The pounding at the door startled Abel out of his thoughts. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, absentmindedly pushing around a few bites of mac and cheese on his plate. The sun had already set, leaving the small house in a quiet stillness that felt far too big for just two people.
His dad had promised to be home by now. It wasn't like him to break a promise—not to Abel, anyway.
Another knock came, this one sharper, more urgent. Abel frowned, sliding off his chair. "Coming!" he called out, his small feet padding across the floor.
He opened the door just a crack at first, but what he saw on the other side made him freeze. A tall man in a tan sheriff's uniform stood there, the brim of his hat slightly tilted. His face was pale, his blue eyes rimmed with red, as though he'd been crying.
"Abel," the man said softly, his voice steady but filled with an unbearable weight. He removed his hat and knelt down to Abel's height, his knees hitting the wooden porch. It was only then that Abel recognized him.
"Uncle Rick?" Abel asked, his small voice hesitant.
Rick nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Hey, kiddo," he said gently, his voice trembling.
The words that came next fell like a hammer.
"It's your dad," Rick said. "Cain's… Cain's gone, Abel."
The boy's eyebrows knitted together, confusion flashing in his wide eyes. "What do you mean 'gone'?" he asked, his voice rising slightly.
Rick reached out, his hand resting lightly on Abel's shoulder. "He was in a car accident, son. A drunk driver hit him." His voice cracked, but he forced himself to continue. "He died instantly."
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Abel's ears rang as he stared at Rick, his small hands clutching the edge of the doorframe. He didn't cry, though he thought he might. He didn't even move.
Instead, his heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest.
"What… what happens to me now?" Abel finally asked, his voice breaking. He looked at Rick, his eyes searching for answers, for reassurance, for anything to make the pain go away.
"You'll come live with me," Rick said firmly, pulling Abel into a tight hug. "With me and Lori and Carl. You're family, Abel, and I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."
For a moment, Abel didn't move, his arms hanging limply at his sides. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around Rick's neck, gripping him tightly as though afraid to let go.
"It's not fucking fair," Abel whispered, his voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. "He didn't even do anything wrong!"
Rick's eyes shut tightly, tears slipping down his cheeks as he held his nephew close. "I know," he said quietly. "I know it's not fair. It's not fair at all."
Abel pulled back slightly, his face still dry but his lips quivering. "Why him, Uncle Rick? Why him?"
Rick couldn't answer. There was no answer, and they both knew it. All he could do was hug Abel again, his voice low but resolute.
"I've got you," Rick whispered. "You're not alone, Abel. You'll never be alone."
The boy buried his face in Rick's shoulder, and for the first time, the tears came. Silent, heavy sobs that shook his small body as the reality of the loss settled in.
Rick stayed there on the porch, holding Abel tightly as the world continued to spin around them, forever changed by the loss of Cain Grimes.
Abel floated, weightless. The world around him felt surreal—slowed, hazy, and distant, like a dream he couldn't quite wake from. The scenery rushed by in blurs of green and brown as though he were flying. There was a warmth to the breeze that caressed his face, but then the burning pain flared in his side, sharp and unforgiving, pulling him back to reality.
It was a cruel reminder: he was alive, but barely.
His half-lidded eyes drifted upward, catching sight of Rick's face above him. It was etched with determination, though his panic was impossible to hide. Abel felt every jostling step as Rick ran, cradling him in his arms.
Rick's voice rang out, frantic and hoarse. "How far?! HOW FAR?!"
Behind him, Shane was dragging a large, burly man—Otis—by the collar of his shirt. The man was gasping for air, his face beet red from the exertion of being hauled through the woods. Finally, Otis stumbled, falling to his knees and pointing weakly past Rick.
"A-Another half mile," Otis wheezed, his voice barely audible. "That way… Hershel. Talk to Hershel. He'll help your boy."
Rick didn't hesitate. He shifted Abel's weight in his arms and took off again, his boots pounding against the dirt. Abel's frame was awkward to carry, one leg dragging along the ground, but Rick didn't care. His heart hammered in his chest, the sound deafening in his ears as his breaths came ragged and shallow.
"Let's go!" Shane barked at Otis, yanking him to his feet. "Come on!"
Otis stumbled forward, his legs barely able to keep pace. Guilt weighed on him more heavily than exhaustion, but he didn't complain. He knew what he'd done.
Abel watched the world tilt and blur around him, his body bouncing with Rick's every stride. There was a strange, dreamlike warmth that dulled the pain, making it feel far away. He looked up at Rick's pale, stricken face and managed a dry, raspy chuckle.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Abel murmured, his voice barely audible.
Rick's breath hitched, and he glanced down at his nephew. "Hang on," he said, his voice shaking. "Hang on just a little longer. We'll get you patched up."
Abel's lips curled into a faint, bloodied smile. "I'm okay, Pop," he muttered, his words slurring. "J-Just gotta walk it off is all…"
His head lolled back, his body going limp in Rick's arms.
"No," Rick whispered, panic seizing him. "No, no, no, no!" He pushed his legs harder, faster, ignoring the burning in his calves and the tightness in his chest. "Come on! COME ON!"
Up ahead, a farmhouse came into view, its white exterior standing stark against the wide-open field. A woman stood on the porch, her hand shading her eyes as she squinted at the two figures running toward her. She quickly grabbed a pair of binoculars from a table and raised them to her eyes.
What she saw made her stomach drop: a man with a blood-soaked shirt carrying another who was deathly pale.
She lowered the binoculars, her heart racing as she spun around and shouted into the house, "Daddy!"
The screen door banged open moments later, and an older man stepped out, his face lined with age and wisdom. He squinted into the distance, his expression hardening as Rick and Shane came closer. He strode down the porch steps, meeting them halfway.
Rick stumbled to a stop, his chest heaving as he looked at the older man. "Was he bit?" the man asked curtly, his sharp eyes assessing Abel's condition.
"Shot," Rick said quickly, his voice trembling. "By your man."
A collective gasp came from behind the older man. A woman with a kind face covered her mouth in shock. "Otis?" she asked, her voice shaking.
The older man—Hershel—gave a grim nod and turned back to Rick. "Get him inside. Quickly," he ordered, already climbing the porch steps.
Rick didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled up the stairs, the woman holding the door open as he rushed through. Abel's head lolled against Rick's chest, his pale face streaked with dirt and blood.
"Help me… help my boy," Rick pleaded, his voice breaking as he followed Hershel into the house.
Hershel wasted no time, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt as he barked orders. "Patricia, grab my full kit. Maggie, get painkillers, coagulants, towels, sheets, alcohol. Now."
The two women scattered, their footsteps quick and purposeful as they disappeared down the hall. Hershel led Rick to a small bedroom, stripping the blankets off the bed in one swift motion.
"In here," Hershel said, stepping aside.
Rick gently laid Abel on the bed, his hands trembling as he pulled away. His palms were stained red with blood, and the sight made his breath hitch. He froze, staring at Abel's unmoving body.
"Pillowcase," Hershel snapped, but his words fell on deaf ears.
Rick's eyes stayed fixed on Abel, his voice barely a whisper. "Is he alive?"
Hershel barked, snapping him out of his daze. "Pillowcase, now!"
Rick scrambled to pull the pillow from its case, folding it as instructed. Hershel grabbed Rick's hands and guided them to the wound. "Apply pressure. Harder," he ordered.
Rick pressed down on the wound, his hands shaking. Abel's eyes fluttered open, his teeth gritting against the pain. His gaze wandered, unfocused, until it landed on a blonde woman standing nearby.
"I knew angels were real," Abel muttered weakly before slipping back into unconsciousness.
Hershel grabbed a stethoscope, listening for a heartbeat. Patricia stepped forward with fresh supplies as Maggie set up an IV, her hands quick and practiced.
"I've got a heartbeat," Hershel said finally, his voice steady. "It's faint, but it's there."
Rick let out a shaky breath, his tears falling freely as he stepped back to give them room. Maggie gently touched his arm. "We need space," she said firmly.
Rick nodded numbly, stumbling into the hallway. His legs felt like lead as he made his way to the porch.
Outside, Shane was dragging Otis up the steps. Rick's face was pale, his expression distant as he stared off into the horizon.
"Rick," Shane called, his voice laced with worry.
Rick didn't respond, his mind replaying the sight of Abel's bloodied body over and over.
"Is he alive?" Otis asked, his voice trembling, his face pale with guilt. He stood at the base of the steps, his chest heaving from exertion and fear.
Rick didn't answer immediately. He used the back of his hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, only to realize too late that it smeared Abel's blood across his face. His tears fell freely now, streaking down his bloodstained cheeks like rain on a muddy window.
Shane stepped closer, his voice quiet but firm. "Rick," he said, reaching into his pack and pulling out a rag.
Rick barely acknowledged him, his mind spinning, his chest aching with every thought of Abel lying motionless in the next room. Shane took the rag and gently swiped at the blood on Rick's face, wiping away the smudges in slow, deliberate motions. When he was finished, he pressed the rag into Rick's hands.
"You're covered, man," Shane said softly, nodding toward Rick's shirt and hands. Rick looked down for the first time, seeing the blood soaking his cream-colored shirt, staining his hands, and now smearing the rag Shane had handed him.
"Where is he?" Shane asked, glancing toward the house. "Is he okay?"
Rick didn't respond, couldn't respond. He turned and walked back into the house, his boots heavy against the floorboards. Shane followed, his steps quickening as he caught up.
Inside, Hershel stood at the bedside, his brow furrowed in concentration as he pressed down on the wound. Abel lay pale and still, his breathing shallow. Hershel glanced up briefly as Rick and Shane entered.
"You know his blood type?" Hershel asked, lifting the edge of the makeshift pillowcase rag to inspect the wound.
Rick blinked, struggling to pull himself together. "O-negative," he finally managed, his voice strained.
Hershel nodded sharply. "That'll make things easier," he said. "He's a universal donor. But for a transfusion, we need a match."
Beth's voice, soft but steady, came from the doorway. "I'm O-negative."
Everyone turned to look at her. The young woman stood there, her hands twisting nervously in front of her, but her expression was resolute.
"You're sure?" Hershel asked, his voice calm but tinged with urgency.
Beth nodded, stepping into the room. "I gave blood at the clinic last year. They told me then. I'll do it."
"Good," Hershel said, motioning for her to sit. "Patricia, get the transfusion kit ready."
Patricia nodded and hurried to grab the supplies. Rick watched as Beth moved to sit down near the bed, rolling up her sleeve. He swallowed hard, his throat tight as he tried to process everything.
Meanwhile, Hershel turned his attention to Otis, who had crept into the room behind Shane, his hat in his hands and his eyes red-rimmed. Hershel's voice was firm but not unkind. "What happened, Otis?"
Otis rubbed a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping as he stared at Abel's unmoving body. "I was tracking a buck," he said, his voice shaking. "Bullet went through it… went clean through it. I didn't even see the boy until he was on the ground."
Hershel sighed, lifting the edge of the blood-soaked rag to get a better look at the wound. The bleeding had slowed, but the damage was clear.
"The deer slowed the bullet," Hershel explained, his tone clinical. "That much is obvious—it's the only reason he's alive. But it didn't pass through clean. The bullet fragmented. I'm seeing six, maybe seven pieces." He shook his head, his brow furrowing further. "Hard to tell with all the blood."
Otis's lip quivered, and he turned to Patricia, his hands trembling. She stepped forward, gently taking his hands in hers.
"I never saw him," Otis sobbed, his voice cracking. "Not until he was on the ground… I swear, I didn't see him."
Patricia pulled him into an embrace, rubbing his back in slow, soothing circles. "It was an accident," she whispered. "We'll make it right. We'll do everything we can."
Across the room, Rick's composure cracked further. He turned away, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand, but the tears wouldn't stop. His chest felt tight, and every breath was a struggle.
Shane stepped closer, his eyes flicking between Rick and Abel. "Rick," he said, his voice low, "we gotta keep it together, man."
Rick let out a shaky breath, his gaze locked on the floor. "I can't lose him, Shane," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I can't."
Shane's jaw tightened, his hand resting briefly on Rick's shoulder before falling back to his side.
Patricia returned with the transfusion supplies, and Hershel quickly set to work, connecting the IV to Beth's arm. She winced slightly but didn't complain, her eyes fixed on Abel's pale face.
Rick watched, his hands balling into fists as he tried to keep himself from breaking down completely. Every second felt like an eternity, the sound of Hershel's commands and the movement around the room blending into a dull hum.
For now, all he could do was wait—and hope.
The quiet living room felt suffocating. Every tick of the clock echoed through the silence like a drumbeat, rhythmic and hollow. Rick sat hunched forward, his elbows on his knees, hands interlaced over his mouth. His eyes stared at nothing, fixed somewhere far ahead as if searching for answers in the floorboards.
Beside him, Shane slouched on the couch, his leg bouncing as he ran a hand over his head for what must've been the tenth time. Neither man had spoken since Hershel told them to give him space to work on Abel.
Rick broke the silence first. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his breath shaky, and spoke in a quiet voice that trembled with guilt. "Why'd I let him come with us?" he whispered, his words barely audible. "I should've made him go with the others. I should've—"
"Rick," Shane said firmly, glancing at his friend.
Rick ignored him, his faraway eyes fixated somewhere unseen. "He's just a kid," Rick continued, his voice cracking. "Just a goddamn kid. If I'd—if I'd told him no, none of this would've happened. I let him come. I let him."
Shane sat up straighter, frustration flickering in his eyes as he turned to face Rick. "You start that, man? You'll never get that monkey off your back," Shane said, his voice low but pointed. "He's tough, Rick. He's one tough bastard. You know it, I know it. He's gonna make it through this."
Rick's breath hitched as he dropped his hands, his fingers trembling. "How the hell do you know that?" he asked, his voice rising. "I let him walk into this. I promised Cain I'd—"
His words faltered, his throat tightening painfully. He looked away, blinking hard as tears welled up again. "Cain would hate me for this. He'd hate me, Shane. I let his boy get shot…"
Shane's face softened at Rick's breaking voice. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Rick, listen to me," Shane said steadily. "You can't do that to yourself. You hear me? Cain's not here, but you are. And that kid in there—Abel—he's fightin'. He's fightin' because he's got you. He's got us."
Rick let out a shaky breath, staring at the floor as his shoulders sagged. Before Shane could say more, the door to the right creaked open. Both men turned to see Maggie's worried face peeking through.
"Rick," she said softly, "we need one of you in here." She didn't wait for an answer, disappearing back into the room.
Rick and Shane were on their feet instantly, striding through the slightly ajar door. Inside, the air felt tight, the sharp smell of alcohol and blood thickening the tension.
Hershel stood over Abel, who lay on the bed, squirming slightly as sweat slicked his pale face. Maggie and Patricia worked quietly, gathering supplies nearby. Abel's eyes flickered open as Rick entered, his half-lidded gaze focusing on the blood-soaked shirt Rick wore. A faint smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"Jesus," Abel croaked weakly, his voice rough. "You look like shit."
Rick's chest tightened, but before he could respond, Abel's body spasmed. Patricia tried to hold him still, but he was too strong in his pain-fueled thrashing.
Hershel looked up sharply, his voice firm. "You—hold him down."
Shane didn't hesitate. He moved around the bed and took Patricia's place, his large hands gripping Abel's shoulders firmly. "Squeeze on me if you need to," Shane said, his voice calmer than his face looked.
Abel released his white-knuckled grip on the sheets and latched onto Shane's forearm. His hand shook with the effort, his fingers squeezing so tightly that Shane winced but didn't move. Abel's face contorted as Hershel worked, his teeth gritted against the searing, jagged pain.
"Almost there," Hershel said, his tweezers probing deeper into the wound.
The feeling was unbearable—metal scraping against raw, torn flesh. Abel's body instinctively tried to recoil, but Shane's grip held him down. He clenched his teeth so hard he thought they might crack.
"God, this hurts…" Abel groaned, his voice breaking through the pain.
"I know, son, I know," Hershel said quietly, his focus unwavering. "Just hold on a little longer. One of the fragments is deeper than I thought."
Abel's breathing grew ragged as his eyes darted around the room, searching for something—anything—to distract him. His gaze swept the ceiling, the walls, and finally the people around him: Rick's pale, horrified face; Shane's steady grip; Patricia moving with calm efficiency.
Then he saw her.
Near the open cabinet, a young woman with beautiful blonde hair worked quickly, preparing fresh bandages and medical tools. Her movements were focused, deliberate, but graceful in a way that Abel couldn't explain. For a moment, a strange warmth filled his chest, soothing the agony like a balm. He stared at her, confused by the feeling, but unable to tear his eyes away.
Hershel's tweezers found the fragment, gripping it tightly. The movement sent a jolt of blinding pain through Abel's side. He screamed—a sound of pure, raw anguish—as his back arched off the bed, his body fighting against Shane's hold.
"Hold him still!" Hershel barked, his voice sharp but calm.
Shane grunted, tightening his grip as Abel writhed beneath him. "You're doin' good, kid," Shane muttered through gritted teeth. "Just hold on. Almost there."
Rick stood frozen at the foot of the bed, his hands clenching and unclenching as he watched helplessly. Abel's screams echoed in his ears, but the world seemed to blur around him. Hershel's mouth moved, shouting commands to Patricia and Maggie, but Rick couldn't hear him. Shane was speaking too, his voice firm, but the words were swallowed by the dull hum in Rick's head.
Every second felt like an eternity.
Finally, Hershel pulled the tweezers free, holding up a small, jagged fragment of the bullet. Blood dripped from the metal, staining the tray as he dropped it with a sharp clang.
"One down," Hershel said grimly. "Five or six to go."
The room fell silent except for Abel's ragged breaths and the faint clinking of tools. Rick exhaled shakily, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Abel lay limp now, his grip on Shane's arm loosening as his body slumped into the mattress.
Rick stared at his nephew's pale face, his chest aching as he whispered to himself, "Please… just hold on."
The faint sound of a ticking clock filled the room, steady and relentless. Abel's eyes fluttered open, heavy and unfocused at first, before they settled on the quiet figure beside him. Hershel sat near the bed, his manual blood pressure cuff wrapped tightly around Abel's arm. The older man worked silently, his face calm and steady.
"Pressure's stable," Hershel said absently, his eyes flicking to the gauge.
Abel followed the man's movements as Hershel removed the cuff, releasing the pressure with a soft hiss. He glanced down at his side, the burning pain dulled but still lingering. A fresh patch of gauze was taped over his wound, the blood seeping through just faintly.
Rick sat slumped in a chair next to the bed, his hands clasped together under his chin, as if in silent prayer. His shirt, still stained crimson, clung to him in wrinkles. At the sound of movement, Rick looked up quickly, his tired eyes locking onto Abel.
Hershel gave Abel's arm a quick pat and offered him a small, reassuring smile. "I've stabilized you for now, but you're not out of the woods yet," he said. "There are still five fragments in you, and if they enter your bloodstream, it could poison you."
Abel nodded, understanding but unbothered. He managed a faint smile of his own. "Thank you… for saving my life. I don't think I can ever repay you for that."
"You don't need to," Hershel replied softly. "Just rest for now."
With that, Hershel stood up, smoothing the cuffs of his sleeves as he walked out of the room, leaving Rick and Abel alone. A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall.
Rick leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet, tinged with guilt and exhaustion. "You scared the hell outta me, kid."
Abel chuckled weakly, though it sent a dull ache through his side. "Guess I'm keepin' you on your toes, huh?"
Rick shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You remember that day? When me, you, and your dad went out to the lake?"
Abel's brow furrowed in thought, then his face lit up with recognition. "When I tipped the canoe over? Oh yeah," Abel said with a weak laugh. "Dad was pissed."
Rick finally cracked a smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "He wasn't pissed at you. He was pissed at me for laughing so hard I couldn't pull you back in."
Abel smirked. "Well, you were useless. Just sat there, crackin' up while I dog-paddled in circles."
Rick chuckled softly, his shoulders relaxing just a little. "Your dad gave me hell for that. Said I was a bad influence." He paused, his expression softening. "But he was proud of you, you know? You were just a little kid, and you didn't panic. You got yourself back in that boat."
Abel's smile faltered slightly, and he looked up at Rick, his voice quiet. "I miss him."
Rick's expression grew pained, but he nodded. "I know. I miss him too."
They sat in silence again for a moment, the weight of the past settling between them. Rick reached out and placed a hand gently on Abel's arm. "Get some rest, alright? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."
Abel gave him a small, grateful nod as Rick stood. With one last look at his nephew, Rick turned and walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar behind him.
The sound of the clock ticking filled the quiet space again. Abel stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting from one thing to another—Sophia, the search, the moment the gunshot hit. A dry chuckle escaped his lips, but it quickly turned into a wince of pain as he tried to sit up.
"Shit," he muttered, leaning back awkwardly against the wooden headboard. The burn in his side flared, but he ignored it, staring blankly at the wall across from him.
The door creaked open softly. Abel turned his head just enough to see the girl from earlier—her blonde hair catching the light as she stepped in. Her eyes were downcast as she closed the door behind her, but when she looked up, she noticed his awkward position.
"That doesn't look comfortable," she said, a small, amused smile tugging at her lips.
Abel smirked and gestured lazily to the wall. "Well, staring at the ceiling got boring. Figured, why not stare at this here wall instead? Lot of character, you know."
She giggled, shaking her head as she walked over to him. "Either way, you're not supposed to be sitting up."
She perched herself on the edge of the bed and grabbed a piece of fresh gauze from the small table nearby. Abel instinctively pushed her hand away, though it lacked any strength.
"You should save that," he muttered.
She ignored him, smiling kindly. "You're leaking through, and we have to change it regularly. Daddy's orders."
Abel sighed in mock defeat, watching her peel back the tape and gently remove the soiled gauze. The cool air stung the raw wound, but he gritted his teeth and stayed still. Her hands were gentle as she cleaned around it with a damp rag, her focus entirely on her task.
"You're the boss," Abel joked through a weak smirk.
She glanced at him with a small giggle, then quickly looked away. For a moment, neither of them said anything, the silence feeling surprisingly comfortable. Abel couldn't stop watching her—the way her hair swayed with her movements, the determined set of her brow. That same strange warmth filled his chest, easing his pain in a way he didn't understand.
Finally, she caught him staring and raised an amused eyebrow. "Either there's something on my face… or you think I'm pretty."
Abel blinked, his face heating up. "I-I just think you're the prettiest girl I've ever seen," he stammered, the words tumbling out awkwardly.
Her cheeks flushed pink, and a shy smile tugged at her lips as she taped the fresh gauze over his wound. "You're not so bad yourself, considering you look like you got run over."
Abel chuckled softly, his gaze still fixed on her as she set the used bandage in a nearby tray. "I never got your name," he said quietly.
She looked at him with a playful glint in her eyes. "You never asked," she teased, standing up and heading for the door. "Besides… Daddy doesn't like it when boys hang around me."
Abel raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. "I'm Abel. Now may I know your name?"
She paused at the door, her hand resting on the knob. Turning slightly, she looked back over her shoulder, her blonde hair cascading softly around her face. "It's Beth," she said, her voice light but warm.
With that, she slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Abel stared at the door for a moment, a grin spreading across his face as he finally let his head drop back against the pillow. Beth, he thought. To him, she really was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.
The hours dragged on endlessly, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity as Abel lay in bed, a bored look plastered on his face. He stared at the ceiling, his mind drifting aimlessly, when the door suddenly swung open with a loud bang.
Abel jolted, his head snapping to the doorway. Carl burst in, his face lit up with a grin, followed closely by Rick and Lori.
"I knew you'd be okay! I just knew it!" Carl said brightly, rushing to Abel's bedside.
Abel couldn't help but chuckle, though his voice was rough. He reached out a hand and ruffled Carl's hair gently. "That so? You're gonna have to work on your faith, kid—you were worried, weren't you?"
Carl shook his head fiercely, his grin never fading. "Not one bit!"
Rick stepped up next, a sandwich in hand as he sank into the chair beside the bed. Abel's eyes immediately zeroed in on the PB , amusement flickering in his tired expression.
"I didn't think you had it in you," Abel said, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smirk.
Rick raised an eyebrow mid-bite, his mouth full of food. "Why's that?"
Abel chuckled, shaking his head slightly. "You hate jelly."
Carl's eyes widened as he looked from Abel to Rick. "You hate jelly?"
Rick swallowed his bite and gave a small shrug, trying to play it off. "It's the texture," he admitted. "It's slimy, too sweet… doesn't sit right."
Lori, standing at the foot of the bed, let out a quiet laugh, surprising even herself. "Oh, he hates jelly," she confirmed, a rare smile pulling at her lips. "One time I made him a PB for lunch, and he gagged like I'd poisoned him."
"Nearly did," Rick muttered under his breath, earning a soft chuckle from Abel.
Abel shook his head, nostalgia warming his face. "You're missin' out, Rick. My mom—man, she could make a mean peanut butter and banana sandwich. You didn't live until you had one of those on a Sunday morning."
Rick's expression softened as he listened, a fondness glimmering in his eyes. "She used to make 'em for Cain and me too, you know. He'd eat three in one sitting like it was nothin'."
"Like father, like son," Lori added quietly, her smile lingering as she glanced at Abel.
Abel laughed softly, though it made his side twinge. "Yeah, well, bananas taste better when you don't gotta fight for 'em. My dad'd steal mine straight off my plate and say it was the tax for rent."
Carl laughed, his face lighting up. "That sounds like something you'd do, Dad."
Rick smirked. "What can I say? Must run in the family."
The room fell into a comfortable silence, the kind only shared by family reminiscing about old times. For a moment, things felt… normal. The weight of the day lifted, replaced by a warmth that made the sterile farmhouse bedroom feel just a little less cold.
The door creaked open again, and the air shifted as Hershel entered. The older man's face was serious, his eyes holding an edge of worry as he approached Abel's bedside and settled into the chair Rick had vacated.
"Abel," Hershel began, his voice calm but firm, "I need to talk to you about something important."
Abel's smile faded as he looked at the man. "Shoot."
"You need an operation," Hershel said. "Earlier, I told you we still had five bullet fragments to get out. There's a risk—if those fragments enter your bloodstream, they could poison you. You've got two choices."
Abel's eyebrows furrowed as he listened intently.
"We can wait for your man to return with the supplies. If he brings back what we need, I can operate quickly and safely," Hershel continued. "Or… we do it now. But without a sedative, it will be extremely painful. You need to decide."
Abel opened his mouth to respond, but his mind suddenly blanked, his words caught somewhere between thought and speech. His smile vanished, his eyes glazed over, and his face slackened.
Rick's heart dropped. "Abel?"
Abel's body went limp for half a second—then he began to shake violently. His limbs jerked, his back arched off the bed, and his head slammed against the pillow. The bed creaked and banged against the wall, rocking wildly under the force of his seizure.
"Abel?!" Rick shouted, lunging toward him, panic etched across his face.
Hershel shot to his feet, yanking the blankets and pillows away in one swift motion. "It's a seizure!" he barked. "Don't touch him—don't hold him down! You'll hurt him!"
Carl reeled back, his small face contorting in fear. He reached for Abel's hand instinctively, but Hershel caught his wrist gently, stopping him.
"Stay back, son," Hershel said firmly.
Rick staggered back a step, his chest heaving as he watched helplessly. "Can't you stop it?!" he demanded, his voice cracking.
Hershel's face was grim as he shook his head. "He has to go through it."
Lori buried her face into Rick's shoulder, her body trembling. "Oh my God," she whispered, tears streaming down her cheeks. Rick wrapped an arm around her, though his own hands shook violently.
Carl turned away from the bed, running to Lori and burying his face in her stomach. "Make it stop!" he cried, muffling his sobs.
The seizure seemed to last forever, the rhythmic slamming of the bed against the wall echoing through the room. Finally, Abel's body stilled. His limbs fell limp, his head lolled to the side, and his breathing slowed, each rise and fall of his chest faint but steady.
Hershel leaned over, peeling Abel's eyelids back to check his eyes. Bloodshot. He cursed under his breath, pressing his fingers to Abel's neck to check his pulse.
"His brain isn't getting enough blood," Hershel said sharply, his voice urgent. "His pressure's bottoming out—he needs another transfusion."
Beth appeared in the doorway as if summoned, her face pale but resolute. "I'll do it," she said quickly.
Hershel's head snapped toward her, concern flickering in his eyes. "Beth, you already gave blood earlier today. It's not safe—"
"I can do it," Beth interrupted, stepping into the room. "He needs it. I'm O-negative, Daddy. I can help him."
Hershel hesitated, his face etched with conflict. Finally, he sighed, nodding reluctantly. "Alright," he said softly. "Get the kit."
Beth disappeared, leaving the room buzzing with tension. Rick stood frozen, his gaze locked on Abel's pale face. Lori clutched Carl tightly, whispering soft reassurances to the terrified boy.
Rick's voice broke the silence, hoarse and raw. "He's gonna make it. He has to."
Hershel placed a steadying hand on Rick's shoulder. "We're doing everything we can," he said quietly.
Outside, the faint sound of footsteps signaled Beth's return, carrying the transfusion supplies. As she stepped up to Abel's bedside, her hands steady despite her pale face, she glanced at him with quiet determination.
"I told you I'd take care of you," she whispered softly, though Abel couldn't hear her.
The room fell silent again, filled only with the soft beeping of equipment and the weight of unspoken prayers.
The room was bathed in faint shadows, the only light a weak glow from the lamp in the corner. The crickets and cicadas outside droned relentlessly, their song drifting through the open window. Hershel sat beside Abel's bed, his lined face set in quiet concentration as he checked the young man's vitals for what felt like the hundredth time.
The blood pressure gauge fell lower and lower as the cuff hissed. Hershel's brows furrowed deeply as he glanced at Rick, who hadn't moved from his spot at Abel's side.
"He's still losing blood faster than we can replace it," Hershel said, his voice grave but steady. "And with the swelling in his abdomen… we can't wait any longer. If we do, he'll slip away."
Rick's heart sank into his stomach as Hershel added, "I need to know—right now—if you want me to do this, because I think your boy is out of time."
Rick couldn't breathe. Abel looked peaceful in his unconscious state, his pale face still and unmoving, as if none of the past hours had happened.
Hershel's words echoed in his head like a gunshot, but Rick's mind wandered somewhere else entirely—the porch.
Earlier that night
The porch creaked under Rick's boots as he stepped outside, his arms crossed over his chest. Lori stood near the railing, her hands gripping it tightly as she stared out into the dark fields.
"He's fighting, Lori," Rick said quietly, his voice taut. "Hershel can save him. We just need time—"
"Time?" Lori's voice cracked as she spun around, her face etched with anguish. "You saw what happened to him in there, Rick! That seizure… God, it was like he was already gone."
Rick flinched, the words hitting harder than they should have. "He's not gone," he said firmly, though his voice wavered. "Not yet."
Lori shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. "You can't keep pretending everything will be fine. What if Hershel can't help him? What if this is it? You need to start preparing yourself."
Rick's eyes blazed with defiance as he took a step forward. "I can't do that. Not for him. Not for Cain." He swallowed hard, his voice lowering. "I promised my brother I'd look after him, Lori. I won't let him go—not now, not ever."
"Rick…" Lori's voice softened, though the tears fell freely. "If you keep holding on and he doesn't make it… it's going to break you."
Rick turned away, gripping the brim of his hat so tightly his knuckles turned white. "He's not dying tonight," he said, his voice like stone. "I won't let him."
Back to the present
"You have to make a choice!" Hershel's voice snapped Rick back to the room, his sharp tone cutting through the haze of his thoughts.
Rick's gaze fell on Abel again, his chest rising and falling faintly, his face pallid. Tears welled in Rick's blue eyes as he nodded shakily, his throat tight.
"W-We do it," Rick stuttered, his voice breaking.
Hershel shot to his feet. "Alright. Let's move," he said briskly, his calm professionalism taking over. He hurried to the door, calling Patricia and Maggie. Within seconds, they returned, rolling in a metal table on wheels and carrying supplies.
"Okay," Hershel barked, "get that corner of the bed. Let's get the sheets down and move the IV bag over. Careful."
Rick complied, his movements mechanical, his mind numb as he set the IV next to Abel's head. He carefully removed the pillow, lowering Abel's head back down gently as if he might wake him.
"On three," Hershel ordered. "One… two… three!"
Together, Rick, Hershel, Maggie, and Patricia lifted Abel from the bed using the bloodied sheet as a sling and transferred him onto the cold metal table. Patricia placed a covered tray of surgical tools near Hershel, her hands trembling only slightly. Moments later, she darted out and returned with a large lamp, tearing the shade off and flipping it on. Bright light flooded the room.
Hershel pulled on a pair of surgical gloves, the faint snap of the latex punctuating the tension. He took a scalpel and hovered it near Abel's abdomen, pausing for just a moment.
"Rick, Carl," Hershel said without looking up, his voice calm but firm. "You may want to step out."
Before Rick could respond, a faint sound pierced the night—a low rumble of an approaching vehicle. Everyone froze. Moments later, the sound of a metal door slamming shut echoed through the house.
Rick strode to the window, pulling back the curtain. His eyes widened when he saw Shane limping toward the porch, two heavy bags slung over his shoulders.
"It's Shane," Rick said, relief flooding his voice. "He's back."
Hershel exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable as he set the scalpel down and stepped back. "Maggie, come on."
Rick, Lori, and Hershel hurried outside to meet Shane as he staggered up to the porch. His face was pale, streaked with sweat, his breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts. He swayed slightly under the weight of the bags.
Hershel immediately took one of the bags from him, his hands steady but his expression tight. "Abel?" Shane asked, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.
"There's still a chance," Rick replied, a small, hopeful smile breaking through the exhaustion.
Shane nodded faintly, but his gaze was distant, haunted. Hershel glanced past him toward the truck, expecting to see Otis emerge from the passenger side. When nothing moved, he turned to Shane.
"Otis?" Hershel asked carefully.
Shane froze, his wide eyes darting to Hershel and then to the others. He swallowed hard, his jaw working as if he couldn't form the words. Finally, he shook his head, his voice barely audible.
"No…"
The word lingered in the air, heavy and final. Shane's gaze darted around frantically, like he was trying to escape something no one else could see. Hershel's face fell, his breath catching in his throat as grief flickered through his expression. But there was no time for mourning. Not yet.
He looked back at Rick, his voice clipped and professional. "We say nothing to Patricia—not yet. I need her focused."
Rick nodded, though his eyes lingered on Shane, who looked like he might collapse under the weight of both the bags and whatever demons had followed him back.
"Come on," Hershel said briskly, turning back toward the house with the bag of supplies. "Let's save that boy."
The group followed him inside, leaving Shane alone on the porch. He sank onto the steps, his breath hitching as he ran a shaking hand through his sweat-soaked hair.