the ground, it was far too close to the elderly woman for the younger woman's comfort.

"Luna," the elder woman said in rebuke. "Be kind."

"They have guns pointed at us."

"All the more reason to be kind, mija."

The young woman glared.

"We're looking for our friend," Michonne said. "Glenn."

Eyes widening, Luna's demeanor softened. Rick didn't know if that was a good sign until the elder woman smiled.

"The Asian boy?"

Michonne nodded.

"He's here. Come. I'll show you."

The woman turned and pulled Michonne behind her. Michonne glanced back at Rick and shrugged. Then she went. Rick could hardly keep up with the turn of events. He moved without thinking, not willing to let Michonne be led into the unknown by herself.

Guillermo let out a frustrated sigh, but nobody stopped them from passing. Guillermo fell into step beside Rick without saying anything. His face twisted with exasperation, but the shrewdness from earlier had disappeared. The younger woman, Luna, followed close behind the elderly woman and Michonne. Her face was still skeptical, but she didn't put up a fuss either.

The elderly woman spoke to Michonne in Spanish so Rick had no idea what she was saying, but Michonne kept a firm grip on the woman's hand, following behind in much the same way she'd done the evening before as Carl dragged her to Rick.

Despite her age, the elder woman moved with purpose, leading them outside again and up a concrete stairwell. She took them past a brightly lit courtyard that had been converted into a garden and through a set of double doors.

Rick paused at the room immediately to the right. Inside was a woman in scrubs. She handed a cup to a woman on an exam table, coaxing her to drink.

"That's Elena," the elderly woman said to Rick. "She's taking her medicine. Come."

They passed several more rooms. Each was occupied by one or several people in dressing gowns. One woman reclined in a chair as she read an old newspaper. A man sat next to her with an open book. Rick removed his hat.

Further down the hallway and through another set of double doors was a large room. A lounge of sorts, by the look of it. There were couches; tables covered with various boardgames and puzzles; potted plants that were still green and lively; and several powered off televisions.

What drew Ricks's attention was the cluster of people in the center of the room. Miguel rushed past Rick. He said something to Luna as he passed.

"He's fine," she said. "I already took care of it."

Rick stared, dumbfounded. They were all elderly. At the center of the huddle was a man in a wheelchair. He sucked on an inhaler as some of his friends patted his shoulder in comfort.

And right there in the mix was Glenn.

He looked up as they approached.

"Oh, hey."

Oh, hey?

"What the hell is going on?" T-Dogg said.

"Asthma attack," Glenn said, arms crossed. "But he's okay now. Luna gave him his inhaler. We couldn't find it at first. It got dicey."

"We thought you were being eaten by dogs, man!"

Glenn frowned. He turned. Three chihuahuas adorned with bejeweled collars chirped from a plush red cushion.

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose. He considered the consequences of flipping a table or knocking someone's head against a wall. He closed his eyes and counted to five.

Someone patted his arm. He opened his eyes to see the elderly woman. She gestured to the room.

"See. They take care of us. You don't need to hurt them. They are good boys."

Rick was nearly at a loss for words. He cleared his throat.

"I won't, ma'am."

I'll do my fuckin' best.

"Mariana," Michonne said. "She's Miguel's grandmother."

She rolled the R slightly, and Rick knew his drunken twang couldn't replicate it. He simply nodded.

To Guillermo, he said, "A word?"

Guillermo whistled to Luna. She stood on the outside of the cluster next to Miguel to make sure the old man was indeed okay. Miguel waved her away after she said something and pinched his side.

Still holding Michonne's hand, Mariana smiled. She whispered something to Michonne. Michonne blinked, surprised. Her Spanish was insistent and, it seemed to Rick, a smidge flustered. It was placid by most standards, but it was as much emotion as Rick had seen from her. Mariana frowned and glanced at Rick. There was a question in her eyes. She spoke too low for Rick to hear. Not that he would understand it anyway. Michonne shook her head.

"No. My…I don't—"

She huffed. Then she rubbed her thumbs across the knuckles of Mariana's wrinkled hands. It was a kind gesture. Rather than speaking, she just shook her head again.

The subject of their exchange was lost on Rick, and it wasn't his business anyway. But Mariana looked at him with twinkling, impish eyes. Eyebrows creasing, Rick looked away. He had the sudden feeling that he'd been stripped down to his underwear. He glanced back to see Mariana pat Michonne's hand.

"You go on, mija."

Guillermo and Luna led them into an office and shut the door. Luna hopped onto the desk. Guillermo remained standing.

Rick resisted the urge to yank him by the collar. He fixed Guillermo with a hard stare.

"You're the dumbest son of a bitch I ever met," he said through gritted teeth. "We were ready to kill every single one of you. Are you out of your fuckin' mind?"

Guillermo sighed.

"Glad it didn't come to that."

It was entirely possible that Rick would break something.

"That blood would be on my hands if it had."

"Mine too," Guillermo said. "I'm responsible for these people. What, you think you're the only one who gives a damn about somebody? That you got people to protect? We were ready to fight too. It wouldn't be the first time we've had to fight and kill to keep our people safe. To protect the food, the medicine. What's left of it."

Rick considered Guillermo's words.

"The people in there. The old ones? Most of the staff took off when shit went down. Just left them here. Especially when some of the old ones turned."

Michonne examined the flyers on the bulletin board hanging next to a boarded window. The top of one read PEACH GROVE SUPPORTIVE LIVING FACILITY. Below it was clip art of a microphone and party hats. Most of the other words were too small for Rick to see from where he was standing, but he could read two: KARAOKE NIGHT.

Michonne turned to Luna.

"Did you work here?"

Luna leaned back on her hands. She was significantly more relaxed than she'd been earlier.

"No, Emory. I was an ER physician. Guess I still am. All we have are emergencies now."

"How did you end up here?" Michonne asked.

Luna snatched a ball of rubber bands off the table and launched it at Guillermo. It whacked him on the shoulder. Guillermo sighed and rolled his eyes.

"That's my dumbass brother."

This surprised Rick. But as he looked closer, he saw the clear resemblance. They had the same nose, same sculpted facial structure, same eyes. Had he been less on edge, Rick might have noticed earlier.

"I worked here," Guillermo said. "Me and Miguel are nurse practitioners. We stayed after the other staff left."

Luna's face grew serious.

"It was insane here in Atlanta when it all happened. I mean, the hospital was insane. People came in for all sorts of things. There was so much violence everywhere. Not to mention all the normal things that bring people to the hospital."

She sighed, folding her legs lotus style and pulling her hair from her face.

"But then people started coming in with bites. And we didn't know how to treat them. Nothing was working. The CDC and WHO basically stopped all public communication. Then, of course, people started turning. It didn't take long for the hospital to just stop functioning because so many people died and there was no cure. And I mean a fuck ton of people died. Doctors. Nurses. Staff. The director. The power went out and that was it. Like I said, it was insane."

Rick listened with rapt attention. The outbreak's beginning was still a mystery to him. Hearing Luna's account confirmed what Rick had seen as he had stumbled through Harrison Memorial.

He couldn't imagine what Shane had seen trying to save him. Nor could he imagine what Atlanta had been like during those early days. If King County had devolved into chaos, Atlanta's collapse had to have been ten times worse.

"I tried to get to our mom and bring her here," Guillermo said. "She was already gone. And I couldn't find Luna anywhere so I just came back. Got here and this dumbass was waiting for me."

His voice was laced with great affection. Having been reunited with his own family, Rick understood their relief.

"What about the other men?" Rick asked.

"Children of the residents," Luna said.

"Some filter in and out. But most stay to help protect this place. We go into the the city to scavenge supplies and we wait," Guillermo said.

"Wait for what?" Daryl asked.

Luna and Guillermo shared a glance.

"Nothing," Luna said. "But we never say it."

"There were rumors—"

"Fantasies," Luna said, interrupting her brother.

Guillermo considered, frowning, then nodded before continuing.

"—That the Army and National Guard would evacuate people to somewhere safer. Fort Benning. Somewhere else. Who the fuck knows. But nobody's coming. We know that. They don't say it, but the OGs know it too. They been around a long time. They know what's up."

It took Rick a second to realize that the "OGs" were the elderly residents.

"And you can't move them," T-Dogg said.

It was a statement, a realization.

Luna pointed finger guns at him.

"Bingo."

It was sobering, and Rick regretted his earlier frustration. His eyes were drawn to Michonne then, curious about her experience of the early days. She listened, but her eyes seemed distant, as if she were thinking of something else. She'd lived in Atlanta when the virus appeared, and she'd made it out. Likely at great cost.

"Y'all in the city?" Guillermo asked.

"Naw," Daryl said. "Outside."

"We were coming to Atlanta. We heard about a refugee place," T-Dogg said.

Luna grimaced.

"In Piedmont. It was overrun it looks like."

"We know," T-Dogg said. "She told us."

He nodded at Michonne. Luna and Guillermo looked at her.

"You were there?" Guillermo asked.

"Not for long. It was attacked shortly after we got there," Michonne said. "Seemed best to leave the city."

"Good. There's more of the dead everyday. Feels like they triple every week. Some people in the city stick around because of the CDC rumors, but with all the dead ones, the risk is too great."

"And raiders," Luna added. "The worst kind."

"We work here 'cause we boarded everything up. And we come and go quietly. But the city is worse than it ever was."

Michonne moved to the window. She peered through the slats of wood, sunlight splitting her face into sections.

"Was it you who directed the walkers to us?"

Luna's face scrunched in confusion. Guillermo nodded.

"Yeah. We've been trying to get those guns. There's just been too many dead ones out there. More than ever. We thought you were raiders. A group of them have been lurking in this area recently. They're bad fucking news."

"The cops?" Luna asked, frowning. "Bad news indeed."

"Nah. Not them. But if you guys see any cops out there, get the fuck outta dodge."

Guillermo peered at Rick's uniform and wrinkled his nose as if he'd smelled something rancid.

"No offense, Sheriff."

"None taken. And I was a deputy. Not the Sheriff."

"Same shit."

The cop tidbit intrigued him. Rick felt compelled to ask more question. But time was short.

As if reading Rick's mind, Daryl spoke: "We gotta go."

But before they went.

"What CDC rumors?" Rick asked.

Luna shrugged, sliding to the edge of the desk. She yawned.

"That there are people still in there working on a cure."

"What happened to it? The CDC?"

"It's still there," Guillermo said. "Just locked up tight. We keep to ourselves. We gotta. But there's another set up not too far from here. Small. Another nursing home. A couple staff and kids who couldn't leave their people behind. We exchange information sometimes. Rumor is that some of the CDC staff are still inside. There's some activity around it sometimes, supposedly. Like there's people still inside. I've never seen it, but one of the boys down the way swears he has. Cameras moving. A car parked in a different place. Shit like that."

"It's bullshit. There's no one in there. People just want to believe this will be over soon," Luna said.

Guillermo tsk'd and muttered something in Spanish. She flipped him off. Michonne's lips curved.

Something pricked the back of Rick's brain about it all, but he had more pressing concerns. He could tell by the minimal light coming through the window that it was late afternoon.

"We need to get back," Rick said.

Guillermo nodded, also looking out the window. He turned back to Rick and extended his hand. His face was grave.

"Y'all be careful out there."

Rick thought of the elderly people just outside of the door, hoping and waiting and surviving. He considered the men who'd decided to stay despite the impossibility of rescue, despite the truth: they would likely spend the rest of their lives in this building. Why? Because they loved people who could never leave.

There was something spectacularly human and alive about that kind of dedication. It moved Rick.

He swung the bag of guns off his shoulder. It plunked onto the desk with a considerable thud.

Just before he opened it, he happened to look up at Michonne who watched him. Her lips flickered in a small, affirmative smile. She understood his gesture. Then she turned back to the window. Like she was waiting for something.

It made the hair on Rick's arms stand.

…

The van was gone.

The goddamn van was gone.

Teeth gritted, staring at the empty plot of grass, Rick knew exactly who had taken it.

The Camp

Evening

It was perhaps Michonne's absence that pushed Mike to join the others for dinner.

Or maybe it was the fleeting moment of understanding between he and Lori earlier. The shared sense of abandonment.

He wasn't sure.

But they welcomed him. Despite his weeks of avoiding, nursing his injury and his pride.

They passed he and Terry a plate of fish and a beer and that was that. Mike kept the beer at his side. Terry downed his immediately.

It's likely what got him killed.

Mike tuned out most of the conversation and it's probably why his eyes were on the RV when Amy disappeared into it. And why they were still there when she emerged again joking about toilet paper.

He saw the shadow.

A twitch in the night.

Hands reached from the darkness to grip Amy and jerk her back against the door. She screamed.

Then another silhouette lurched from behind the RV. It latched onto her neck and pulled. Mike told himself to move as he watched muscles and tendons stretch until they tore.

Amy shrieked, her hands attempting to push the walker away. Blood spurted from her neck. Within seconds, her yellow shirt was soaked in it.

Mike sprang to his feet just as Andrea did. Her wail rattled his teeth.

The camp burst.

Panicked screams. The booming sound of a shotgun. The crack of a rifle.

Walkers materialized from every direction, tottering from the woods like marionettes.

Terry wobbled to his feet. His mouth formed a near comical "O." Mike would laugh about it later as he buried Terry's body. Then he would vomit.

A groan. Loud and gurgling. Right behind him.

On instinct, Mike twisted to the left. There was a blinding jolt of pain in his knee. The walker stumbled, tripped, and righted itself. It turned, teeth bared.

Mike reached back with one hand, grabbed a folding chair, and swung. It was hardly a weapon, but the walker tumbled backward. Again Mike reached blindly and grabbed whatever was closest. A wooded-handled barbecue fork. He lunged and drove the fork down as hard as he could.

The walker's eye gave way like a grape.

Mike went for the other.

Behind him, Terry howled. Mike spun, alarmed. Two walkers pinned Terry to the ground.

Terry's feet kicked; his arms flailed; he bellowed.

Mike had known Terry for twenty-three years. He could've never imagined that sound coming from him.

Or the sound of his skin tearing.

Roaring, Mike lifted the bloodied fork and launched himself at the walkers.

He knew it was too late.

…

His lungs would burst.

The screams split through the trees.

Rick ran faster.

Michonne was ahead of him. If the situation were different, he might have admired the elegance of her form, the ferocity of her gait.

Instead, he begged his body for more strength.

Carl. Lori.

Please.

They broke the tree line and it was the most frightening thing Rick had ever seen.

Walkers. Everywhere.

People's faced twisted in horror, lit only by fire and moonlight.

Among them he searched for his wife and son. His heart plummeted when he didn't find them.

A walker lumbered in his direction. He raised his gun to fire. Before he could pull the trigger, the walker fell, its head lobbed off. Michonne didn't stop. Sword swinging, she disappeared into the fray.

Rick pushed forward. He fired, taking down three as he searched.

"Lori! Carl!"

The screams, groans, and gunshots swallowed his voice. He could barely hear himself. But he called out nonetheless.

"Rick!"

There was a whoosh of air as a walker reached for him. Rick barely moved out of the way in time. Its head burst from a shotgun round. Daryl nodded and rushed past him.

"Rick!"

He turned. Relief flooded him. Lori and Carl cowered behind Shane as he pushed them back towards the RV.

"Dad!" Carl said, desperate eyes falling on him.

Rick fought his way forward until he was standing beside Shane. Together, they kept Lori and Carl behind them, firing at anything undead.

When the screams stopped, all that was left was the sound of crying.

…

Half of Terry's face was gone.

Only a mess of gnawed muscle remained.

After the screams stopped, when she could finally put her sword at her side, she rushed to Mike.

He sat next to Terry's body, staring at his friend's missing face as if watching paint dry. His lips moved. Unintelligible whispers. He was muttering to himself. Michonne had never seen him do that.

He didn't move when Michonne knelt beside him. He didn't move when she prodded him looking for injuries. For bites.

There was nothing, and she could have cried with relief.

Her heart beat like a drum, echoing in her chest and down to her stomach. She willed it to be still, but it wouldn't.

His skin was warm, feverish almost, but he had no bites. He was so warm. Why was he so warm?

"Mike, baby. Were you—" She swallowed. "Are you hurt?"

"No," he said. "Terry was."

Michonne glanced at Terry's disfigured face. His bottom lip had been ripped off. It reminded her a bit of Jack Nicholson's rendition of the Joker. Mike kept staring at what remained of Terry's face so Michonne turned his face to look at her.

When Mike looked up, she nearly flinched.

She was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

The Camp

Morning

They burned the walkers.

They buried their dead.

It was Glenn and Lori who insisted on that.

"That has to still be who we are," Lori said.

The graves were ready-made. Because of Jim. Apparently, he'd dug them the day before in some feverish haze of what? Intuition? Providence? Prophecy?

Looking at the graves set Rick on edge.

Because he had known this was coming too. Not with the clarity Jim seemed to have. But he'd felt it in Atlanta every time he saw the sun dwindling in the sky. No matter how he'd tried to shake his worry, he knew they needed to get back. They had arrived just on time.

Or much too late.

Rick still felt that dread. The prickling at the back of his skull.

The camp was not safe. Last night had proven that. They needed to leave.

He was considering the best way to bring this up when his eyes were drawn to Jacqui. She bent close to Jim, whispering. It was loud enough for Rick to know her words were harsh, urgent.

The prickling increased.

Jacqui jerked away. She moved so fast that she nearly tripped over her own feet.

"Jim's been bitten!"

The prickling turned to a flame.

Everything stopped.

…

"The CDC?"

Shane stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Rick expected this. Just as he'd expected the appalled looks from the rest of the group.

"You want us to go to Atlanta?" Martinez asked. "Are you crazy?"

Rick put his hands on his hips. He was starting to think so. Judging by the way his wife and best friend had taken to looking at him in the last thirty-six hours.

"Jim needs help. They might be able to give it. We can't do anythin' for him here."

They knew the bite would kill Jim without intervention. What they didn't know was how long it would take or if the CDC had found something to slow it down. Even that was preferable to one of their own dying.

"You want to risk it on the word of a man you met yesterday?" Shane asked. "One who almost tried to kill y'all?"

"Well, he didn't kill us. And I admit it's a risk. I ain't sayin' otherwise. But this place is compromised."

The group murmured amongst themselves.

Michonne hovered on the edge again. Rick had found himself watching her throughout the morning as they'd worked. Her friend had been killed—one who seemed to mean a great deal to her boyfriend. But she'd worked with an even temperament to clear the camp of bodies.

In silence, she and her boyfriend had rolled Terry into a grave and covered him in dirt. Neither lingered at the grave. Mike went one way, limping on his good leg. Michonne went to help Andrea with Amy.

Now Mike stood at one end of the shattered group. Michonne stood with Andrea. And though Andrea had exchanged words with Dale earlier, Michonne seemed to be the only person Andrea could stand to be near.

"And they aren't even sure if there's anyone in there?" Martinez asked. "It's just a rumor?"

Even to Rick it sounded crazy.

"Yeah."

"So," Hannah said, clutching her children, "We don't even know if they can help Jim."

"Naw. We don't."

"That's a big fuckin' if, man," Shane said. "Goin' into that city with no certainty that the CDC is even still operational."

"Most who stay here will die."

The group turned to Michonne. She stayed at Andrea's side, one arm around Andrea's waist as if she were holding her up. Given Andrea's waxen, bereft face, she was.

"They can climb the mountain. And there is nothing to stop them from doing it again. They will do it again. There are no walls here. How long do you think this place will keep you safe?"

Her words were sure. Matter-of-fact. Chilling in their conviction. And she met the eyes of many in the group, forcing them to hear her.

"The CDC is a risk. A big one. You're right. It may not be worth it. But do not be fooled. You will die if you stay here."

A hush fell over them, her words a hammer.

Shane ripped a hand through his hair. His nostrils flared.

"Atlanta is crawlin' with walkers. You told us not to go into Atlanta weeks ago. You remember that?"

"I do."

"So, what?" Shane asked. "You believe this CDC shit?"

"I believe staying here is a death sentence."

Shane shook his head.

"Tryin' for the CDC might be one too."

"What do you propose after last night?"

Rick waited, genuinely curious for Shane's answer. He understand why Shane didn't want to try for the CDC. He understood why none of them did.

But would Shane actually suggest they stay here? Waiting for more walkers to come? Waiting for them to kill more of their people?

Shane folded his arms.

"We go to Fort Benning."

A new wave of murmurs broke out.

"That's over one-hundred miles away, Shane," Lori said.

Shane's jaw tensed. There was a flash of betrayal in his eyes, and Lori looked away. Rick pretended not to see it.

"One-hundred plus miles of what? That's the question," Daryl said.

Glenn grimaced.

"I don't even want to think about it."

"We know Fort Benning was takin' in survivors. We don't know shit about the CDC other than that they cut contact with the public when shit got bad," Shane said. "Y'all willin' to risk that instead of goin' to a military base?"

"Jim won't make it to Fort Benning," Jacqui said. "He's getting worse."

The group was torn. Rick could see it on their faces. Would they risk the group for the possibility of saving one? Or would they surrender Jim to the virus coursing, spreading, multiplying in his body? Neither option was good. His gaze switched to Michonne without meaning to. Her eyes were elsewhere.

She wasn't sure of the CDC either. He could tell. But she knew they needed to leave. She'd known that before anyone.

He considered her words from the rooftop.

I made a promise.

He thought, suddenly, and with mystifying panic, that she might not go with them. That she would to see them off and go her own way.

And why shouldn't she? She owed them nothing. He hardly knew her. So why did the thought of her going off on her own—

She wouldn't be alone, now would she?

—discomfort him so?

And even if she was alone, how is that any of your business?

The voices of the group faded.

Nobody should be alone. Not now. Not in this world.

He trusted her.

That's what it was.

Even after so little time, he trusted her.

Rick had only been awake for a few days. But he knew already that the only way to survive was to find people you trusted. Michonne was like Morgan. Strangers by all accounts, but his instincts told him that they were people to stick with if he could.

He would do his best to keep his promise to Morgan, but he already felt as if he'd failed. He'd tried him on the walkie that morning. Nothing. He would keep trying until he couldn't anymore.

And Michonne.

He had an instinct about her. He couldn't say he trusted most of his impulses these days. But this one…

His mother always told him to trust his instincts about people. Sometimes, she used to say, it was all we had. All we needed.

You never know, Rickie, they might just save your life.

…

"Say it," Rick said.

The brush crackled underfoot as they walked.

"Say what?" Shane asked.

"What you need to. What you're thinkin'."

Shane was always the more forthcoming one. Never one to hold back. He was often crass—which he reveled in—but he had never been plagued by the same inhibitions as Rick. It's why they worked so well as friends and partners. They balanced each other out.

Shane swatted a branch out of his way. He looked at Rick out of the corner of his eye. His eyes shifted forward again.

"Fine. I'm thinkin' if you hadn't run off to Atlanta, our losses wouldn't have been as heavy."

The accusation stung, but Rick kept his face even.

"I think had we not come back with the guns our losses would have been a lot worse."

Shane was quiet for a moment. He gave a conciliatory nod.

"Okay. Okay, I'll give you that."

It eased some of the tension between them. Only some. Shane turned so that he was walking backward to cover what Rick wasn't looking at. He turned again.

"These people. They ain't convinced, Rick. You wanna go to the CDC, fine. But you might be headin' off on your own."

Rick sidestepped a fallen branch. He wiped his forehead.

"I gotta do what's best for my family."

If that meant that nobody else came with them, fine.

"Best?" Shane scoffed. "What's best? Exposin' them to all kinds of risk? On the chance that the CDC is viable?"

"As opposed to trekking them across one-hundred miles of hostile territory? We're drownin' out here, Shane. You don't think it's smarter to swim to the nearest lifeline rather than further out to sea?"

Rick's father would be proud. For once. Leonard Grimes loved a metaphor. As much as he loved whiskey. And it was the whiskey that kept him from keeping his metaphors straight, always mixing and jumbling them until he didn't make a lick of damn sense.

Rick scanned the woods.

"Why can't you back me up?" he asked.

"I want to. But I ain't seein' what you are," Shane said.

"If it was your family, you'd see it differently."

Shane came to a dead stop. A stop so sharp that Rick made it a few steps before he could slow down. Shane's face darkened.

"What'd you say to me?" he asked.

He stormed up to Rick, jutting a finger at Rick and then at himself.

"If they were my family? If they were my family? I kept them safe. Me. I looked after them like they were my own."

"I din't mean it like that."

"Then what the fuck did you mean?"

"You're misinterpretin' my words, man."

"Naw, I don't think I am."

Rick pinned Shane with his eyes. He needed his friend to hear him.

"I know you saved them. I know that. I can never repay that debt to you. Ever."

A branch snapped.

They pivoted. Without speaking, they split in different directions, guns raised. Rick walked with careful steps so as not to make more noise than necessary.

His chest burned, but he told himself to breathe. To put this shit aside. To focus on what mattered.

Safety. Survival.

The very thing that Shane had secured for Lori and Carl in Rick's absence.

It was why, despite the roiling in his stomach, Rick kept his eyes forward and mouth shut.

As Rick pushed further, watching, listening, he got the sudden feeling that he was being watched. His focus sharpened. He scanned the trees but saw nothing. Still he felt a shiver on the back of his neck.

The feeling vanished, and Rick took a breath.

He did a final scan of the woods and turned back the way he came. Shane and Dale waited. Whatever irritation Shane felt before seemed to have disappeared.

"Come on, man. Let's get back."

Rick nodded, relieved that they seemed to have moved on. He caught a glimpse of Dale's face as he passed him.

Dale said nothing, but his skin was pale.

…

Jim's condition worsened. He would die if they didn't get him help soon.

"If we're going, we need to go now," Dale said.

Rick had already made his case. There was nothing left for him to say. He knew where he was taking his family.

"We should try," Jacqui said. "For Jim. He's one of us."

Her face was stricken with fear. For herself. For the group. For Jim.

Rick gazed at the faces staring back at him. He saw that same fear reflected in many of them. But they were agreeing to try.

…

Martinez and Hannah decided to try for Fort Benning. A few other families decided the same. Rick wasn't surprised, and he understood. He kept his distance as the group said their goodbyes.

His eyes drifted.

To the black Range Rover he'd noticed in passing. He hadn't given much thought to its owner his first day at the camp, only noting its near pristine condition.

Michonne leaned against the driver's door. Her eyes were on the hill where Mike stood, perhaps saying a last goodbye to his friend.

Rick waffled. He was wary of bothering her, of being presumptuous. After a few more moments of indecision, he walked over. Her eyes slid from the hill as he approached.

"I'm sorry about Terry," he said.

She was silent for a moment.

"Thank you."

"How's Mike holdin' up?"

Rick and Mike hadn't exchanged a single word since Rick arrived at the camp. If Michonne made herself scarce, Mike made himself scarcer.

"They grew up together," Michonne said.

Rick nodded, understanding. Thirty years. That's how long he and Shane had been friends. Losing Shane would be tantamount to losing Jeff. Worse. Rick hadn't spoke to Jeff in years. He had seen Shane near daily for most of his life.

"Then I'm sorry for him."

"How's Carl? After last night?"

"He's alright. Better than he should be given all that's happenin'. Feels like he's handlin' this better than the adults."

"Kids are like that," Michonne said.

Resilient. Strangely calm. It hurt Rick that his son had to see any of this. That he wasn't in school, dreaming about rushing home to collapse on the couch and read.

Rick folded his arms.

"Jim's gettin' worse."

"I know."

He nodded and pulled at his earlobe. He could only just see the top of Mike's head from here.

"I don't know if—" Rick sighed. "I don't know if the CDC will work. I really don't. But thank you. For earlier."

"We know this place doesn't work. So we do what we have to."

This was why Rick had walked over here in the first place. And what he was dancing around. He decided on what he'd learned she preferred: directness.

"I know you ain't convinced by the CDC option."

"I'm not," she said.

Honest. Straightforward. She folded her arms, leaning more of her weight against the door.

"I'm not convinced by Fort Benning either," she said. "The CDC is closer. We might as well try."

"So you're coming with us? To the CDC?"

"Yes. Mike could use some medical attention too." She saw Rick's eyes widen. "For his leg. Not much to do for an ACL tear without surgery but we'll see."

"Fuck," Rick said, wincing.

She grimaced in agreement.

"Indeed."

Rick considered her words.

"Why aren't you convinced by Fort Benning? Because of the distance?"

"No," she said. "It's just a feeling."

She bit her lip and gazed at him out of the corner of her eye. She sighed.

"I was heading to Fort Benning before I ended up here."

Curious and surprised, Rick turned his body to face her, propping his elbow on the hood of the car.

"Why'd you stop?" he asked.

"Jim," she said.

She explained how Jim had almost hit her car, how he'd been the catalyst for the group coming together and ending up on the mountain.

"But I was never convinced by Fort Benning. It made sense on paper, I knew that. And I promised my dad I would go. So I tried."

Her father. That's who she'd made the promise to. It made sense why she might take that promise seriously.

"But the longer I've been here, the less I—" She pursed her lips. "It doesn't matter. Like I said. It's just a feeling."

"And what's your feelin' bout this? 'Bout the CDC?"

"It's dangerous. Beyond dangerous. You know that. But my gut says to try." She shrugged. "So we try."

The relief he felt was immense. Gratuitous, given the circumstances. He exhaled and let the SUV take more of his weight.

"Nice car."

"Thanks."

"Shoulda known it was yours," he said.

She wrinkled her nose.

"Why?"

Rick shrugged.

"Nicest car up here. After this morning, figure you got real specific taste."

"This morning?"

"The hideous condos."

Her eyes crinkled before they rolled in recognition.

"Just sayin'," he said. "The car fits the vibe." She skewered him with a look. "City girl, I mean."

"Fuck off, Rick."

He chuckled at her unexpected crassness, scratching his jaw. The stubble was short and sharp. He hadn't shaved since just before leaving King County.

"Least it ain't Deputy this time."

She gave him a look that said don't push it. He grinned. She gave him a small smile in response, shaking her head. They shared a quiet moment against her car.

His skin bristled. Rick looked up. Shane stood against his truck—the same truck he'd had since they were twenty years old. His aviator sunglasses obscured his eyes, but Rick felt his gaze nonetheless. Shane's face was impassive, his arms folded over his chest. Rick pulled himself off Michonne's truck, his smile dropping. He cleared his throat.

"I'll leave ya to it. But, uh, I'm glad you're comin' with us."

She started to respond, but straightened from the car instead. Mike appeared as if he'd materialized from the hill. Rick wondered how a man that size could move undetected. With an injury no less.

"You ready?" Michonne asked, her voice soft.

Mike nodded. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her temple. If Rick didn't know better—and really, what the fuck did he know about either of them—he could have sworn Michonne blinked in surprise.

"Yeah, baby," Mike said, voice deep, his hand taking hers. "I'm ready."

A look passed over Michonne's face. It disappeared just as quickly, and Rick was sure he'd just witnessed something private. He nodded at Mike. Mike nodded back.

"Sheriff."

Rick fought the urge to frown.

"Rick. Just Rick."

Mike nodded in concession but said nothing. At a loss for anything meaningful to say, Rick nodded, again, before walking away. He ignored the feeling of eyes on him as he did.

The Camp

Morning

MORGAN,

HEADED TO THE CDC. NOT SAFE HERE.

—RICK

Fifteen Miles from Atlanta

Morning

They barely made it five miles before they had to stop. Jacqui practically threw herself out of the RV in despair.

"He can't." Her voice cracked. "He can't."

Rick smelt the death and virus as soon as he stepped onto the RV steps. It worsened as he drew closer. Jim stared at him with red, sunken eyes.

"Leave me here," he begged.

Rick startled at the request.

"We'll be there soon, Jim."

"I ain't gon' make it. I can't—every bump in the road—I can't."

Leaving Jim went against everything Rick stood for. Shane felt the same. They were united on that front. It was in their blood as cops.

What would it mean to do this? To leave a man to die alone in the woods like roadkill?

"It's not your choice," Lori said. "Either of you."

"I concur. Jim deserves to make this choice for himself," Dale said.

Rick and Shane exchanged a glance, outnumbered, their principles be damned.

They propped Jim against a tree. He was delirious in a way, muttering incoherent words, blinking in and out of lucidness. He muttered about his family. His wife. His daughters. Rick remembered that instant under the tank, that brief moment where he welcomed death because it had come for him. He knelt and said a quiet goodbye to a man he barely knew.

"Mi—Michonne." Jim's voice trembled. "Stay. Just for a minute."

The rest of the group said they're goodbyes. Michonne stayed.

Fifteen Miles Outside of Atlanta

Morning

Michonne had seen the gruesome aftermath of a turning. She'd never seen one in progress. It saddened her that it was Jim.

He opened his mouth to speak several times. His jaw hung limp and useless as he struggled to regain control of his facial muscles.

It attacked the nerves too then, she realized. Was the virus primarily neurological? Severing the brain stem killed walkers, and they didn't seem to feel pain the way the living did. But they could still move, even with diminished coordination.

The thoughts flitted through her head as she watched Jim struggle to speak.

"Do you want me to…?" she asked. "I'll do it if you want me to."

He shook his head. He understood what she was asking.

"No," he said. "I feel like shit." He cringed. "'Scuse my language. But I feel okay too. I know it don't make much sense. But what about the world does."

Each word came from him like sludge, but he managed. Michonne understood. Her mother had said something similar as she withered away.

"I ain't got too many words left in me, but I wanted to—"

He trailed off and his eyes closed. He was silent and still for so long that Michonne eased back. Her hand inched to her short sword.

Jim shuddered. Michonne gripped the hilt. His eyes opened. He was still human. For now.

"I'm gon' see my family soon," he said.

She smiled. Her heart ached with envy. It was silly, and she felt ashamed.

"Good."

He nodded, smiling too. His eyes closed again. Not as long this time. The clarity in his gaze startled her. As it had done the day before.

"You be careful, Miss Michonne. Everybody ain't—"

He trailed off. He came to with a jerk. He swallowed and it looked painful.

"Everybody ain't good."

Her stomach sank. With negligible strength, he took her hand.

"R'member what I said? Bout knowin' things?"

She nodded, her throat raw.

"I remember."

"Good," he said. "Good."

He slumped against the tree, and she knew their conversation was done. He squeezed her hands a final time and then drifted away, looking at the light between the leaves. She whispered a watery goodbye and stood. They couldn't waste anymore daylight.

As she walked back to her car, Jim's words played on a loop.

You know things. You feel em.

Everybody ain't good.

She slid into the driver seat, her limbs wooden. Mike hadn't gotten out of the car. He reached over and massaged the back of her neck. She started the car and wondered why her heart was racing.

Savannah, Georgia

Ellie hurtled around the corner.

She nearly lost her footing, but regained it and lengthened her stride.

Only a block to go.

She vaulted over an overturned trash bin. One of the big green ones that the sanitation workers used to clear every Monday and Thursday. Not anymore though. They were dead. Like her coach. He'd be proud of her form if he was still alive.

Half a block.

Her heart knocked against her chest; her book bag bounced against her back.

A dead one stumbled into her path, arms outstretched. The Bacá, Maddie called them. Ellie dodged it. She knew how to kill them. But it was better to avoid a fight if possible. More always came. It was like they could smell fresh meat.

A wrought iron gate came into view, and Ellie breathed, or huffed, a sigh of relief. She passed the locked first entrance and increased her speed as she approached a second entrance. An iron gate surrounded by brick. It would take her to their driveway.

She had to time it right. Slowing down meant potentially getting caught. She couldn't. Grandpa needed her.

She leapt, her foot catching a crook in the wall. Propelling herself up by her momentum, she reached up and gripped the ledge of the brick wall, hauling herself up.

She was almost there.

Her grip slipped as she was yanked backward.

Too frightened to scream, she merely kicked her leg out. It hit something hard and the pressure on her foot disappeared. She heaved herself up and over the wall, tumbling down the other side. Remembering her coach's guidance, she bent her knees as she hit the ground and rolled.

Panting, she laid there for long minutes. Bacá groaned on the other side of the wall. They would eventually grow tired and look for food elsewhere. Ellie stayed on the ground, eyes closed, chest rising, until her heart rate returned to normal.

She sat up and opened her eyes. Her heart stopped this time.

Dre stood there with thunder in his eyes.

Ellie stood, caught.

"Dre…"

"Are you insane, Elle?"

"No," she said, voice matter-of-fact.

Reckless, perhaps. But she wasn't crazy.

Dre threw his hands up and turned away. He looked like Grandpa when he did that. Ellie dusted off her jeans and sighed. Instead of speaking, she reached into her bag and pulled out a white bottle with blue lettering. She handed it to him. His eyes softened as he read it.

ZEBETA. 5mg.

"You could have gotten hurt, Elle. We aren't supposed to leave."

Ellie snatched the bottle from him. The pills inside rattled as she tossed it back into her bag. It bounced against the three other bottles she'd taken from the pharmacy. She left the rest. In case someone else was like Grandpa and needed them.

"I know," she said.

Dre stared at her. Then he pulled her into a hug. It was easy to return. He was her best friend. He always had been. Even though he drove her crazy.

He kept his arm around her shoulder as they walked up the driveway. He was much taller than her now, and he was annoying about it.

"Where's Grandpa?" she asked.

"Sleeping still."

Good.

"Maddie?"

"Sleeping too. You're lucky. But they'll know what you did when they see new medicine."

Ellie shrugged. They would have to get over it. She almost said that as they rounded the back corner of the house, but her voice died in her throat. Dre's face grew ashen.

Maddie stood there waiting for them, her hazel eyes blank. She looked them over in that way of hers. Like she knew things even if they didn't say it.

Ellie didn't speak. Neither did Dre. At first, Maddie didn't ether.

"Where did you go?" she asked.

Her voice was calm. It always was. Like Meesh's. But Meesh's voice was full. Maddie's voice always seemed void to Ellie. Like shaking a box hoping for a present only to realize the box was empty. But at least she never yelled.

Except for that night. She screamed a lot then. Ellie never forgot it. Ellie's eyes drifted to Maddie's exposed torso. Where the scars were. Meesh had a similar one on her shoulder.

Despite her mother's knowing stare, Ellie straightened her back.

"Grandpa needs more medicine. It's almost out."

Maddie's eyes flicked to the bed of lilies in the center of the backyard. Grandma's garden. It had been years since she died, but Grandpa refused to stop tending to it.

"So you went to get it."

Ellie and Dre exchanged a glance. There was no sense lying to Maddie. She knew. She always knew.

"Yes. I had to."

Maddie sighed. She often sighed when she was talking to Ellie and Dre, as if they made her tired anytime she looked at them.

"That's dangerous, Elodie."

Her mother only ever called her Elodie. Never Ellie. Never Elle. Never Baby Girl, the way Meesh often did. Dre was always Andre too.

"I know," Ellie said in Kreyòl. "I had to. For Grandpa."

Massaging her temples, Maddie flowed to the ground, her long skirt billowing around her. She was as nimble as any of the girls on Ellie's track team despite being many years older.

At Maddie's silence, Dre and Ellie exchanged a look. She did this often. Disappeared in the middle of a conversation. Sometimes she came back. A lot of times she didn't.

"Did you get it?" Maddie asked.

Ellie blinked and looked at Dre. He shrugged.

"Yes. Four bottles."

Maddie nodded.

"That was dangerous, Elodie. You could have been hurt."

Ellie glanced up at the windows of the large house. They were dark, covered with thick curtains and blankets to hide any light from inside. The monsters were drawn to light. The bad people were too.

"Grandpa's hurting. He won't say it, but he is."

"Yes," Maddie said. "He is."

"She won't do it again. Will you, Elle?" Dre said, nudging her.

When Ellie remained quiet, Dre raised his eyebrows. He nudged her again.

"No sense in cajoling her, Andre. She'll do it again if she feels she must." Maddie turned to look Ellie over. Then Dre. "You two are like Michonne in that way."

Ellie's throat tightened at the mention of Michonne. She missed her. So much so that she blurted out the question she'd been avoiding for weeks.

"Do you think she's okay?" Ellie asked.

Appealing to her mother for comfort was a lost cause. Ellie and Dre learned that early. But Ellie was desperate, her heart aching with every day that passed. She knew Dre's was too.

Maddie stared into the backyard. There was no sense in trying to pinpoint what she was looking at. She could be looking at one thing and seeing another. That's how it was with her.

When Maddie remained silent, Ellie felt a surge of fury. It burned her chest and throat. She turned away, tears forming in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks. She swiped the tears away, embarrassed. Dre took her hand and pulled her to toward the house.

"Come on, Elle. Before Grandpa wakes up."

"She's alive," Maddie said.

The twins stopped and whirled towards their mother. They rushed back to kneel beside her, eager for more.

"How do you know?" Ellie asked, her voice thick.

"I can feel her."

This was Maddie's way. Dre too, sometimes—feeling things without always knowing why. Just like Grandma. Ellie was like Grandpa. She couldn't see what they saw. Meesh always said she couldn't either, that she and Ellie were the same in that regard, but Ellie wasn't sure. Meesh was the smartest person Ellie knew. She always seemed to know exactly what was going on, what they needed.

Dre gripped her hand in relief. Ellie let her forehead fall to his shoulder.

"Is she—Is she okay?" she asked.

Maddie wasn't a crystal ball. Her knowing wasn't like watching a television in HD. That's what Maddie said, finding the very notion puerile. Ellie didn't think that was possible anyway. But still, she needed to know Michonne was okay.

Even if she couldn't see her again, she needed to know. She could't lose Meesh too. Not Meesh. Ellie needed to know she was out there in the world, and she knew her brother felt the same. He was holding his breath, waiting for Maddie to answer.

Maddie's eyes flicked to them. Then she returned her gaze to the backyard, lingering on the lilies. They danced in the wind. Ellie wondered if Grandma could see them, if she could see Michonne.

"She's in danger."