Isaac was the first person I noticed when I came into the common room, sitting at one of the tables with a plate and a book. I walked over to him because he was the only one I could really think of anything to say as I spoke.

He looked up as he heard me approach, offering no smile or gesture that said he wanted to speak to me. I felt more cautious about that with him, than anyone else, but sat down anyway. I was just curious to see him out of his cell.

"How come you're alone?"

"Some people like being alone," Isaac said. "Me, especially."

I hummed, but overall, ignored the pathetic attempt as a way of asking me to leave. "You didn't answer the question."

"I did."

Sighing, I rolled my eyes. "Fine, what are you doing while alone?"

"Eating, and working," he nodded down to both the food in front of him and a notebook he had off to the side.

"Working?" I frowned, staring at the book. "I didn't know you got a job."

"I thought you were on the council, isn't it your job to know that stuff."

"I have a shit tonne of jobs around here without needing to remember what everyone else does, too," I explained. "Besides, I'm not at every meeting, so if it came up there, I still wouldn't know."

"Then why be on the council?" Isaac raised a brow.

That was a good question. My work on the council seemed far less important than what I'd been doing for the prison, and I found that maybe I was not suited to leadership work. But I pushed through because I thought that maybe being on the council seemed less important. After all, nothing detrimental was happening. Everyone was on the same page, and so everything was decided the second a topic was brought up.

It was not the same as leading in the middle of a war, getting everyone on track until Rick could take over again. It just seemed like nothing was as important as what it was, and so I got easily distracted by my newer ideas to make the prison better.

I shrugged. "Rick might be taking some time off, I guess that's the reason for now."

"Time off?"

"Time off from leading," I clarified.

Isaac nodded, now understanding. "How come?"

"It's hard," was all I was willing to offer.

Rick and Isaac didn't speak, which meant Isaac was not in a position to know everything Rick had gone through as the leader. Isaac could have guessed most of it from clues anyway, hints of past trauma that remained hidden around the prison.

He was planning on some time off, maybe not completely. But with Hershel teaching him about the farm, Rick found out just how time-consuming it was. I was also introduced to the commitment farming took, after being recruited to build planters and fences for any future animals we could bring in, and since I started making the planters, Rick was almost always down on the field from the time I started to the time I ended.

My eyes returned to Isaac, and he was still looking at me, curious about my vague description of Rick's early retirement. Instead, I changed the subject and asked, "What do you do for a job?"

"Hershel came and spoke to me about it," Isaac started and pulled the book closer to himself on the table. "Just keeping track of supplies, what people want from runs, that kind of stuff."

"So, a nice, clean job?" I grinned.

"A nice, clean job," he agreed. "Besides, who better to organise your supplies than someone with OCD?"

"Couldn't have said it better," I agreed.

"Right now, I'm just waiting for Michonne. She's heading out today and Hershel wanted me to give her a list so she can look for supplies while she's hunting down that person—"

"—The Governor." Why did I do that?

I glanced down at the table and kept flexing my fingers against my thighs. I didn't mean to interrupt him, but his not saying the name for some reason made me so angry. The worst part was that when I said his name, I felt worse. More agitated.

"Right, yeah," Isaac agreed. "The, uh, Governor. She's leaving today, so if she's going to be out there, Hershel just thought that she could grab a few things."

"Did anyone mention how far she's going?"

"No. No one's brought it up," Isaac said with a shake of his head. "It's just strange, I thought you'd know more about it. You're giving her a car to go, aren't you?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's ready, and she has the keys. That's my part done."

But it shouldn't be.

I pushed down my want to go with her, stopping myself from counting the minutes until she'd leave. I could get a bag ready in five, grab food in seven, and be in the car by nine. All doable and probably possible before Michonne even got outside, which is why I forced myself to remain seated.

"Well, soon my part will be done as well," Isaac said, nodding behind me.

I looked back over my shoulder, and finally saw Michonne walking over from the cell block, looking at Isaac as she neared us. "Hershel told me to come to you," she said, sitting down.

Isaac nodded, opening his notebook again and looking for the thing Hershel asked him to do.

"Thought you were leaving?" Michonne asked, also confused that she was asked to come see Isaac, that he had a job.

"I'm giving it a chance." Isaac glanced at me, and something changed in his expression. When he looked back at Michonne, he said, "Maybe you should too."

She rolled her eyes, "What did you need to give me?"

Isaac looked down and ripped a piece of paper from the notebook, and handed it to her. "Just a list, grab those things if you see them. They're in order of priority, but we can go without all of them for at least a few weeks."

She nodded, reading over the list. "Fineliner pens?"

"Just, if you find some," he nodded, turning a shade of pink.

"We have pens," she reminded him.

"Ballpoint and markers. I just . . . it's something for me. That's why it's at the bottom," he pointed out. "Don't go looking or anything, it's just if you come across it."

Michonne nodded, seemingly understanding. She turned to me, "Is there something you want?"

To go with you. "No."

She raised a brow. "Nothing? No books, games, tools?"

"That's not why you're leaving," I shrugged.

She nodded, and I hated myself. I sounded way too harsh, too annoyed. It was something that could be mistaken for me being angry that she was leaving, and I didn't know how to fix the way I'd said it. I started chewing on the inside of my cheek, my eyes landing on the table in front of me.

"Okay, well I'm gonna find that bastard." Michonne stood up. "I'll see you both soon," she promised.

I heard her footsteps as she left, and felt Isaac's eyes on me as I sat there and waited. We would speak again, I was just wondering when. No one told me anything about her trip, information that other people would know, and I didn't. They would know because they were more important, more trusted, it seemed.

When I looked up, she got to the door, I pushed myself up and ran after her, hoping to catch up with her before she left. She was in the courtyard when I did catch up, waving goodbye to the random people outside and working.

"Wait!" I called, running after her.

"I thought you didn't want anything," she called back, barely looking back over her shoulders.

"I want answers," I panted as I caught up, able to walk slower now.

She patted her pocket. "I'll put it on the list. Bottom, right?"

"How long are you going to be gone?" I questioned, ignoring her attempts to dodge my request.

"Trying to get rid of me?" She smiled.

"Michonne."

I stopped walking just as she did, and I saw her face change from the joking smile she had. Her eyes trailed off to the side, and she let out a breath through her nose, her chest flattening. "I'm not sure yet." Michonne seemed hesitant to answer, probably for that exact reason. She didn't know, something she did know would give me more anxiety. "Couple days, maybe."

"Which is it?"

"Couple of days," she repeated and reminded me. "Maybe."

I frowned and sighed. "What if you don't find him?"

"Then I'll go back out there," she said.

I clenched my teeth, "Back out there?"

"If that's what it takes," she nodded. "I'm going to get this done, for us."

And what are you doing? My brain commented, which made me want to get my bag right there and then. I wanted this done for us, too.

"You're my responsibility," I reminded her.

"Since when?"

"Since I adopted you."

"Adopted me?"

"I brought you here."

"Is that adoption in this case?"

"How is it not?"

Michonne smiled again and laughed. "I guess you're right."

"I just want you to be safe, and you going out and chasing down a psychopath is one of the least safe things you could have chosen to do."

"I'll be safe," she promised. "Now, I gotta get going before it gets dark. I'm not waiting around on this."

I watched Michonne as she got into the car, shoving her bag across to the seat next to her. The car rumbled seamlessly to a start and moved to the gate where Glenn was to open it for her. Down at the front, the first gate was already rolled across, and someone yanked down on my pulley system to let her out.

She disappeared between the trees in seconds.

I shot awake to gunfire screaming blood, only to find out that it was all fake seconds later. Fake—not fake, it was all real, it happened before. It just wasn't happening now. My hands squeezed against my eyes, and I pressed my palms down as hard as I could to stop myself from crying before it started.

"Fuck," I mumbled, rolling onto my side.

I looked to the doors, still expecting to see the flashes of light from ignited gunpowder, but it stayed dark. Dark and quiet. My mind racked to remember what I was dreaming about, because if I knew that, then I would be a hundred percent sure that no one was going to kill me. But there was no memory of a dream like I had not been dreaming at all.

I'd been through this before. Sometimes, if I waited long enough, I could get back to sleep. I didn't think that would work this time, which was when I sat up. One thing I never really did after any of my nightmares was leave the cell, but maybe that would help. If I could see that nothing was bad, sleep might come to me easier.

I put on joggers and a jumper, grabbed my holster and headed out of the cell. The cell block was empty, everyone in bed or on guard. It reminded me of the night I had to chase Isaac. I walked outside and stepped out into the courtyard—

"Ace?"

I jumped as I heard my name, and spun around to see Rick. Just Rick. He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against the wall that faced out to the field. There was no view of the field from his angle, no view of the fences or the walkers at the other end.

If I hadn't spoken to the Governor at the peace meeting, my name would have been a relaxing word to hear. Not tonight. He knew my name, which meant all I had to distinguish it from someone good was the tone.

"How come you're up?" He questions, nodding for me to sit with him.

I sat down on the ground, squeezing my sleeves around my arms when I realised how cold it was. "I just woke up."

"And put your holster on?"

I looked down at the gun around my waist, suddenly ashamed that I felt like I needed it. "I just had a nightmare," I said quietly.

"Yeah, me too."

My head shot around to him, almost surprised. It was like being a kid, growing up enough to realise that, yes, adults have bad dreams too. Other people have problems, sometimes the same problems as me, but their own issues nonetheless.

I always knew how Rick was, how he reacted to the war and death we'd experienced months ago. I was the one who helped him through it, his hallucinations and sleeping through the night, but none of that seemed to set him back. He remained strong, kept strong for everyone else.

I felt the surprise leaving my face as it fell, relaxed. I understood, understood that he was getting bad dreams and that he was also reacting to what happened. But that didn't mean that I got it, "I just thought it'd get better by now, at least this. Getting better doesn't mean that what happened is normal. I just want to stop feeling like this."

I hate it.

I hate it.

I hate it.

Maybe it couldn't get better. If I wanted killing to be an unnatural thing, something wrong for people to do to each other considering our advancements in relationships and communication, then maybe the bad feelings would never go away. An either-or scenario: either I felt like killing was a normal thing and I could feel better, or killing was not normal and the fact that I did it would make me feel like shit forever.

"I'd like to tell you it does get better, but I don't want to lie to you," he said.

It was enough for me to know that Rick had the same issues I did, even though he said he was up for the same reasons. He was feeling the same way I was, wishing it was over, that we would someday get some peace.

"I don't remember most of my dreams," he started. "It's all vague, but there's shouting, blood, gunfire. If I do remember, it's usually something I've done: the bar, prisoners, Woodbury. It's always something that happens. We don't get to lose that."

I nodded. "That's how it is for me. I don't even think I'm having a dream, and then there's shooting and guns and I'm awake, just trying to figure out what's happening. Then I work out it's all in my head, and I feel stupid. I just hear gunfire and . . ."

"It's like you've never left the fight."

"Or just waiting for another to start . . ."

"It's easy to have that thought," Rick agreed. "You have to try to stray from it. Or else it gets difficult to not be waiting for the fight."

"I don't know if I can."

"I'm still trying," Rick said. "I haven't gotten over it yet, either. But we will."

"It's hard. Especially—" I stopped myself. "He's still out there, Rick. It doesn't help. Any time I wake up like that, I believe something is wrong longer than I should because I know he's out there."

"We don't know that," he shook his head.

"We don't know that he's dead." It was just like my dad; we could hope and pray that they were alive or dead, but it didn't make either version true. "In my head, it's the same."

Rick nodded, and I saw his jaw move. "We may never know," he told me. "Whatever happened to him, could happen out there. We might never know."

"Yeah, that makes it worse too," I said. "Not knowing."

"We'll find our way," he promised. "Make peace with it."

"I hope so.

"I . . . I wanted to go with her. I wanted to go with Michonne."

Rick went quiet, and I couldn't tell what he thought about my idea. I waited with a tight chest, but he said nothing in return for what seemed like hours. He agreed that Michonne should leave, find him, and chase after him. Sure, they weren't as close, but she was his people too. The only person I truly believed he would stop from doing something like that was Carl because Carl was family.

"It's good you didn't," Rick said.

I looked over at him. "You think so?"

He nodded, "Of course."

"Why?"

"You belong here. You belong with us."

"And she doesn't?" I asked with a frown.

"That's not what I said," he shook his head. "She does too. But I understand she has to go out there, she needs to figure out her way."

"You don't think she should have gone? You think she should have stayed, not gone after him?"

"Opinion varies," he shrugged. "I want what you do, what she does. To be sure, be free of him, for him to be gone so he can never do to anyone else what he's done to us. But then, I think it's not worth the risk for a man that may already be dead. If he's not, he has no town, no army. I don't want to let it all go, but I don't want to waste or risk anything for a ghost."

Rick was right. Risking what we had on the Governor would be a stupid idea if we weren't a hundred percent sure we could find him. Michonne lost a lot to him, so maybe that was her reason for needing to go after him.

And I did want the same thing as her. The Governor killed my friends, shot me, and tried to manipulate me until he realised how much I knew about what he'd done to my people. He tried so hard to kill me on the day of the shootout that it was a miracle I was still alive. And for what? Because I was smart enough to look up recipes I thought I'd never need to use. Because he was scared of me.

"I think about the Winter a lot," I said, getting his attention. "The guy. I was beaten and almost strangled to death that day, and that still feels less personal than what the Governor did. The guy just found me, he didn't hunt me down or seek me out."

"He was desperate. The Governor wasn't, he was—"

"Psychotic."

"Yeah," Rick agreed, his face grim.

The next day I finished the pen for Hershel, as he went out with Daryl to find the horses. They only found one, but they went back out to bring it back to the prison. It was a struggle and kind of scary to get it inside, but when we did Hershel talked about breaking it in, which was something he and Maggie knew how to do.

Breaking it in was their job for the next few weeks, getting it used to wearing a saddle and being ridden again because the tag showed that it used to be a farm horse and not wild, though Daryl did remind us that its time alone would've made it more wild.

As I finished work, it was dark. I'd gotten pyjamas on before eating with Glenn and Maggie, and we were shortly joined by Carl, Rick and Hershel who'd finished their farming. I waited around after my meal, talking to everyone until they excused themselves to go to bed.

Rick was the last one to leave, taking his half-empty beer bottle we'd found before with him as he stood. "Just try to get some sleep," he told me, patting my shoulder as he stood up.

I waited maybe half an hour before heading off to bed. I went to turn into my cell but stopped myself when I saw a light on down the hallway. Isaac's cell was still lit up. I'd seen him in the common room, but he excused himself to his cell when he finished eating, so we didn't get the chance to speak.

Without thinking about it, I walked over to his cell. He was sitting down on the ground, leaning back against the mattress of his bed, knees up to keep his book steady as he worked.

"Hey," I spoke, getting barely a second of his attention.

"Hey," he answered, eyes on his book.

"I, uh, just saw your light on, so I thought I'd check in," I explained awkwardly.

"I'm good," he said.

I nodded, awkwardly tapping my legs as I thought of something else to say. "How's the wrist?" I asked.

"Getting better, I think." When he looked up, he looked up and down my body out the side of his eye. "Pyjamas?"

"I do sleep sometimes," I promised.

"Never would've guessed." I couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

He went back to what he was doing, and I looked back out into the cell block to make my leave, but my feet did not carry me out. All that was left to do now was go back to my cell, and either face my fears and sleep or do what Isaac was doing and work on something to keep myself awake. Well, I'm sure he was not working for that reason, but the concept was still the same. He wasn't asleep.

Isaac looked up at me again, and I realised that I was still standing there. I'd meant to leave, but I had nowhere to go, because if I went back to my cell, I would just keep myself awake until I would be too exhausted to have any bad dreams.

"If you aren't going to go, you may as well sit down," he told me.

"I can go if you want," I suggested.

Part of me hoped that maybe he'd send me away because I couldn't tell whether he wanted me there. His attitude was strange to me, indecipherable at times. He seemed more blunt sometimes, so his telling me to sit down and stay could have been his way of telling me that he wanted me there.

"I don't care either way," was his non-helpful response.

I couldn't tell whether it was him or me, but I struggled to know how he actually felt. I guess (so long as I didn't touch him) he was fine with my presence. Letting out an inaudible breath through my nose, and sat down on the ground opposite him. He was leaning back against his bed, so I stayed off to the side, against the wall, partly facing him.

"Why the ground?" I questioned, getting myself comfortable.

Isaac shrugged. "Not really a reason, just somewhere different to sit. You don't have to sit on the ground."

"No, I'm good," I promised.

Isaac glanced up from his work, and I met his eyes, wondering what he wanted. Instead, he leaned back against the bed and grabbed a pillow, throwing it at me at the same time he sat back up. It hit me in the face.

I laughed a little, pulling it around so it was behind my back. "Thanks."

He nodded, and looked back down at the book, back to what he was doing before I came and interrupted him. I leant up to see what he was doing until I realised that he probably didn't want me looking over his shoulder, and sat back down against the wall.

"Are you working?" At this time of night?

"I'm drawing," he answered simply.

I nodded. "Do you draw a lot?"

Isaac just hummed and continued scribbling in his book. He was using his braced hand, which meant he was a righty. I just wondered how he could do anything as technical as drawing. His arm moved awkwardly, moves needing to be bigger because he couldn't bend his wrist in a way that would be more subtle for drawing.

"Can I see? Something you don't care about, if that means anything," I added awkwardly to the end, surprised that my rambling was kept that short.

Isaac stopped for a second, thinking. When he'd made up his mind, he started flicking back through the pages.

"You don't have to," I said quickly. "You can tell me to fuck off."

"I'm just looking," he said, still flipping through the book. He stopped on one of the pages and twisted the notebook around so I could see it clearly. "Here."

The sketch he showed me was one of a landscape. It had obvious areas of boredom mixed within the pencil strokes; unfinished tops of trees and messy shading. But despite that, it was nice. It was clearly done after the world ended, with a broken-down car hidden in the trees, which made me understand the messiness more. There was no time to relax and draw a complete scenery on the road.

"Wow. I didn't expect it to be so . . ."

"Bad?" Isaac guessed.

"I was going for realistic," I said with a roll of my eyes.

"That's one of the worst ones," he admitted. "I'm better with people."

"I like it," I said, handing him back the book.

"Well, thanks."

I nodded, leaning my head back against the wall and letting him get back to work. As he continued drawing something, I realised that he was smudging the graphite with his thumb, and I frowned in confusion.

"Does that trigger the OCD?"

He glanced up for a second, "What?"

"Like getting graphite on your skin."

"Not always, not most of the time," Isaac answered. "I did like pens, but not because they were cleaner. Just for line art. Art is my getaway, helps me cope, which is why the mess from it won't always stress me out. As much. And, I love it, I get into whatever I'm working on, so focused that everything just fades . . . so, I don't notice."

Line art. I guessed that that meant the finished piece, a step after the sketching if you ever chose to get that far. I liked the sketchy look, at least what Isaac had shown me, which had elements of both all done with a pencil. It was never really something I'd thought about outside of being taught to analyse art or English for school.

Did there have to be a hidden meaning for every choice? I knew how to answer and write essays in a way the teacher wanted me to. I was very good at it, bullshitting reasons for the decisions of people I didn't know. Sure, there were writers and artists that did things in a specific way because it made a point, and made people think, but not everything was like that.

Isaac used a pencil because he didn't have a pen. He did not use a pencil because the grittiness of the material showed how much harder it was to walk in the same world filled with more obstacles than there would've been a few years ago. I internally scoffed, remembering some of the essays I used to write for a grade.

Leaning my head back against the hard wall, I sighed and closed my eyes, realising now just how tired I was. Maybe my sleep would be empty. That was all I could hope for at this point, a good, long sleep.

"Do you get nightmares a lot?" Isaac asked, out of nowhere.

I frowned, my head shooting up. "What?"

"It's just . . . someone who works as much as you do should want to go to sleep, but you either stall or wake up in the middle of the night," Isaac explained. "I just think that maybe there's a reason for that, is all."

Was I really that obvious? I was so dramatic that someone who has spent no less than four weeks in the prison already knew the problems I thought I kept locked inside. Rick was the first person I'd even told how I felt.

But there was Isaac, just figuring all that out without knowing a thing about me. If he knew that, then others at the prison would know. Not that I thought they didn't, but I felt like the more open I was about my issues, the more they saw, the more they would get me to talk about what was going on.

"How would you know that?"

Isaac shrugged. "Just seen you sometimes. I don't do as much work, so I don't go to sleep as early."

"Oh."

I was nodding absently, trying to figure out something else to say, if there was anything else. Isaac was new, he didn't see what happened and didn't have to live through the fights or do the same things to stay alive. I didn't know how much I could tell him without appearing like I was crazy.

"You don't have to answer," he added after a moment of me being quiet, "just curious."

He turned back to his book, I'm assuming because he thought I wouldn't answer him, and I was thinking about whether I even should. Apparently, it was so obvious that I was struggling, at least with sleep, so anything I said would be something he could work out for himself.

I sat up, shifting against the wall again as my mouth hung open, unsure of how I wanted to start the conversation. "I, uh . . . remember how I said that you don't get a lot of time to be scared when bad stuff happens?"

"Yeah," he glanced up, but for the most part, he kept looking at his book, maybe trying to make me more comfortable.

"Well, you get a lot of time to be scared after." That was really the only way I had to explain what I meant. It didn't make too much sense, because all I felt in the fight was fear, but it was different. I was more scared now, thinking about what could've happened, what can still happen and not what did happen. "You get fear responses in a fight because it makes you fight better, but it's not the same as after."

It feels real because it was real.

"Truth is I don't remember a lot of the details," I said. "Most of that is gone. The things that are really frightening are all that gets left behind."

Isaac said nothing, which was when I really heard what I said, which was nothing to my own mind. I shook my head and internally cursed myself.

"That was stupid, just forget it."

"I didn't think so," Isaac said.

"No?" Who were you talking to?

"No," he shook his head. "Everything is frightening now. It . . . it's not fair. We have to deal with a completely different world under the same rules that affected us before." Isaac put his pencil down on the book, pressing his lips into a thin line. "Soldiers used to train for months, years, preparing for something you did in what I'm assuming was a day. And they would still come back scared that they never left. It's the same rules, but it's not the same."

I stared at him and listened.

"You're not a soldier, but you did all the things they would have. The difference is you learnt to do what you did through fear, other scary experiences before the fight," he said. "They learnt under safe conditions, that if something went wrong for them, they could just try again. And you both left the fight the same way."

Different world, same rules. Any soldier could have left a war with PTSD, nightmares, repression, anxiety. Some did. There were charities for veterans who had the stress from their trauma, helping them because it was ruining their lives. Things that would've been easy for them at home became hard. Conditions were better for them, and they still ended up the same way as me, as Rick.

And that's what Isaac was trying to tell me. Maybe he was speaking through just as much experience as I had because everything is frightening. I almost died from a walker the other day, something I'd dealt with hundreds of times. Rick remembers a full world being empty in the blink of an eye. The fighting was just what got me.

"I don't know what you did," Isaac started, breaking me from my train of thought, "and I don't expect you to tell me. I don't think any of that is something I could live through, but you did. That has to count for something."

My chest tightened as I breathed in, thinking about something to answer with.

"If that doesn't help, just remember that if you're having a nightmare, it just means that you're still here to experience one," he said solemnly. "As long as you're here, it won't go away."

Now, I believed that more than anything. It was just like Rick told me: it ain't over, it's gonna hurt too much. I was stupid enough to hope that maybe he was wrong, but Rick was rarely ever wrong. He knew more about this than maybe I ever would.

"It's just hard," I said. "I think it's the reason Rick is taking a step back from leading. We lost a lot, and he thinks what he did in charge, the decisions he made, that they were all just mistakes. I made a few of the same."

"On the council?"

"No, Rick took full leadership before Winter started," I said. "He kept us safe on the road for like, eight months, and then we found this place. And then the war happened. It was just a lot."

"I didn't realise he led alone," Isaac said. "Doesn't seem like the type."

"You didn't see him," I said. "Trust me, if looks could kill we'd have no enemies. He's just trying to get better after all of that. Like me."

"I can see Rick being a scary guy," Isaac nodded after a moment.

"Who knows? Maybe someday you'll see it." I shook my head and sighed. "We should probably lighten the conversation."

"How long have you been a mechanic?" Isaac asked.

"Never, I wasn't allowed to get a licence until I was 16 and the world ended before that, so y'know." Isaac chuckled, but I continued. "My dad used to teach me about cars, and I hung around the garage and worked on not important things."

"So, is there a car that you really want to fix?" Isaac asked. "You know, most mechanics have a dream car, right? So what's yours?"

"A 1967 Chevy Impala," I said with a nod, and continued, "but after that, a fire engine."

"Why a fire engine?" He questioned.

"Have you seen a fire engine?"

Isaac chuckled. "I guess not."

I laughed and smiled. It was nice to have someone else to talk about random stuff with, and Isaac didn't seem to hate me always being around.

"I should go back to my cell," I announced standing up and turning for the door.

"Hey, uh." His voice stopped me. I turned around and met his eyes. "If you're ever stalling for sleep, I'm probably awake. You can stop by."

"Thanks," I nodded.

He didn't look back down at the book this time, his eyes on me until I turned out of the room.

A few days later, I was on watch with Tyreese manning the gate. We just had someone on the gate with Michonne gone, it would be easier than having the one person on watch running down to the gates.

There was no sign of people, fewer walkers with the people who volunteered for the cull crew on the fence. Normally it would have been me and Rick on the fences, but that was before he started with the farm and I started building things around the prison.

A car was coming down the road, and I recognised the reddish-brown colour of the car we'd sent Michonne away in. I expected Tyreese to see it too, and the gate would open for her to come into the prison, but neither gate moved.

When I looked down I saw Tyreese talking to Karen who was supposed to be working the fences. "Ty!" I called out. "Come on! It's her!"

I ran down, ignoring the fact that I was supposed to stay on watch.

She stopped the car in front of the tower and lowered her window when she saw me come out. The window rolled down, and she waited for me as I walked over and stood next to the car, next to Tyreese and Karen.

"Did you find him?" was the first thing I asked. A little rude, but it was all that was on my mind since she left, and she'd been gone for days.

"Not this time." She shook her head. "But I will."

That meant she would be out there again . . .