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Carol was trying to get her mind back in the daily routine—what to eat, how to fix it, whether the clothes needed washing, all the little things that kept them going—when Daryl came up to her.
"Hey. Can I— I want to show you something."
Part of her wanted to tell him to go to hell, to get away from her if he wanted to be left alone so bad. But another part of her wanted … well, she didn't know what. Something to think about other than how to make another meal that no one would be interested in, including herself. Everyone was hungry, but no one had an appetite. Not really.
So she went with him, nodding briefly without speaking. Daryl didn't speak, either, as he led her across the farm toward the pond. "See it?" he asked at last.
"See what?"
He pointed, leading her toward what looked like weeds to Carol, until they got up close and she recognized the flower he had brought her. Gesturing to the flowers again, he said, "I'll find her," as if somehow the flowers proved something, or led the way.
Carol stood silent, not knowing what to say. She didn't want false hope, or superstitious beliefs. God had abandoned them—everything around them was proof of that—so what good would flowers do?
Daryl looked at her, waiting for a response, but she turned her face away from him. In her mind, Sophia felt farther and farther away, as if … as if there had never really been a Sophia, or an Ed, or air conditioning, or TV, or church, or fresh meat, or any of the things that belonged to that other life, the one that was gone. But Daryl—Daryl still had hope. How could she take that away from him? How could she admit that while he kept the faith that Sophia would be brought back, she, Sophia's mother, had given up? Or that it was almost a relief to have given up, to be free of the fear and the grief and the gnawing worry?
"Hell," he said at last. "I'm sorry about what happened this mornin'."
Now she did look at him. "You wanted to look for her." She thought she understood—it was something he alone, of all of them, could do, could contribute. But … Sophia was nothing to him. Carol was nothing to him, not really. They were just strangers who were forced into this situation together. What kept him looking, caring? "Why? This whole time I just—I wanted to ask you."
"'Cause I think she's still out there," he told her.
Carol held his gaze, marveling at the simple faith that kept him motivated, when everyone else had moved on and forgotten … when even she was ready to do the same.
Daryl could have left it there, but he wanted … he wanted to be truly honest. Carol was the only person who had taken any time to talk to him, to notice that he was there, to see that he could contribute. He owed her his honesty. "Truth is," he added, "what else I got to do?"
Carol looked at him again, like she was really seeing him, but without saying anything. It was what he had noticed about her from the first, how silent she was, like she thought a lot but didn't always feel the need to say what she thought. It made her a restful change from all the others, who couldn't stop yapping. In this case, though, he wished she would say something, tell him what she was thinking.
She stepped forward, holding a flower by one petal. After a moment, she said, firmly, "We'll find her. We will." She turned and smiled at him. "I see it."
He wondered if she did, or if she was just telling him what she thought he wanted to hear. Maybe he did. Maybe it mattered that Sophia's mother had confidence in him. Or maybe they were both lying to each other, lying to themselves, and there was nothing out there, no little girl, no brother, nothing to hold them to their old lives, or to life at all.
And if that was true, what was there to keep going for?
"We'll find her," he repeated.
Letting the flower go, Carol stepped back, surveying the farm and the woods around them. "She's out there somewhere, and we'll find her."
They stood there for a long time, not wanting to let go of the momentary determination and optimism they had found, but neither one knowing where to start or how to move forward.
At last Carol sighed. "I should get back to figuring out what to do for supper."
"I bet it'll be good, whatever you make," Daryl offered. Not that he cared much—he had never been one for food, other than to keep going—but she put a lot of effort into the meals, and no one seemed to notice or appreciate it.
"Thanks, but this is hardly ideal conditions for really nourishing or tasty meals."
She was right, it wasn't. "You'll do great," he said again, lamely, as a show of support.
This time she just glanced at him, with a little smile, saying she understood what he was saying, and Daryl let it go. It was enough.