Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

PART I

Original Main Characters

Summer Fontana

as

Adeline Dixon (S1E0 - S3E16)

Pinterest: https://br.pinterest.com/moonlit_quill/adeline-dixon/adeline-s1e0-s3e16/

You could let it all go

It's called free fall

It's called free fall"

—Rainbow Kitten Surprise. It's Called: Freefall.

 

"Weren't we the stars in Heaven?

Weren't we the salt in the sea?

Dragon in the new warm mountain

Didn't you believe in me?"

—Adrianne Lenker. anything.

"Something in the orange

Tells me we're not done"

—Zack Bryan. Something in the Orange.

—Flawed Mangoes. Swimming.

—Richy Mitch & The Coal Miners. Evergreen.

༻⁕༺

Norman Reedus

as

Daryl Dixon

Pinterest: https://br.pinterest.com/moonlit_quill/daryl-dixon/

"Our mother has been absent

Ever since we founded Rome

But there's gonna be a party when the wolf comes home"

—The Mountain Goats. Up the Wolves.

"You were always the wrong guy... 'Til you weren't"

—X-23. Deadpool & Wolverine. 2024.

"There's a theory that says

you don't exist unless

someone calls

and you respond"

—Sam Sax. Hydrophobia.

"You came"

"You called"

—Sandman. 2022.

"If I get too close,

And I not how you hoped,

Forgive my northern attitude,

Oh, I was raised out in the cold"

—Noah Kahan. Northern Attitude.

"It's a lonely road

For the tired man"

—The Lumineers. Gale Song

"Villain and violent

Infant and innocent

Baby, both arms cradle you now

Both arms cradle you now"

—Adrianne Lenker. forwards beckon rebound.

༻⁕༺

Alex Pettyfer

as

Jason Dixon

Pinterest: https://br.pinterest.com/moonlit_quill/jason-dixon/

"I was far too scared to hit him

But I would hit him in a

heartbeat now"

—Sam Fender. Seventeen Going Under.

༻⁕༺

Halley Bennet

as

Lillian Dixon

Pinterest: https://br.pinterest.com/moonlit_quill/lillian-dixon/

༻⁕༺

Kristine Froseth

as

Serena McAllister

Pinterest: https://br.pinterest.com/moonlit_quill/serena-mcallister/

༻⁕༺

Josh Brolin

as

Mason Dixon

༻⁕༺

Foxy

༻⁕༺

Notes on Part I:

* This first part covers the time period before Adeline, Daryl and Merle make their way to Atlanta, where Of Blood and Hope will cover the events of the show as they happen.

* It contains a few chapters, including flashbacks.

* It takes place right at the beginning of the outbreak.

* This first part will move very slowly, and it is so for a reason, so please, just hang tight :) This part is essential to understand my main characters and their dynamics, and to explain why things happen the way they do in Part II :3

* I promise your patience will be worth it.

༻⁕༺

General Notes:

This is my first-ever story. It's been on my mind for literally years. I never put it down on paper until about 2020, but only now (2024) I came to believe that I could actually write something.

The story will follow the events of the series, though there will be some changes to the timeline and the flow of certain events, especially in the road to Terminus, the Saviors' arc and the time skip in season 9.

Just to be clear, it is NOT a Carl x OC fanfiction. They are besties. Adeline's love interest is an male OC.

Adeline will not change the outcome of the main events and arcs, but even though I will stay true to Daryl's character, she will inevitably influence some of his decisions. After all, he will be a father, and we'll have to stay true to that fact.

The ages of Lillian, Merle, Mason, and Daryl are not explicitly mentioned in either the story or the show. However, to align with the narrative and maintain consistency, I've decided to set their ages at the beginning of the fic as follows: Lillian and Daryl are both 36, Mason is 41, and Merle is 45. It is probably younger than they actually are at the show, but those adjustments were necessary.

I'll try to update the story at least once a month, but sometimes my schedule gets a little tight, so apologies in advance.

As the story advances, I will update Adeline's face claim.

Also, English isn't my first language, so any corrections and feedback are more than welcome.

Hope you guys love it 🦊

༻⁕༺

Original Characters (Soon):

Raffey Cassidy as Diana Hargrove

Stephen Amell as Andrew Hargrove

Timothy Olyphant as William Hargrove

Mireille Enos as Sabine Hargrove

༻⁕༺

Trigger Warnings:

Violence: Given that it's set in The Walking Dead universe, there will be scenes of violence and gore.

Abuse: Mention and description of abusive relationships.

Mental Health: Mention of mental health issues, including trauma, depression, and bipolar disorder.

Death: There will be character deaths, which could be unsettling for some readers.

Chapter Text

"Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating off the last sweet bite."

—Joy Harjo. Perhaps the World Ends Here.

༻⁕༺

The girl was woken up by a knock on the door, the sound pulling her from the grasp of a restless sleep. For a brief moment, she was disoriented, not recognizing where she was. Her gaze moved around the room, taking in the familiar posters on the walls and the clutter of sports gear—she was in her brother's room. The previous night came rushing back and her chest felt tight, as if something were pressing her from the inside.

The ache in her heart, the electricity passing through her veins—she knew those feelings all too well. She lay still for a moment, trying to steady her racing heart, but the tension from the night before lingered, refusing to let go of her.

"Adeline, wake up," her mother's voice called from the doorway. "Breakfast is ready."

The ten-year-old sat up straight in the bed, still clinging tightly to Foxy, her stuffed fox, noticing her brother wasn't there. Adeline figured that Jason had probably woken up earlier than everyone else to make breakfast. The kids were used to that routine. They both knew that after what had happened the night before, their mother would likely be too worn out to make it, which usually meant a difficult morning for everyone. They needed today to go smoothly, without any troubles—it was an important day for both of them.

"Mornin', Momma," Adeline said, her voice hoarse, rubbing her eyes. But her mother had already left, leaving the girl alone in the room.

Adeline jumped off her brother's bed, her feet hitting the cold floor, and hurried to her own bedroom. Once there, she carefully placed the fox in the middle of her pillows, beside her copy of The Fellowship of the Ring—an attempt to calm herself, from the night before.

The stuffed toy was a bit dirty and too worn out, but it was her most prized possession—she had it since she was a baby. She couldn't remember if she named it like that because that's what her mother used to call her or if it was the other way around. But it didn't matter; Foxy had always been Foxy.

Adeline stepped down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen, where the warm scent of freshly made pancakes greeted her. The space was small, with wooden cabinets and a round table anchoring the center.

Standing by the stove, focused as he flipped the pancakes in the pan, was Jason. The sixteen-year-old was tall and lean, with curly blonde hair and eyes that mirrored their mother's green. Jason's brows were slightly furrowed and Adeline watched him for a moment, wondering if he was as worried about that day as she was.

As Adeline sat by the table, she glanced at her mother, trying to assess her state. Her mother's blonde hair was in a loose ponytail and her eyes, the same as every morning for the past couple of months: green and sad and distant. Those eyes would scare her sometimes, as if her mother could disappear at any moment. She had watched her break many times before.

But there were moments when her mother's eyes were far more terrifying. In those times, they would ignite with a restless energy, wild and frantic, as if something inside her was on the verge of snapping. To her daughter, those eyes meant caution, and when her mother did snap, Adeline knew that it was somebody else who would stare back at her.

But there was a sense of familiarity in all of this, wasn't it? Watching. Preparing. That was mostly what her routine in the mornings was like.

"Mornin'," Mason Dixon announced as he walked to the kitchen. They all greeted back—they knew better than not to.

As expected, the sound of her father's voice triggered that electric sensation on Adeline again, sending a jolt through her and tensing her body. Along with it came something else, sharper, more dangerous, spreading through her like a plague.

Adeline pressed her nails into her palms. She often thought of her emotions as a blurry picture, too many colors bleeding into one another, creating an image she could never fully understand. Her anger was too raw and nameless, and sometimes, it would hurt more than her fear.

Her father sat down in his chair, already dressed in a crisp blue dress shirt and dark tie—his usual attire as the manager of the construction store. His dark hair was neatly combed, with a few strands falling rebelliously onto his forehead. His beard, thick and well-kept, framed a strong jawline, and his eyes, a piercing shade of blue like hers, were taking in the room with casual silence.

"Adeline, pour me some coffee," her dad asked and she quickly obeyed, biting her lip to avoid saying anything. It was always better not to speak unless spoken to, especially in the mornings.

Dad hates mornings.

As she poured the coffee, her eyes flickered toward him, discreetly studying his face, searching for any hints that could indicate what the morning would be like. He wasn't pale, and his eyes were clear—no hangover today. Those were good signs, she believed. He looked calm, but that usually didn't mean much. So Adeline decided to wait. The kids knew that, more often than not, the best course of action was to stay silent and let their father set the mood.

Watch. Brace yourself.

Adeline's fingers were unconsciously pressing into her palms again, but as Jason sat at the table, he placed a plate in front of her. He gently held her hand, snapping her back to reality and gestured to the plate: a smiley face made out of pancakes, with chocolate chips for eyes and a syrupy grin.

Suddenly, all the bad feelings inside her seemed to dissipate. Adeline blinked, surprised, and let out a small giggle, looking at her brother. Jason now wore that smile that sparkled with something sad and something happy.

It didn't last long, though. It never did. Adeline's smile slowly faded as her father's voice cut through the room once again:

"Big game today, huh?"

Jason met his father's gaze. "Yeah," he said. "First game of the season."

Last term, Jason had earned his spot as running back after months of sweat, bruises, and late-night practices. His football matches weren't news, but this time, there was a subtle difference—a small, unspoken relief: his father wouldn't be at the game, which, among other things, allowed them all, in different ways, a small glint of freedom.

Mason leaned back in his chair. "Better be ready," he said in an easy, calm tone. "Your mother and I are expectin' a lot from you tonight, ain't we, honey?"

Lillian's eyes, that up until that moment were fixed on the table, found their way up to Jason. Adeline noticed as she bit her lips and as her knuckles turned white holding her coffee mug. The look she gave her son, though, Adeline didn't understand, but Jason did. They were pleading.

Just play along, please.

Jason's lips twitched. He let out a quiet scoff, barely shaking his head. "Yeah, wouldn't wanna disappoint ya, Dad."

Adeline's eyes immediately turned to her brother, wide, as her father's narrowed, locking onto Jason. "Wha' was that?" he demanded, his voice taking on a sharper edge.

Jason shrugged, meeting his father's gaze with forced indifference. "Just sayin' I got it. I'm ready," he replied, this time without the edge, as if he meant nothing by it and Mason's eyes stayed fixed on Jason for what felt like a long, suffocating moment before he leaned back in his chair.

"Good," he replied. "So let's not fuck things up and make things harder 'round here, a'right?"

Beside him, Adeline wanted to scream, that burning feeling threatening to take hold of her again. But inside her head, her father's words echoed, equal in volume and intensity: a reminder to what he had taught her. A reminder to the consequences of letting that part of her win. That part of her that was her mother's.

Adeline's hands closed to a fist and she suddenly felt very small.

A familiar pressure coiled tight in Jason's chest. He caught Adeline's eyes, the ones that could never hide the fact that she felt everything, and took a deep breath. To everything he would do at the field, there would be a reflection back home, but he always knew that, didn't he? That game was important to yet one person beside himself. He would even say his sister needed it more than he did.

"Right," Jason said, trying not to look as defeated as he felt inside and Mason stood up from his chair in a slow movement. His gaze flickering among his children and wife and Adeline felt her body stiffen, breath hitching in her throat. Beside her, Jason straightened his posture, eyes steady as they met their father's stare.

"I'm headin' to work." His tone was casual and he turned towards his wife, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She barely moved, lips twitching into the faintest of smiles. Adeline saw as her father's gaze shifted back to Jason. His expression was tight, strained; her father's, starkly calm. In her father's face, the shadow of a smile, but her brother's jaw was clenched so hard that Adeline thought it would crack.

But Adeline knew, as one does when standing face to face with a wolf, that there were two moments: the moment to watch and the moment to attack. In the first, you wait—still, silent—giving it what it wants, hoping that will be enough. If you fail, there's nothing you can do except to brace yourself for what's coming. Adeline knew this was the first, as if it were an instinctive reaction from her body. She didn't move and her hands curling tighter and tighter into fists.

The sound of her father's pickup truck pulling out of the driveway felt like a release. A breath she didn't realize she was holding left her throat and her fists unclenched slowly. Her palms ached from the pressure of her nails digging into her skin.

Silence settled in the room. As the adrenaline from the brief interaction left her body, Adeline began to feel the effects of its departure. Although relieved that he left, she felt like crying. Adeline would cry quite often, quite alone. Oh, how she hated it—the way the tears came so easily, how they felt like a betrayal of her own strength. It hurt. Same as her anxiety. Same as her anger.

Jason was still and his eyes were fixed on the door, muscles in his arms still tight. He was restless. There was still a little mission to fulfill that morning, one that could put a smile on his sister's face and was just as important to him as his football match. So, even though Jason still felt odd about asking his mother for permission regarding Adeline, he said:

"I was thinkin' about takin' Addie to the game with me today."

Adeline's eyes snapped to her mother, suddenly bright with anticipation. For a second, she had forgotten, even though the girl had been counting down the days for it, ever since they found out her father wasn't going this time.

An important meeting with some important people, or something of the sort.

But it didn't matter, because Adeline wouldn't have to tiptoe around her father this time, only to find she wasn't allowed to go at the end. She would watch her brother play and that was it. There was the detail of her mother, of course, but usually—you see, usually—when Jason decided something, she had a tendency of not to meddle.

Her mother looked at her, the emptiness in her eyes replaced by a flicker of annoyance. She took a deep breath, expression hardening. "Don't see why it's still on," she muttered, frustration simmering in her voice. "Whole damn world's fallin' apart and they wanna play football."

Adeline's heart sank. Apparently, some parents were pressuring the principal to cancel the game that night due to unsettling news on the television. That same week, she had overheard students discussing the attacks that had been happening in the streets of Paris and London. Even some teachers had whispered about it, mentioning something about a new drug, maybe a terrorist attack even, but they fell silent once they noticed Adeline listening. One of her classmates had even missed school the previous day because of it.

Her father had dismissed the concerns, calling her out for being so startled by media sensationalism. Adeline tried to let go of her fears, but then, the night before, she walked past the television while he was watching and saw helicopter footage of a highway near Atlantic City: a man hunched over another man's stomach. The man lying down was writhing in complete horror, using all his strength to overpower the man above him. The horrific amount of blood in the scene made one thing clear: he was being eaten. The police shot the attacker several times before he finally went down.

Wide-eyed, Adeline was too shocked by the scene to notice her father. After a long talk with him, she was sent to her room with an empty stomach and hands closed into fists.

The beginning of her night had been restless and she was too scared to close her eyes due to the nightmares waiting for her. Reading helped for a while until she finally lost hope of rest when she heard the shouting from her parents' room, followed by the sounds of glass breaking and furniture being thrown around.

As always happened when they argued, Adeline ran to her brother's room with Foxy in her arms. Jason, already awake and probably expecting her, moved over to make space and lifted the blanket for her to climb in. They sang Blackbird, by the Beatles, until the little girl finally fell asleep.

"It's important, Momma," Adeline said, her mother's resistance giving her a new wave of strength. "I really wanna go."

"It's just a game, Mom," Jason added. "They're just tryin' to keep things normal, I guess." He shrugged. "Heard they might even have the cops there, just in case."

Unsure of what to think, Adeline frowned. The idea of police at the game made her nervous, as if things were getting a somehow too real. It was a different kind of anxiety, one she couldn't quite name. One that would turn the monster into a man and her nightmares into reality.

"Serena's gonna be there with us, Momma," Adeline tried. "We'll be careful."

Lillian's answear was nothing but a rough sigh, so Jason played his final card, one that he knew would go straight to her heart. "Mom, she needs this. It'd be really good for Adeline to get outta the house."

Adeline's gaze flickered between Jason and their mother, pondering. It was her chance—a small window. "Yeah, Mom," she said. "Adeline would very much like to get outta the house."

Feeling somewhat victorious, Adeline smiled. Her lousy attempt to make a joke earned a chuckle from Jason and a faint smile from their mother, and it was just enough to lift all the lingering shadows left behind by her father.

Left behind by the memory of the man on the television.

Her mother sighed and her shoulders almost relaxed. "You will behave," she said, looking at Adeline. "And y'all better be back by ten."

Jason nodded. "We will, I promise."

"I mean it, Jason," she added, her voice more serious. "Just stay outta trouble. We don't need to give your father any reason to get involved."

Adeline frowned, her nails digging into her palms once again as her mother's words forced her to confront a thought she had been trying to avoid all week.

Most of the few times her father had allowed her watch the game with them had turned into a disaster. No matter how hard she tried, she always seemed to do something wrong. Adeline had convinced herself that now would be different—after all, their father wouldn't be there with them.

But what if she messed up again? Adeline had been doing so well lately. Despite the previous night, she had done almost nothing to get her father mad at her.

But what if her mistakes followed her home? What if her father decided to take her actions out on everybody next time? She could never tell what the price would be and that haunted her more than anything else.

Jason noticed his sister's blue eyes drifting downward and her small hand clenching into a tight fist. He gently pried her fingers open, stopping her from hurting herself. "It's gonna be fine, Addie," Jason said. "We've talked abou' this."

Yes, they had. Jason had tried to explain, to make her see that all those times her father got mad at her were just because she was being a kid and no one was going to tell on her for being a kid, but the knot on her stomach not once left her. That day, the sun was going down and Adeline's fears were threatening to take hold of her again.

I wish I could be a wolf, Adeline had said, her arms folded beneath her head like a pillow as she gazed at the pink sky. The grass was pricking her skin, but she didn't mind. Her feelings and emotions were something she couldn't always untangle, but there were times when looking at the world as if through the pages of a book would bring her some sense of clarity. That had been one of those times.

A wolf? Jason chuckled beside her. Why a wolf?

A wolf is big, was her answer. It protects its pack. It's not everyone who can stand against it, don't ya think?

Yeah, I suppose. But what about the fox? he asked, lifting Foxy in his hand.

Adeline thought about it for a moment. Well, the fox 's cunnin'.

Yeah?

And unstoppable.

Agreed.

She outsmarts everyone, doesn't she? And she's strong, too, I think. In a way. Even though she's small.

Yeah. In that moment, she could feel Jason's eyes on her. Yeah, she is.

Then, the chirping of birds and the stridulation of the cicadas had filled the silence between them. Adeline saw a flock of birds flying through the sky. I think you are the bird.

Really? Jason chuckled once again. Why?

When ya are on your Harley, it's when you're flyin', she answered without hesitation. It hadn't been the first time she thought about it. And the bird isn't afraid of the wind, even if it's strong, she continued. Because it flies its own path. It's free.

Then, Jason had looked at her just as he was looking at that very moment, giving her that smile, the one meant only for her: sad, but happy. There was anything about it that brought back what she had felt just moments ago: small, powerless to help him. But this, Adeline though, this I can do.

Maybe this time, if not the wolf, she could be the bird. As Jason was.

"Addie?" he called.

Adeline nodded to her brother. "I'll be there," she managed to say.

"Atta, girl," Jason smiled. "Everythin' 's gonna be just fine, right, Foxy?"

Foxy. He called her Foxy. The name alone brought her heart back to a steadier rhythm, and she managed to give him a real smile.

"Right," she whispered softly, more to herself than anyone else.

Deep inside, she made a quiet promise: today would be a good day.

It had to be.

Chapter Text

"The present changes the past. Looking back you do not find what you left behind."

—Kiran Desai. The Inheritance of Loss.

"It makes me tremble. To think back. I remember exactly how I thought life would be."

—Anne Carson. The Beauty of The Husband.

༻⁕༺

Adeline found safety in her stories.

As her heart longed to be far away, where her ghosts couldn't reach her and the adventures and the beauties of the world were just a step away, she could easily find refuge within them, as they intertwined with her own life.

Jason had his Harley. Adeline had her books.

She could read a relatively large book in a weekend or even less, sometimes. Once she began a book that was particularly good, she could never stop. Exhaustion, the end, or Jason calling her name usually marked her finishing lines.

But one of the reasons Adeline read as often as she did was because, in those moments, she could see herself free from the thoughts and emotions that, unforgivingly, haunted her mind. For just a moment, Adeline Dixon could be courageous and bold. Dauntless. Fearsome instead of fearful. For a few hours she was the wolf.

Lost in the pages of The Fellowship of the Ring, Adeline could have stayed there for hours longer, nestled among her cushions on the floor by the window. But the sun was casting an orange light through the lace curtains, dancing with the wind as it touched the pages of her book. The sunset meant it was now time to leave.

Adeline made her way to the wardrobe. Her hand reached for a white long-sleeved shirt on the hanger, but she hesitated. Her fingers traced the beaded cuff bracelet on her wrist, instead. She'd made it with Serena, Jason's girlfriend, a few months ago when summer began. It had beads of different sizes, colored in pink, purple, and gold. It was a compromise, as the older girl had said. Long-sleeved shirts were fine for most of the year, but apparently, not during the summer. So both Serena and Jason had come up with the bracelet idea. It did an almost decent job of hiding the horrid scar on her right wrist.

It snaked from the edge of her palm, coiling around her wrist, and ending on the side of her forearm. Adeline hated all of her scars, but this one was right there, always impossible to ignore. The bracelet covered the thickest part, but the tip peeked out just enough to remind her. With the bracelet on, others would hardly notice, but Adeline always would. She hated even catching a glimpse of it.

It was the end of summer, and the weather in the mountains by the North of Georgia would cool by nightfall. Adeline could use the chilly evening air as an excuse to wear long sleeves. But in her mind, she could already see the disapproving looks on Jason and Serena's faces. You were doing so well, they'd silently say. For the past few months, she forced herself to keep her arms uncovered, even when school started again, the bracelet acting as a comforting shield. To see their smiles, Adeline pushed aside the anxiety that occasionally bubbled in her stomach.

But there was hardly anything occasional about that day, was there? The kids at school mostly ignored her, but not Jason's friends. There would be so many of them today. What if they saw it? What if they asked questions?

But worse—what if they thought she was some kind of freak? Walking around in long sleeves during summer, like a crazy person. And the thought that stung the most: Jason would just be so disappointed at her. Adeline couldn't give him one more thing to worry about that day, especially not a tormented little sister who could even pick a goddamn shirt.

With a frustrated huff, Adeline tossed the long-sleeved shirt to the side. She grabbed the first normal shirt she could find in the wardrobe, stripping off her pajamas and yanking it over her head with careless urgency. Why did everything have to be so difficult with her?

After finishing getting dressed, Adeline moved to the bathroom to brush her hair. Her curls were particularly knotted that day, so she mindlessly ran the brush through them, taking out her anger on the blameless strands, until muffled voices from downstairs made her hand freeze mid-stroke. And the tone? She knew it all too well.

Adeline knew better than to intrude in discussions at her house. Interrupting her father when he was angry—or even being around him—always made things worse. When voices were raised, she was supposed to stay in her room, hold Foxy, cover her ears, and sing. Even if her entire body was burning and her mind, screaming.

But today was different.

Difficult to place why at first. Maybe it was the tone in Jay's voice. Maybe because moments like this were becoming more frequent or maybe the fact that it wasn't her father downstairs would make her braver and not an erratic kid who couldn't even control herself.

Restless and now unable to focus on anything else, Adeline set the brush down and stepped out of the bathroom. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, bare toes curling against the cool wood as she listened to the muffled voices. Jay's voice carried the weight of frustration, but her mother's words had a sharpness to them that made Adeline's skin prickle.

"I know you wanna believe that..." her mother's voice was muffled. The tone would sometimes rise, the words becoming easy to distinguish from her hiding spot, only to go back to whispers once again.

There was not much of a choice. Taking a deep breath, Adeline crept down the stairs, bare feet barely making a sound on the wooden steps. As she neared the living room, her gaze immediately was drawn to the TV screen. The volume was low, but the images were clear enough to steal the breath for her lungs: the attacks.

The monsters.

"...not fair. Not to me, not to Adeline..."

The voices at the kitchen grew louder again, catching her attention back from the television. Her pulse quickened and she stepped closer to the doorframe, holding her breath as she tried to stay out of sight. Her mind raced with possibilities, none of them good.

"You need to—"

"You think I don't know that?" her mother snapped, cutting her brother off. "I—"

The TV blared loudly, cutting through the voices. A burst of static was followed by grainy footage, the camera capturing chaos: people running, screaming, and something shadowy and wrong moving in the background. The cries were sharp and desperate, and the camera panned just enough to reveal a glimpse of the creatures—grotesque, stumbling figures, with faces twisted into something that didn't look human.

Adeline jerked back instinctively by the sight of them and her elbow stroke the door frame with a soft thud before she could even realize it. She froze and her breath hitched. The hope that she had passed unnoticed was swallowed by her mother's voice calling from the kitchen, "Adeline?What are ya doin'?"

Adeline was still for a long moment before stepping out from her hiding spot and tears began to coil in her eyes. Her mother's tear-streaked face came into view and Jason stood near her, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. Frustration radiated off him like heat.

"I'm sorry," Adeline blurted out. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay, Addie," her brother interrupted. "We were just talkin'."

Holding back her tears, her brows were furrowed with worry as her gaze darted between her mother and Jason. "About what?" Her voice was very small as she asked, uncertain, not being able to contain herself.

It took a second before her mother replied, "Nothin', baby. Just grown-up stuff."

"It didn't look like nothing, you two—"

"Adeline, not now, please."

"But—"

"Adeline!" her mother snapped and the little girl flinched. Her mother immediately covered her mouth with her hand, as if regretting her tone, the other hand going up to her forehead. "I'm sorry, baby. Don't worry about that, alright?"

Still uncertain, Adeline nodded, not moving from her spot.

"C'mon, Addie," Jason called. "Serena's gonna be here any minute."

She nodded again and followed him toward the door. "Shoes," Jason reminded her as she approached him. He waited as she slipped on her pink Converse by the door and once ready, he guided her outside with a hand on her shoulder.

"Bye, Mom," he called and Adeline glanced back, watching as her mother wiped out the last of tears with the back of her hand.

Her mother and Jason used to argue quite often when Adeline was younger. Not like their father did, though. Their fights were loud, full of sharp words and shouting, but they rarely went beyond that—the real problems started when their father grew tired of the noise.

The reason for their arguments had never been entirely clear for her, but Adeline knew that she used to be, very frequently, the reason. When her mother was really sick, she'd often isolate herself from the rest of them, spending whole days in her bed. There was also, even though not as common, the other type of sick, when her mother was really difficult to be around and her temper flared as sharply as Adeline's father.

Jason used to become beyond mad, but Adeline, on the other hand, could really bring herself to blame her mother. At least, most of the time. Mom was doing her best, wasn't she? Even if Jason didn't always see it.

But then came a night that was worse than all of the other fights. Adeline had never seen her brother that way before. The reason behind it lingered in her nightmares from time to time, often in the shape of a burning house and sometimes, a frozen lake.

That night was never once mentioned after that and not long after, their mother was taken away, sent to a hospital for a while. Life became harder for that period and it wouldn't be the last time she'd be sent away. But when she came back for the first time, everything felt different between the two. It was subtle—quiet—but undeniable, even if the most abrupt change was the one between Adeline and her father.

But after that, their arguements became rare and the words Jason directed to her weren't loud anymore—cold and clipped, the sort to cut in ways that didn't raise voices but still left marks.

But Jason's newfound anger wasn't limited to their mother, though. Sometimes it would seep to their father and a lot worse than how it'd been earlier today.

It mirrored her own anger sometimes, even if Adeline didn't always understand it. Most of the time, it was others who paid for her mistakes and in those moments, she'd feel her body burning, fueling her fire. She wished she could be stronger, but Jason was strong and even that wasn't enough. There was always a bigger wolf.

Adeline stepped outside, but the tension from the house still clung to her. Jason walked beside her, hand resting on her shoulder. The air was begging to cool down and Adeline's hand instinctively went to her bracelet.

Jason studied her for a moment, noticing the worry lines etched across her young face. "Addie," he called, trying to draw her attention back to him. "Don't ya worry about that now."

But the girl didn't reply. "Addie..." Jason sighed.

"I'm fine, Jay," she snapped. Her tone was sharper than she intended and she immediately regretting it. So she took a deep breath. "I'm fine. Ya don't gotta worry 'bout me."

Jason sighed again, running a hand through his hair. She was way too young. They both were. He knelt to meet her height. "I know Mom and I have been arguin' about some stuff lately, and I—"

Before he could finish, the sound of an approaching car broke through and a familiar blue pickup truck pulled up to the curb.

"We'll finish this later, alright?" Jason said, ruffling Adeline's hair. She managed a faint smile—how could she not? But beneath it, a knot of worry tightened in her chest, her heart tugging at her to say something that had been sitting heavy all day, refusing to leave her alone.

"Jay," Adeline called, her voice barely louder than a whisper. He stopped mid-step, glancing back at her with that mix of patience and curiosity he always had for her. "I don't think you're gonna mess anythin' up today. I think you're gonna do really great."

The words hung in the air between them, carrying more weight than she realized until she saw the way his expression shifted. But that was the voice Adeline needed him to listen in his head, later, on the field. And with all her heart she prayed it would be enough.

Jason smiled, his eyes glowing with both sadness and happiness. "Thanks, Addie," he said, his voice softer. "Really."

Adeline nodded slowly, feeling a little bit better, even if her chest still felt heavy. She hopped out of his way as he stood up at his feet again, her gaze falling to the dead leaves on the sidewalk. Serena would make him feel better—she was all happiness and warmth.

The older girl hopped out of her blue Ford. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight as she waved at them with a bright smile. "There's my favorite duo!" she called out in a melodic way as she bounded up the steps to meet them.

Usually, Adeline enjoyed listening to her voice, but at the moment, she wasn't enjoying much of anything. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, flashing a quick smile she knew it didn't quite reach her eyes.

In turn, Serena's gaze flicked instantly toward Adeline and she noticed the distance in her expression. She glanced at her boyfriend, one brow raised—his answer was the faint shake of his head and a sad smile.

It'd become quite a routine for Serena by now; Adeline, more often than not, stuck on some sort of edge. But it was a routine Serena had learned very well how to deal with.

"Ya look ready to take on the world today, Addie," Serena said lightly, though her tone carried a soft warmth that made it clear she was checking in on her.

Adeline shrugged, kicking a small pebble with the toe of her shoe. "Just ready to see Jay show off."

Serena smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Well, he's been hyping this game up all week. Think he's got a shot at the Falcons this year?"

Adeline bit her lips, looking at Jason. She'd accepted the bait. "If he doesn't trip over his own feet," she teased, glancing at her brother with a playful grin.

Serena chuckled, giving Jason a nudge. "Guess we'll just have to keep our fingers crossed."

"Alright, smartmouth, come 'ere," Jason said, stepping behind Adeline and suddenly scooping her up from under her arms. A surprised yelp slipped out, quickly melting into laughter as he carried her toward the truck. Serena watched them with a fond smile.

Jay set her down and pulled open the back door, steadying her as she climb inside. "Seat belt," he reminded her, already jogging around to the passenger side.

As Serena climbed in behind the wheel, she turned the key in the ignition. Before shifting into drive, she flicked on the radio and Sweet Child o' Mine spilled through the speakers as the truck rumbled to life.

The drive to school was filled with Serena's cheerful chatter and Jason's occasional teasing. Adeline rolled down her window, letting the wind rush through her hair, muffling the conversation and quieting the thoughts swirling in her mind. She rested her arms on the window ledge, her head leaning against them, and for a while the world outside was all that existed, Axl Rose's voice fading into the background.

Soon enough, green fields and tall trees blurred by as small houses gave way to open space. The sun was dipping low now, nearly swallowed by the hills. The sky had begun to shift into soft pinks and oranges, the colors blending like a watercolor painting as the day slowly slipped into evening.

With the wind on her face and the road stretching ahead, it was almost as good as riding on Jason's motorcycle. Adeline felt like she could stay in that moment forever. She was happiest when it was just the three of them, but she was content when it was just her and Jason too—or even just her and Serena. In her mind, they were best friends. Once, Serena had even mentioned that after she and Jason got married, Adeline could come live with them.

When she said that, Adeline fell silent. Talks about the future usually meant different words to her than to Jason coming from their father. Her brother didn't like talking about it either, but Adeline would sometimes catch herself thinking about Serena's promise more often that she would like, even if the thought of leaving her mother would make her sad. Even if the idea of leaving her father wouldn't upset her as much.

But even so, whenever she could afford, Adeline would allow herself to drift into the fantasies of another reality.

In her dreams, they weren't going to Jason's game, but to the beach instead. It was the summer vacation and Adeline wore no bracelets. No scars. She was older, much stronger, and not so little anymore. Serena and Jason were married and there was a baby along the way. It'd be their last vacation together before Adeline left for college—she was going to be an author. Adeline was sad for not being able to spend more time with the baby, but she'd visit as often as she could.

When Serena pulled up to the school, parking in the lot near the entrance, Adeline was still wrapped in that feeling one has after waking up from a particularly good dream. Jason leaned over to give Serena a small kiss on the lips before hopping out and grabbing his gear from the back. Before heading off, he leaned back into the truck to give Adeline a quick smile.

"See ya on the field, Foxy," he said with a wink before jogging toward the locker room.

Adeline hopped up to the front seat beside Serena, watching him disappear through the double doors. The dream was gone, but she held onto its softness, the hope that maybe, just maybe, things could stay as simple as they felt in those moments.

Even if reality was always waiting to wake her up.

༻⁕༺

After strolling for a little while at the park near the high school, as evening settled, they made their way to the stadium. Adeline was now wearing two side braids, and the girls had cones of ice cream in their hands. Jason's friends, some of whom she already knew from his practices, were kind without being too overwhelming, which Adeline very much appreciated.

The first two quarters passed in a blur of excitement. The crowd's cheers and the rhythmic thud of the players' footsteps on the field filled the air. Adeline found herself getting caught up in the energy, cheering whenever Jason made a play. Despite her initial shyness, she couldn't help but join in, her voice blending with Serena's and the rest of the crowd.

Her father's voice was nothing but a distant echo in the back of her mind, wasn't it? Even the presence of the deputies had become part of the landscape—nothing more than spectators at the game, right? Jason's friends had been nothing but sweet—they weren't paying attention to her wrist, were they?

Adeline was happy, she truly was. Everything was turning out exactly the way it was supposed to, at least until about break time, when Serena took Adeline to grab some snacks.

"Ya saw that guy who dropped the ball and then tried ta' catch it with 'is foot?" Serena chuckled.

Adeline grinned, "Yeah, and then he almost face planted! Everyone saw it!"

Serena shook her head, still smiling. "Bet he's hopin' nobody brings it up after the game."

Adeline shrugged, nibbling her pretzel, as they turned back to return to their seats. "I would. Maybe he—"

"Hey, Adeline! How ya doin'?" A familiar voice called out.

It was Mr. Jones, his arm wrapped around his wife. He was a mid-height man with graying hair and a friendly but sharp smile. His wife, a petite woman with perfectly styled blonde hair. Evan, their twelve-year-old son, stood nearby with sandy brown hair and an air of smugness that always made Adeline uncomfortable.

"Hi..." she mumbled in a shy voice.

Adeline didn't like Mr. Jones very much, but then again, that was true for most of her father's friends and acquaintances—their sympathy always seemed to apply more to her father than to her mother. As for Evan, he was too cocky for her taste. Adeline had gotten in trouble more than once for not getting along with him the couple of times they'd dinner at his house.

"Yer Dad watchin' the game too?" Mr. Jones asked as his eyes scanned the crowd. "Saw yer brother on the field. He's doin' real well."

Adeline hadn't expected to see any of them there, but she should have, shouldn't she? Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but her voice got stuck in her throat. Don't ya just stay quiet, like you're stupid.

"Had a late meeting," she managed to say.

"Well, that's too bad," the man replied. "Tell 'im we said 'hi,' will ya?"

Adeline nodded vaguely, though she didn't meet his eyes. Her gaze had dropped to her shoes and she barely noticed as they walked away.

Was that rude?, she asked herself. She'd answered, hadn't she? She said the nicest thing she could think of—she just didn't have much to say.

"C'mon, Addie," Serena said softly, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let's head back."

After the break, Adeline sat between Serena and one of Jason's friends, Mark. He was sweet and tried to be nice to her, but she was quick to dismiss the interactions. It was fine, though. She was used to it anyway.

Adeline mostly stayed quiet, until sometime during the fourth quarter, when Serena decided to check in on her. "Ya know, I'm really proud ya decided to wear your bracelet today," she said with a smile.

Adeline looked up at the girl. Maybe Serena wouldn't be so proud if she saw what took place before she picked up that shirt, so Adeline simply shrugged, murmuring a small thanks.

"Watchu' thinkin' 'bout, Addie?" Serena offered her a warm smile. "You've been starin' at the same spot for five minutes. What's got your brain workin' so hard?"

One thing Serena had picked up over the past months was that Adeline always felt more comfortable talking to her about certain things than she did to Jason. Not because she trusted her more, but her best guess was that while Adeline was always cautious not to burden Jason with more worries, she didn't have the same problem with his girlfriend.

Serena wasn't surprised by how quickly she had accepted the job as best friend and confident, but when it came to their father—or even their mother—Adeline had drawn a clear line. Jason was more open about those subjects, but not much.

But Serena knew. She knew everything.

Adeline hesitated, her fingers still fidgeting with the bracelet. "Nothin'. Just watchin' the game."

Serena didn't buy it for a second, but she didn't push. Instead, she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Jason's playin' real good tonight, don't ya think?"

A small smile tugged at Adeline's lips. "He's always good."

"Yeah, but tonight, he's got that extra spark. Guess he knows he's gotta show off with his little sister watchin'."

Adeline rolled her eyes, but didn't respond. She returned her attention to the field, though the game still felt far away. Serena watched her for a moment, then shifted closer, her voice softer.

"Ya know," she said, "ya don't have to keep all that stuff in your head, Addie. Whatever it is, you can tell me. I won't push, but I'm here."

Adeline stiffened slightly, her fingers tightening around the bracelet. "It's nothin', Rena, really," she lied, and without really needing it, she asked, "What's going on now?"

Serena smiled. "Well, it's the fourth quarter, and our team's down by a touchdown. Jason made an amazing run earlier, but they couldn't finish the play in the end zone. Now it's fourth down, and they've got one more shot."

Adeline nodded, trying to focus on her words. "Ya think he's got it?" she asked, genuinely this time.

"I don't just think so. I know so." Serena grinned, her confidence almost infectious. "That's your brother out there. He's got this."

For a moment, Adeline let herself believe it. It wasn't as if she didn't know how good Jay was—she knew that with all of her heart. Adeline couldn't exactly explain why, but she needed him to win, and not just because of what their dad had said, but because Jay deserved it. And he deserved it more than anyone.

Adeline looked back at the field and watched as Jason jogged to his position. Her grip on the bracelet loosened and she exhaled slowly.

The tension turned thick in the air in a way not even Adeline could ignore. The quarterback called the play and everyone held their breath. Jason lined up in the backfield, ready to receive the ball. The ball was snapped and the play began. Jason darted forward, cutting through defenders with an incredible speed. The crowd roared as he broke free, running full tilt toward the end zone.

"Go, Jason! Go!" Serena shouted, standing and cheering with all her might. Even Adeline found herself on her feet, her face lit up with anticipation.

Jason sprinted down the field, dodging tackles with ease. Though he didn't make it all the way to the end zone, his run brought the team within striking distance. The team lined up for the final play. The quarterback took the snap, faked a handoff to Jason, and quickly threw a pass to the wide receiver, who was wide open in the end zone. The receiver caught the ball, securing the game-winning touchdown, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

"They pulled it off!" Serena exclaimed, pulling Adeline into a tight hug. "Jason's run set that up perfectly. Y'all saw that?"

As the team gathered in the center of the field, chanting their victory cheer, Jason scanned the stands. When he spotted them, he waved enthusiastically and a huge smile lit up his face. The girls waved back. As the crowd began to disperse, Serena took Adeline's hand. "C'mon, let's go find Jason."

Jay was surrounded by his teammates, all of them caught up in the excitement of the win. But the moment he spotted them, he broke away from the group and wrapped Serena up in a hug that lifted her off the ground, twirling her around before giving her a long kiss.

Gross, Adeline thought with a smirk.

Then it was her turn. He scooped her up without hesitation, even with sweat clinging to his skin. Adeline didn't care. Her arms looped around his neck, face pressed into his shoulder, the warmth of his embrace outweighing any discomfort.

"Ya did it!" Adeline beamed. "Ya were awesome there!"

"I couldn't have done it without you cheering me on, Foxy," Jason replied, grinning.

Serena placed a hand on Jason's shoulder, her eyes glowing. "You were incredible out there. We're so proud of you."

Jason grinned. "Thanks, guys. It means a lot."

As they stood together on the field, the sounds of celebration echoing around them, Adeline felt like everything had been worth it. For a brief moment, there was no Dad expecting them back home. No monsters. Just them.

Jason looked at his little sister, her thin arms wrapped around his shoulders. "What d'ya say about some fries right now?" he asked as he put her down, taking her hand in his, the other intertwining with Serena's fingers.

Adeline smiled widely. "And milkshakes!"

Jason chuckled. "Yeah, and milkshakes."

Chapter Text

"This is what I want: I want to grab my brother's hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders."

—Jandy Nelson. I'll Give You the Sun.

༻⁕༺

Jason's happiness always had way of creating root inside of Adeline, even when it didn't belong to her.

After the game, they went to a diner to celebrate. The place was busy, filled with the sounds of dishes clattering and conversations. Jason sat with his teammates with Serena sat next to him, their hands loosely intertwined, while Adeline quietly watched the group.

Even though Adeline didn't really mind being an observer, she noticed how Jason's friends, though loud and boisterous, always made sure she was included. She resisted at first, of course, but it didn't take long for her to slowly allow herself to be part of their interactions, making some small comments about the game or even throwing back her own jokes at them.

It was slightly scary, but in a rather welcoming sense. Serena and Jason were the only members of her little friend group and Adeline wasn't so used to being around so many people talking to her, even if she kind of knew most of them from the few times she went over to their practices. But that was the first time she actually had the chance to watch the game with them without her father around—she was never allowed her to spend much time with them—and Adeline found it was an effective way to bond.

As Adeline watched when Jason laughed heartily at a joke one of his friends made, his arm slung casually around Serena's shoulders, she couldn't help but smile. Ever since she could remember, to Jason, from dusk until dawn, it had always been about Adeline and their mother.

Has Mom gotten out of bed today?

Is Adeline fed?

Is Adeline safe?

Is Adeline happy?

It was easy at times to forget he was a kid, as she was.

But that night, even if it wouldn't last much longer, it was Jason who was happy. While the young girl always seemed to be in conflict with her emotions, tangled in something she couldn't quite name, her brother was all light. He deserved that day more than anyone she had ever known.

"Ready to go, Addie?" Jason asked, appearing at her side.

"What? Now?"

"Forgot you've got a curfew, young lady?" he teased, raising an eyebrow. "And don't think I didn't notice ya nearly swelling up our table with that big yawn a' yours."

"No, I didn't," she protested, even as he nudged her gently away from the group. "Do we really have to go now?" she asked again, quieter, feeling sick to her stomach.

"It's okay, Foxy, I'll be right with ya," he promised, brushing a hand across her back—light, steady, and grounding.

The ride home was quiet, no music and no chatter this time, but the silence was rather comforting. Adeline sat in the back seat, face tilted toward the open window, and let the cool night breeze wash over the worst of her thought. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the hum of the engine and the rustle of the leaves as they passed by the dark stretch of road.

The night sky was a blanket of stars and although the hills were hidden in the darkness, she felt their silent presence. The forest lined the road as a protective wall, the trees swaying gently in the wind, their leaves whispering secrets to one another. Adeline imagined them as guardians, keeping watch over them. Night rides were her favorites and for a long moment she allowed herself to believe that the road was all there was—the journey their only true destination.

As they neared the turn leading home, Adeline took a deep breath, allowing the night air to fill her lungs, and whispered a silent wish to the stars:

Please, let it stay like this a little longer.

They never answered.

Serena dropped them off at the corner of their street so they wouldn't risk waking up their parents. The couple exchanged kisses, whispered goodnights, and a lot of other words that Adeline, too tired to care, didn't really register. Serena gave Adeline a warm hug before they parted ways. "G'night, Addie," she said softly, smiling as she waved. Adeline and Jason walked home together in a comfortable silence. The day's excitement still lingered, casting a warm glow over their thoughts.

Adeline felt a smile tug at the corners of her lips. "Today was fun, Jay," she said. "I liked watchin' ya play."

Jason glanced at her, his face illuminated by the dim streetlights. He chuckled, nudging her shoulder gently. "Glad ya did, Foxy. Kinda cool havin' ya out there with me, y'know?"

Adeline beamed at the nickname. "Ya think I could play football one day?" she asked, half-joking but with a hint of curiosity in her voice.

Jason smirked, giving her a playful side-eye. "I dunno, Addie. You're pretty scrappy, but you'd have to toughen up a bit more. Maybe Serena and I can start trainin' ya," he teased, ruffling her hair.

Adeline laughed, swatting his hand away. "I could take ya down," she said, grinning.

"You know, I bet you could."

That was another thing that had changed, Adeline noticed—a side of her brother that hadn't used to come out so easily.

Although he never actually forgot to be kind to her, his sweetness was something he kept guarded. It was often buried beneath the weight of their day-to-day lives, surfacing only in those moments when Adeline needed it most. And it was reserved solely for her—never for their mother.

Jason was serious. Even on edge, most of the time. His mind had always seemed to be elsewhere. But recently, there were those subtle differences about him. He would call her Foxy more often and would encourage her more, especially about coming to the game. Even though he seemed angrier at times, more restless and anxious, there was also something else. It felt new and fragile, but Adeline believed it to be good. It was something to hold on to, even if it seemed to edge too close to a reality she wasn't ready to face—even if fear tugged at her. Some small and braver part of her understood.

It would welcome it.

Adeline was still trying to find the words to ask the question lingering in her mind, but as they drew closer to the house, a creeping sense of unease began to settle over her. Her heart quickened, beating heavily against her ribcage, as if sensing something waiting for them beyond the front door.

A faint light spilled out from the kitchen window, casting long shadows across the yard.

No no no no.

Adeline looked up at her brother, her eyebrows furrowing. "Come on, now," Jason said, taking her hand and walking through the door.

What did I do wrong?

Adeline's mind spun with a thousand thoughts, replaying the day over and over. She had been good. She did everything right, didn't she?

It was as if he were waiting for them, sitting straight at the kitchen table, just like that morning, but the half-empty whiskey bottle before him didn't let anyone be fooled, nor did the sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his skin or the hair falling into his eyes.

But it was the look on his face that chilled her to the bone.

Jason's grip tightened on Adeline's hand, urging her toward the stairs. His plan was clear: get his sister out of Mason's reach, fast, maybe even unnoticed. He would handle whatever came next later.

But then they heard it—a low growl and the awful scrape of a chair against the floor as their father stood up. "You're back," he muttered, making Jason stop. He turned to face their father, and Adeline tightened her grip on her brother's hand, clutching his forearm with the other.

Not today. Please, not today. Not again. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything!

"Yeah. We're back," Jason replied.

Mason leaned against the doorframe. His right arm braced against the wall and his body was slouched and half-concealed in the shadows. "Did you win?" he asked.

"We did."

Her father raised the bottle to his lips, taking a long, deliberate sip. When he was done, he hurled it to the floor and glass shattered with a sharp crack that made Adeline flinch, shrinking behind her brother. Jason stepped forward, instinctively positioning himself between them, his stance protective.

Mason let out a low, almost amused chuckle. "Good." He took a step closer and his gaze flickered between his children. "Good. Ya know, I've been waiting' for ya," he said, voice almost too pleasant. "I was wonderin' here what took y'all so damn long."

Jason's jaw tightened. "We went to the game. It's not a big deal."

Mason's smile widened. He leaned in and his voice dropped to a low murmur. "Not a big deal, huh? Think ya can just make decisions for yourself and your sister now? Think you're man enough to decide what's a big deal and what's not?"

Adeline's breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to close in around her and the air was heavy and stifling. She felt it deep in her bones—an inescapable dread. It was just as it had been that morning, but now, there was nothing left to do but to brace herself.

Can you teach me to be brave, Jason? Can I be brave like you?

Her father turned his attention to her. She tried standing her ground as Jason would, forcing herself to meet her father's gaze. "And you, baby girl? You look like you had fun. Out past your bedtime, enjoying yourself, huh? Did you forget somethin'? Like maybe checkin' with your old man before ya just decided ta' disappear?"

No no no no.

Her mind raced, grasping for clarity, but his tone twisted everything into knots. Was that what Adeline had done wrong—not asking? She never thought she needed to. Her breath came shallow and fast. Adeline didn't understand. None of it made sense. She'd thought—no, she knew—that he didn't care. Not unless she made herself impossible to ignore. Otherwise, she was nothing to him. A shadow in the background. Invisible. Just as she had been, for a long time. Because Adeline grew up. Because Adeline was destined to fall apart, as her mother was.

Her voice was a whisper. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Didn't what?" he hissed. "Didn't think? Didn't care?"

He started moving closer, his presence getting bigger with every step. With every step, her heart sank even further.

"Ya know," he continued, voice gaining in volume and intensity, "it's like ya wanna see me mad, Adeline. Is that what this is? I can't have one night, one fucking night, in peace without ya fuckin' things up?" His voice was nearly a roar. "You're just like yer mother. Only ever thinking about yourself."

Jason stepped in and his voice rose sharply. "Hey! Don't ya—"

"Shut up, boy," Mason snapped and slammed his hand down on the sideboard. His eyes narrowed dangerously, pinning Jason in place.

Say something, stupid girl, you'll regret it if you don't.

He took a step over to her. Adeline could smell his breath, stinking of alcohol and cigarettes. "Answer me, Adeline. Ya thought I wouldn't notice, or ya just didn't give a damn?"

Adeline wanted to disappear, to sink into the ground and vanish into nothingness. Her fingers dug into her palms, as if trying to hold onto something solid. Her breath hitched as she struggled to keep her composure, forcing herself to stand there, to not make things worse.

Adeline knew something would go wrong, she knew it would be her fault and still, she went. And now there would be a price for that, as it always did. But it wasn't the punishment that terrified her—that fear was for Jason.

Jason, who always tried to protect her. Jason, who was good—better than either of them deserved. But would that matter to their father? Sometimes, it didn't. Sometimes, no matter what Adeline did, it was Jason who wouldn't let her take the fall.

Be careful, now.

Jay had always been careful.

Not lately.

Should she?

Adeline opened and closed her mouth many times, trying to choose her words. "I didn't think you would care, Daddy. It was my—".

His fist slammed against the table once again. "Care?" His voice dropped, deadly. Then louder, "You think I don't care?"

Adeline unconsciously jumped back a little more behind her brother. Jason's reaction was immediate. His hand clenched into a fist at his side as he stepped forward, shielding Adeline with his body. "It was me, alright? I'm the one who took her. Don't put this on her."

"No—" she began, but her father's voice overlapped hers.

"Mad?" Mason laughed, but it was a harsh, hollow sound. A flicker of something darker crossed his eyes as he turned his full attention back to Jason. "You haven't seen mad, boy."

His hands moved to unbuckle his belt and the sound of the metal clinking echoed in the silence. Adeline could not meet his gaze anymore. Her entire body screamed at her to run, but she stayed frozen in place, her legs refusing to move.

"This is about respect," he continued. "About knowing your place. And it seems to me," he said, his eyes narrowing as if honing in on a target, "that some people need a reminder of what happens when they decide to act like some spoiled little brat in this house." His tone softened as he saw the fear stamped on her face, "You know I don't like doin' this, baby girl. I wish things were different between us. But look at what you make me do. You should know better than this, darlin'."

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she whimpered, fighting back the tears welling in her eyes, knowing she couldn't let them fall.

Not here.

Not in front of him.

Dad hates crying.

"Then take it out on me," Jason said. He stood tall, shoulders squared, and his was tone calm enough to almost mask the quiet desperation beneath it.

Mason's gaze snapped to his son. "And why would I do that, huh? Why should she get away? You know 'er. I try ta' teach 'er, but when does she ever listen?" His tone was edging on mockery.

"It's like you said, she doesn't know any better," he said, the words feeling bitter on his mouth. "I am the one that took 'er. I went behind your back. She's got nothing to do with it."

A sick game, was this. One they had played countless times, long before they even knew they were playing—long before they even began to understand the rules. Just as they were pawns to get to Lillian, Adeline was a pawn to get to Jason. Because both father and son knew it was never about her to begin with. It wouldn't matter in the end, though. Adeline would feel it either way and would blame herself for it. Because she was a little girl who loved her family more than she loved herself, just as she hated herself more than words could ever explain.

Beyond anything Jason could ever fix.

"Just let her go."

Jason never begged—not to anyone. Not to Mason.

"Please."

But that was his sister. His sweet, brave, and unbearably sad Adeline.

Mason's expression shifted, a tug of satisfaction at the corners of his lips. He finally had what he wanted, after all.

There was nothing more broken than a pleading man, was there?

"Ya see, Adeline?" Mason said, his gaze never leaving Jason. "See what you've done? Now your brother has to pay for your bullshit."

Adeline's eyes widened, tears brimming. "No!" she pleaded. "It was me! I wanted—"

"Go to your room." Mason's voice was a whisper—dangerous. "Now."

No, she wanted to scream. It's supposed to be me! Not you! Never you!

But her voice was lost, like her courage. Her feet, however, remained fixed to the ground. It was her small stated—weak, as she was, but it was something.

Jason's eyes flickered between his sister and their father. Mason's gaze was solely fixed on him now, not on Adeline, and Jason intended to keep it that way for as long as he could.

"Addie, go now." He looked down at her. "I'll be fine, Addie. Just go."

Adeline pressed her nails into her palms, hard enough to hurt. Her lower lip trembled as she saw the pain in his face.

It was unbearable.

Knowing he was getting hurt, when it should be her and solely her, was more than Adeline could ever stand for.

"I don't want to leave you alone," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

"Quit being so fucking sensitive, Adeline." Her father's voice was a low growl. "Get the fuck outta here now."

Adeline knew she would regret this later. She knew it with every fiber of her being. But still, she didn't move. Her mind went over to the knives at the kitchen counter, instead. It thought about the strength that it would take. The cool metal against her skin. She imagined the sharp contrast: the gleaming blade meeting flesh, the warm, wet red spilling out, and the shock in her father's eyes.

How can someone be so wrong?

How could she be so twisted?

"Addie," Jason called softly.

Adeline couldn't let him be right about her. She could not.

"Adeline, look at me."

Crazy.

Unstable.

Broken, just like her.

"Addie, listen to me," Jason called, drawing her focus. She looked at him. Her wide eyes were frantic and her small chest was rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths. He knelt down to meet her, taking her hands in his.

"I'm... I'm sorry," was all she could say, eyes drifting down.

With the hand that wasn't holding his sister's hand, he cupped her face gently. "It's alright, Addie. Hey," he said, leaning close, his head tilting to meet her downcast eyes. "Hey, it's alright, Addie, please. I'll be fine."

Adeline's eyes found their way up to her brother once again. How courageous he seemed to her—even when she knew everything inside was shattered, he stood still.

You know it is your fault, don't you?

"Go on now, please," Jason said, voice fraying at the edges. "I'll be right with ya in a minute, alright? I promise."

In the quiet corners of her mind, Adeline wished she could be as brave as her brother or like the fearless characters she read about in her books. She imagined herself older, stronger, and unyielding. Someone who could stand up to her father without trembling. Someone who could make him think twice before ever daring to hurt her brother again.

Her fear would be her fuel, her rage would be her strength.

But those dreams never grew louder. Not even into a whisper. The characters never left their pages, and Adeline? Still a child, bent to the hardships of her reality.

So she nodded, her fingers slowly slipping away from Jason's grasp as she turned and walked toward her room, leaving him to face Mason alone.

Up, up, up. Don't look back. Don't listen. Just keep going.

Her feet barely touched the stairs.

"You think you're a man now, huh? Think ya can stand up to me?" Her father's fist slammed down on the table with a loud bang, causing her to flinch as she reached the top of the stairs. Sing it with me, Foxy, her brother would tell her. It's just you and me now.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

Adeline opened her bedroom door silently, her heart pounding against her chest. She grabbed Foxy from her bed and tiptoed to Jason's room. To safety.

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

She crawled under his blankets, pulling them over her head and clutching the stuffed fox tightly. Each scream, each crash from downstairs made her flinch and tears began to slip down her cheeks. In a minute, he said.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

And then, at some point, silence. For a fleeting second, she allowed herself to believe it was over—that Jason would walk back through the door, victorious. In a minute.

All your life

You were only waiting for these moment to be free

The familiar roar of Jason's motorcycle broke the stillness, filling the night air.

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of a dark, black night

He was going to come back, wasn't he?

He had promised her.

Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of a dark, black night...

Chapter Text

Kris Kristofferson as Earl Treadwell

༻⁕༺

Jason rode his old Harley down the narrow, winding roads that led to Earl's garage, the familiar route passing through fields and small patches of woods. The bike vibrated beneath him, its engine roaring with a power that always thrilled him. As he pulled up to the garage, the gravel crunched under the tires and he shut off the engine with a practiced flick of his wrist.

The building itself was as he remembered—an old, weathered structure with faded paint and a crooked sign that read Treadwell's Auto Repair. The smell of motor oil and rust hung in the air, mixed with the faint scent of pine from the surrounding trees. Jason swung his leg over the bike and dismounted, giving it a quick pat on the gas tank before heading toward the open garage door. His grandfather had been a stubborn old man who distrusted people way too often, but like any respectable man in those parts, he had his ride, his SweetWater, and his shotgun, and therefore, Earl was one of the few men he'd ever opened his mouth to call a friend.

Jason had spent the last couple of weeks tinkering with the old bike he'd inherited, trying to tune it up and make a few adjustments. It still ran, sure, but age was showing and he wanted to bring it back to its best—maybe even add a few touches of his own. But he'd hit a wall, unsure what else to do; what Mason had taught him didn't cover bikes and he'd made it clear he didn't want anything to do with it—having it around in their garage seemed to his father in an even worse mood when he got home from work.

Someone else working on the bike was an idea Jason was still struggling to accept—a man who didn't know his ride wasn't really a man—but he knew he didn't have a choice. He'd decided to take his few life savings along with what he had got from his grandfather's will and put them into repairing it with someone who actually knew what they were doing; a couple phone calls to Earl and there he was.

The Harley was old and more than fairly used—some might say it wasn't worth the trouble—but Mason's disdain for it only made Jason more determined. Classic, vintage design, faded paint, and showing signs of years of rides. The leather seat was cracked and worn and the handlebars had seen better days, but the bike had a rugged charm, and it was his.

As he stepped into the dimly lit garage, he was immediately greeted by the clinking sound of metal tools and the low hum of a radio playing Johnny Cash in the background. The space was cluttered but organized in a way that only someone who had been working there for years could understand—spare parts were stacked on shelves, toolboxes with drawers were slightly ajar, and grease-stained rags were tossed were carelessly on the workbenches.

Earl was bent over the hood of an old truck, elbows deep in the engine, but he straightened as Jason's footsteps echoed in the garage. The lines in his weathered face told of years in the sun and the hard, steady work he knew best. Yet, there was a sharp, knowing glint in his eyes that hadn't faded one bit. He turned, wiping his hands on a rag, and gave Jason a firm handshake before reaching over to turn off the radio.

"Good to see ya, kid," Earl greeted, nodding toward the entrance as his gaze shifted to the motorcycle parked outside. "Got yer grandad's old bike, huh?" Without waiting for an answer, he started toward the Harley and gestured for Jason to follow. Fingers tracing familiar grooves and dents, Earl's hands ran over the frame of the bike. "Man, I miss that ol' bastard," he said with a smile, patting the seat.

Jason nodded and hummed in agreement; Earl probably missed the old man more than he did. From what he'd gathered, his grandfather had never been close to his two daughters. Toward the end of his life, though, the old man decided to patch things up, getting closer to Lillian and, by extension, her kids. But inheriting the Harley had surprised Jason as much as anyone.

"She's been through some rough roads," Earl murmured, still inspecting the Harley.

"You're tellin' me. Think she's still got it?"

Earl smirked and patted the bike's seat. "We'll see."

He returned to his work and as Jason's gaze drifted around the garage, he took in the cluttered projects, a maze of old parts, tools, and half-finished cars. Then he noticed another figure, half-hidden in the back shadows of the shop. Squinting his eyes, he tried to make out who it was.

"Daryl?" he announced, somewhat surprised to see his uncle there, but maybe even more surprised to see him at all, wherever it might be.

The man stepped out from behind a beat-up Chevy, wiping his hands on a rag. The older Dixon just nodded, acknowledging his presence, but not doing much more than that.

The last time they'd seen each other, Jason was no older than twelve and Daryl could recall a small boy, looking at him in defiance. All an act—one that the older Dixon knew well. It wasn't a night Jason was interested in revisiting and Daryl, even less. But it was almost a man staring at him now, nearly as tall as he was; no fear in his ways anymore. Hell, he seemed almost at ease.

"Didn't expect to see ya here," Jason finally said, trying to break the ice.

Daryl shrugged. "Work's work."

He was just like Jason remembered: quiet, intense, and with a rough edge that kept most people at arm's length, but uneased by other people's presence quite like an animal in the woods.

Neither of them said anything else, a silence hovering above them, almost awkward, as when two people have too much they want to say, that they end up not saying anything.

"Good, ya here," Earl said to Daryl. He shifted his gaze between uncle and nephew, almost as if he was amused at their embarrassment. With a smirk on his face, he said, "Boy, show yer uncle whatchu got."

The older Dixon stared at Earl for a moment, almost betrayed; the older man shrugged, something of a conspiratorial smile on his face.

"A'right," Daryl mumbled, nearly defeated, looking at Jason. "What's the matter?"

Jason found it curious, but thinking about it further, maybe it wasn't so much. Stay away from my family, he remembered his father's words from the last time they'd seen each other. Being so young at the time, he'd never given it much thought—never had a reason to. They'd lived in Charleston until he was six and even after they moved back, his uncles had never been that close, less and less as the years passed; Merle least of both.

He barely remembered much about them. Adeline, most likely, remembered nothing at all. Daryl wasn't as fun as he used to think of Merle to be, but he was kind in his way, to him and to Adeline. There was a memory of following deer tracks in the dump mud by his house. One of passing the tools next to a Triumph Bonneville.

But his uncle's avoidance shouldn't have been surprising, him being who he was. Given the time that had passed. Jason tried not to feel too disappointed.

"It's my grampa's old bike," he began, slowly. "Been trying to do what I can at the house, but I figured I better bring it over before I screw anything up."

Daryl's eyes lingered on Jason for a moment longer than necessary, as if trying to read something in his nephew's face. Of course it's a bike, Daryl thought to himself. That boy was a Dixon, there was no denying it.

"It's an '86 Sportster," Jason added, feeling very stupid afterwards. If someone knew anything about bikes, it was his uncle.

Daryl nodded, moving to the bike with the same careful deliberation he did everything. He knew her all too well, though it used to be in much better shape in his days. Those were different times and seeing the Harley now brought back that familiar tightness in his chest—a feeling he was smart enough to push aside. He'd never been one to cling to the past, except when it came to Lillian.

Daryl leaned over the Harley. "She's seen better days," he stated, more to himself than to Jason and the bit stepped closer, peering over Daryl's shoulder. "I tried to fix some stuff, but I didn't know if I was doin' it right."

Daryl didn't look up. "Ya didn't hurt anythin'," he said flatly, then gave the handlebars a shake. "Grips are loose. Ain't safe to ride with 'em like this. We'll swap 'em out."

His hand moved to the cables next. He gave one of them a tug, showing Jason the frayed ends. "These cables are shot. Rusted through. You'll need new ones or this thing won't stop when ya need it to. That ain't somethin' you wanna gamble with."

"Got it." Jason nodded, feeling intrigued. If he was being honest, Daryl's character had always piqued his curiosity, one that did not extend to the oldest of the brothers—they all knew what Merle was. But Daryl always had a way of not being what Jason expected him to be.

He was the only man Jason had ever seen stand up to Mason and that wasn't something you could easily forget.

More interested in the dynamic between the two than in the bike itself, Earl stood nearby. His few encounters with Mason had been distant and cold, and Bert—Mason's father-in-law—hadn't had much to say about him either. Merle, of course, was a lost cause in Earl's mind. But Daryl? Earl knew him well—well enough to have a pretty good idea of what was turning in that stubborn head of his.

Daryl moved down to the engine, fingers brushing the grime-covered casing. He popped open a side panel, revealing a tangle of old wires and grease. "Engine's gummed up bad. Gonna need a full teardown, clean out the carb, replace the plugs, maybe the piston rings too, dependin' on what we find once we crack her open."

"Ya think she's got a shot?" Jason asked.

Daryl stood up slowly, wiping his hands on a rag hanging from his back pocket. He glanced at Jason, his expression unreadable. "It ain't a weekend job, that's fer sure."

Why the kid brought the bike to him instead of working on it with Mason, Daryl couldn't figure. Mason used to be good at this kind of thing—at least from what he remembered. Seemed like something a father and son would work on together. Hell, even their old man used to do that. But Daryl wasn't gonna ask. It wasn't his business anymore, he made sure to remind himself, and it wasn't for a reason. Just do the job and be done with it.

He nodded. "We can take a look at it."

Earl chimed in, "Why don't ya leave it here, and we'll see what we can do? Give us a couple of days to figure out what needs fixin'."

Feeling somewhat odd, Jason nodded. He didn't want to leave just yet; but then again, he never really wanted to go home anyway. And it must have been his pride kicking in, but knowing his bike was going to be torn up by hands that weren't his was a hard feeling to swallow.

Then a thought came—a quiet, unlikely hope he hadn't seen coming. But it didn't make sense, did it? His knowledge of motorbikes was way more theory than practice and what he knew was mostly from cars. Daryl didn't owe him anything, least of all Earl. He pushed the thought aside, trying to ignore the way it hung there. It was stupid, now that he thought about it.

Half-expectant, He looked at his uncle, waiting for something that didn't come. So he shook Earl's hand. "Sounds good. Appreciate it, Earl. Daryl."

When Jason turned to leave, Earl noticed him hesitating. "You got a way to get back home, kid?"

Jason shrugged, trying to act casual. "I can hoof it. Ain't that far."

Earl gave a knowing smile. "Ya sure? I could give ya a lift if you hang around a bit."

Jason shook his head. "I'm alright. Appreciate it, though."

As Jason turned to leave, he and Daryl exchanged a final glance. The boy had Lillian's eyes and there was something about the way he held himself—trying to look tougher than he probably felt—that tugged at Daryl in a way he couldn't quite shake. Anything involving Mason or Lillian had a way of throwing him off balance and now, after all those years, there was Jason, unearthing something Daryl thought he'd buried a long time ago.

Earl watched the boy leave then turned to Daryl, hoping to see a reaction on the man's face. "Looks like he's got more Dixon in him than I thought."

Daryl nodded and turned his focus on the bike. "Guess so," he replied shortly.

No use to dwell on the past now.

Chapter Text

LaMonica Garret as Travis Thompson

༻⁕༺

TW:

Violence;
Gore;
Domestic abuse.

༻⁕༺

"The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drown."

—William Butler Yeats. The Second Coming.

"Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sing the tunes without the words
And never stops at all."

—Emily Dickinson. Hope is the Thing with Feathers.

༻⁕༺

No one sees the end coming; not until it's already here. Life goes on, routine and steady, while the world begins to fall apart in silence. You share meals, wave at your neighbors, run errands, and make plans. You say goodbye to your son.

You hold your brother's hand.

And then, suddenly, the ground beneath your feet is ripped away. Everything you've ever known turns to ashes before your eyes and all you can do is stand there, helpless, as it all crumbles around you.

A powerful lesson is learned at those moments; perhaps the most powerful one. But first, you need to survive it. First, you must leave it. As everything dies, the universe seems to hold its breath as if laying a wager, yet it never waits. Adeline survived and she was never the same — nor was she meant to be.

That afternoon, though, she was still a child at the kitchen table, where the thin seam between all she had known and the unforgiving future was beginning to fray. For her, that defining moment began with a knock at the door.

Her mother was in the kitchen, movements slow and deliberate, as if weight alone could anchor her to the floor. Adeline watched her pause, hand hovering over the counter. By the time they arrived, Jason's absence already hung over the house like a heavy shadow.

Lillian raced to open the door; there stood Sheriff Thompson and a deputy, hats clutched in their hands and grim expressions on their faces. The deputy looked too young for that uniform, a shadow of a beard just beginning to break through his skin, but it was his eyes that gave away his youth. The Sheriff, Thompson, was a familiar face in town and his eyes were hardened; while the other avoided her gaze, Thompson looked at her firmly.

When her mother left, there was a different Sheriff at her door and he talked about the fire. When her father died, cancer was the killer and her grief was presented by a doctor with cold eyes that had seen enough. Life had never spared her, but it always sent someone — a messenger — with a softer voice. Mercy, at first. Until that mercy became pity.

"It's about Jason, ain't it?"

Her mother's words were nothing but a reflection of her own fears. Adeline caught as the deputies exchanged a brief glance before the Sheriff gave a single nod. His gaze was a difficult one to hold, even to Adeline, who was not at his aim. There was anything disconcerting about it. Disturbing, even.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "May Deputy Collins and I come in?"

Her mother didn't respond immediately. She stood still, her hand still gripping the doorknob, until she finally gave a slow nod, stepping aside to let them in; their presence did nothing but make the space feel even smaller and almost suffocating. As to Adeline, she slowly began to rise from her chair to join the adults in the living room. Something dark in her chest told her that it was all so terribly wrong, but the words in her throat refused to form into questions. She half-expected the Sheriff to tell her to leave — to let them talk in private — but the order never came.

"Is your husband home?" Thompson asked.

"He is," they heard Mason's voice as he emerged from inside the house and Adeline couldn't help but flinch.

Last night, amid tears and dreams of dead faces, there was enough time for her thoughts, poisonous and relentless, to take root. Jason wasn't there to tell her to breathe, to stop her from digging her nails into her palms; Jason wasn't there, and without him, there was nothing to hold back the darkness from swallowing her whole.

Now, her palms were red and she made no effort to hide the glint in her eyes as she felt the fire spread through her veins. Lack of sleep and worry had left her reckless and there has always been always a danger to it.

But her father didn't seem to notice. His gaze flicked briefly to the deputies, then away, expression tight. He was usually the one to take charge of situations such as this, always in control. Today, however, he lingered by the wall, his stance unusually tense, and Adeline hated him for it.

"Ma'am, we..." the younger deputy's voice caught her attention back from her father, but he let the words hang. He looked at Thompson, as if asking for support.

The Sheriff cleared his throat and stepped forward. "Ma'am, there was an incident on the highway last night. A woman came to the station. She told us her husband had been bitten by an..." he paused, as if searching for the right words, "unstable woman on the way back from Birmingham. She was driving him to the hospital when he attacked her."

Adeline's stomach twisted. The word bit echoed in her head, turning the Sherrif's account into something out of a horror story. She looked at her mother and her eyes were vacant, as if her mind were racing through a thousand possibilities.

"Another man pulled over to help," Thompson continued. "But the husband was out of control. He... he tore the man's neck with a bite. That's when the wife put him down with a shot to the head."

"Was he..." Lillian's legs trembled. "Was Jason...?"

"Ma'am, I need you to listen to me very carefully," Thompson interrupted. "We found your son in the woods. He had the same kind of bite on his neck. He wasn't responding to us. He attacked Deputy Collins. We had no choice but to put him down. I'm sorry, ma'am. Jason is gone."

Jason is dead?

"What..."

Lillian's legs nearly gave out beneath her. She clutched weakly at the side table next to the couch, her gaze fixed on the Sheriff — he'd seen that look a million times.

"You... You killed my boy?"

Jason is dead.

The deputy finally found his voice; a trembling one. "Ma'am, not even we fully understand what happened..."

"Deputy Collins, stay quiet," Thompson commanded.

Lillian's shock began to morph into fury, her voice rising. "You're telling me you shot my son, and you don't even fucking know what happened?!"

"Ma'am," Thompson began, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He'd delivered bad news countless times before, but this — this was different. It unnerved him in ways he couldn't quite express. "You have to understand. He wasn't your son anymore. You've seen the same news we have. I didn't believe it myself, not until I saw it with my own eyes. Ma'am, that bite was right through his jugular."

Lillian blinked rapidly, tears finally spilling over. "My son was one of those... things?" Her voice was filled with disgust. "My Jason? My boy?"

One of those things.

One of those things, attacking people on the highway. The image that flashed through Adeline's mind was almost too horrifying to bear — her brother, hunched over a man, tearing into his flesh.

In a minute, he'd promised her.

"We are so, so sorry, ma'am," Thompson repeated.

Lillian crumpled, her body wracked with sobs that tore through her like a wounded animal's cry. It was not the first time Adeline had to bear the weight of sustaining her mother as she collapsed at her feet.

Thompson stood there, staring blankly at the little girl who now hovered over her mother, confusion and pain etched across her young face. Her father lingered a few steps behind — silent and unmoving — but the responsibility to console her mother had somehow fallen entirely on the daughter's small shoulders.

If Thompson had anything in life, it was his conviction — his law. It was all a man had, really. He lived by it and not once in all his days had he felt the need to apologize. You live your life straight and you don't look back. That's what he believed. That's what his old man taught him.

But to deny it meant he had shot an innocent boy dead and that was a truth he couldn't wrap his mind around. Accepting it, though? Accepting it meant acknowledging that the world was no longer what he thought it was.

He'd done what his instincts told him to, the same ones that guided him through more years than he cared to count. The problem was that his instincts defyed everything he'd ever known.

They were looking for a body. A young man, just under his twenties. Throat sliced open by a human bite, if they could believe it. All they found was a familiar '86 Harley-Davidson Sportster and the attacker's body, shot in the head. It wasn't hard to find his tracks in the woods — stumbling steps and blood are always easy to spot.

But instead of a dying man, they found a dead stag. And an alive man hunched over the animal's guts, feeding on it. He was quick to notice their presence and even quicker to stand up and fix his eyes on them. Though tall, he was just a teenage boy. Blond hair. Light eyes.

He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. That human bite ripped through the boy's neck. The gray skin. The lifeless eyes. And so much blood. Thompson had too many years on the force to not recognize a dead body when he saw one. By all rights, that boy had been dead for hours.

They had all heard about the attacks. There were rumors about some stations in bigger cities receiving orders to shoot on sight. But things were different here. He'd seen that boy grow up. Just a few hours earlier, he was running through the fields, teammate to his own grandson, as full of life as a boy his age ought to be.

But that night, he could swear he was looking at a walking corpse. And even then, he might never have taken that shot if he hadn't seen that boy overpower one of his rookies, barely a man himself, ready to tear off a piece of his face just like he had with that stag.

So he fired. One, two, three, four times — heart, lung, gut. Then once in the head, just like the man who had attacked him first.

He made the call. Now it was his duty to look a mother in the eyes and tell her that her son was dead.

But as the mother crumbled, Adeline was lost. Numb. The words swirled around her, distant as echoes from underwater.

Her brother was gone.

I'll be with you in a minute. I promise.

She let go of his hand. She let him go.

Jason is dead.

He was supposed to be on his motorcycle — flying. How could he be dead?

I should be crying. Why am I not crying? Dad's not crying.

What was she supposed to feel? What was she supposed to do?

All Adeline knew how to do was hold her mother.

"I... I don't... I don't get it," Lillian said. "He was fine yesterday. How could he have... How could he be..." The words felt too heavy to be said.

"We're not sure, ma'am," Thompson answered. "Nobody is sure about anything those days."

Lillian's face twisted. The silence was thick as his words were processed by each of the Dixons in their own ways.

"I wanna see him," Lillian said, almost breathless.

She pulled away from Adeline and stumbled toward the Sheriff.

"I need to see my boy."

Thompson remained firm. "Ma'am, I'm afraid I can't allow that. CDC protocols. There are... concerns. About the nature of these attacks. The situation's not fully understood, you see. It's not just local police, it's out of our hands."

"So I don't even gotta bury him? You shot 'im, and I can't even see 'im one last time?"

Thompson's face hardened, holding back his own frustration. "I'm sorry, but that's the protocol. Until they can figure out what's going on, no bodies can be released. The CDC is handling this as a potential health crisis."

I let go of his hand. I left him alone. He died alone.

Lillian staggered back, tears streaming down her face as the weight of his words pressed down on her. Her husband, who'd been silent until now, finally spoke up, "You've done your part. Now get the hell outta my house."

The deputies exchanged a brief glance. "We're truly sorry for your loss," Thompson said, but Mason's gaze made it clear that their presence was no longer welcome. Yet, there was no anger in his eyes. No grief, either. It was something else entirely.

As they turned to leave, Collins hesitated, looking back at the man. "We'll help arrange for a memorial service. It's the least we can do."

But Mason didn't respond. He'd already turned away, mind elsewhere. Lillian had crumpled into herself, too consumed by her pain to acknowledge the words.

With a final nod, the deputies left, closing the door behind them, leaving the family to their own grief.

Collins walked away with guilt gnawing at his gut, confusion settling in his chest. But Thompson — Thompson was left with questions.

Questions that, for now, would remain unanswered.

Jason wouldn't be his first. And that wouldn't be the last time he paid the Dixon family a visit.

But he didn't know that yet.

The door clicked shut behind the deputies. Mason crossed the room to the kitchen counter and pulled out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet. He twisted off the cap with and drank straight from it — long and unflinching. There hadn't been a day in years without that sharp sedative coursing through his blood and numbing his senses. His family had turned to ashes and his own flesh and bone had slipped through his fingers — his very soul he still struggled to save.

Oh, had he gone too far?

Was he the one to blame?

Adeline didn't move a single muscle — her knees were still pressed to the ground. She could feel everything: the rough carpet against her skin, the strong and rapid beat of her heart, the rise and fall of her chest, and the sound of her heavy breathing. But everything else was a blur — a hazy fog of incomprehension.

Until a guttural scream ripped through the air.

"You killed my son!"

Lillian's voice cracked as she lunged at her husband. Her fists struck his chest, again and again.

"You killed my boy!"

Mason didn't yell. His hands came up not to stop her, but to keep her away, as if she were an inconvenience, something noisy. His expression was unreadable and hollow and that only fueled her.

So she hit harder. Clenched fists, open palms, elbows, and nails.

Her grief had made her relentless.

"You did this, you motherfucker!" she sobbed. "You killed him!"

Still nothing. No flicker of guilt. No defense. Lillian scratched his cheek and drew blood. And his eyes changed.

"You killed your son!"

His hands finally found her throat. "I told you," he growled, "to shut the fuck up."

Lillian gasped, choking. Her fingers dug into his wrists, scraping, pulling, fighting. Her nails cut into his arms, and still, he didn't let go. His face twisted, jaw clenched and eyes burning, as if the only thing keeping him standing was the act of hurting her.

Jason.

The son of her body. The blood that coursed through those weary limbs. His life had been the one thing holding her upright since that sharp cry tore her heart open — a memory that lingered long after that heart had faded to dust. The song ended. The curtains were drawn.

And Lillian's life dimmed into silence.

Later, when Adeline thought back on this moment, she would tell herself it was instinct — something primal, an urgent need to act. But the truth was simpler and even more unsettling: there'd been no thought at all. Barely even a feeling. It was a hollow, all-consuming need to break through the silence.

When she ran up to her father, it wasn't her bravery that had driven her. It was not even her rage, finally seeping through her veins, poised to consume the world. What happened then was that Jason's death had killed her and that moment brought her back to life.

"Stop it! Leave her alone!" Adeline cried as she hurled herself at him with everything she had. Mason didn't even falter. His hand lashed out on instinct, sending her sprawling to the floor with a single, ruthless shove. The pain shot through Adeline's body, left shoulder taking all of the impact. Releasing Lillian was not an act of mercy — it was a momentary slip, born out of surprise.

Adeline watched as her father stormed out and heard as he left in his truck. Her mother collapsed again, back sliding down the cabinets and limbs folding in on themselves. She was sobbing, screaming, tearing at her own chest as if she could claw the grief out.

I think you are the bird.

Really? the boy laughed. Why?

When ya are on your Harley, it's when you're flying, she explained. And the bird isn't afraid of the wind, even if it's strong. Because it flies its own path. It's free.

It'd be nice to be a bird, he smiled. Happy and sad. Hope and torment. Could go anywhere I want.

Where'd ya wanna go? she asked the blackbird.

Not really a place, Foxy, the blackbird answered. But every day somewhere new.

Where is the blackbird now?

Dead, her mind howled.

Dead dead dead dead.

Adeline's tears finally came as she crawled to her mother. The world was crumbling and the floor wasn't enough.

Not enough to hold her.

To stop her from falling.

But nothing would ever be again.

Her mother's sobs echoed through the empty house. The weight of everything crashed down on Adeline and as the last echoes of her father's truck faded into the distance, the silence that followed was deafening.

The blackbird was never free.

The blackbird died before he even left his cage.

Chapter Text

"What is grief, if not love, persevering?"

—WandaVision. 2021.

"To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die."

—Thomas Campbell. Hallowed Ground.

༻⁕༺

Four days.

Four days had gone by since the police showed up at her door, telling Adeline that the outbreak that had taken so many lives, and was yet to take so many more, had taken someone that she loved.

Adeline's life stopped when her grieving began, but the world still found a way to happen around her.

A few neighbors passed by on the first day, offering their condolences. Adeline was the only one to receive them, just by the door. None of them ever came in.

She was aware that nobody in the neighborhood was particularly fond of Lillian Dixon, but she was a grieving mother now, and Adeline came to learn that it meant something. All those people were mourning with her, because losing a son was the worst pain someone could ever feel, even worse than losing a brother.

For the past day, Adeline had been living off of the casseroles they had brought for her family. None of them did much else, though.

Serena came to visit once—it didn't last long. Adeline didn't have much to say, nor had much to give, and so Serena left. But she had been there. Or was Adeline dreaming? She wanted her back now.

She wanted someone.

Her father would come home to them only to disappear a few hours later. One night, he slept on the couch, the others, she did not know. He wouldn't even glance in Adeline's direction and she, in turn, barely registered his presence—there was no room for fear anymore, much less anger. There was that void inside of her, an emptiness, too vast to fill with anything else.

She craved it, though. The warmth. Even the fire. Adeline would search for it in the depths of her dreams, without ever finding it.

But she remembered.

There was once, though small, a moment—when his eyes found hers.

The day before, she couldn't recall the exact time, a woman had come knocking. Adeline was sitting outside, on the front porch, by the ground, among the dead lilies. When the woman didn't notice her, Adeline felt like she was a ghost.

It didn't take long before her father's hoarse and angry voice greeted her and once they were inside, Adeline could hear the word son being repeated a few times.

Just send us the bill, were the last words she heard from her father before he stepped out of the door again. It was the only time he turned his eyes on her and for a moment, Adeline thought she saw him hesitate. For a fleeting second, she existed again, but then he walked away. She had not seen him since, and the woman left shortly after.

Adeline didn't know how much longer she sat on the porch that day, staring into the void. That night, she thought she saw a man wandering outside, seeming just as lost as she was. But her mind was such a blur—half-dead, half-alive—that as the months and years passed, Adeline would never quite remember what had really happened during those first three days.

There was a sound, though, that never left her. It would serve her as a reminder—she was there and she was alive.

She wasn't alone.

Because Adeline could hear her, even when she did not see.

A few times during the night, she could hear the footsteps of her mother dragging herself down the hallway.  The first time, she thought she was dreaming; the second time, it terrified her, but it soon became routine.

Adeline didn't know if her mother was asleep or awake, but she imagined it was something in between. Lillian was trapped in her own mind, but still, she was searching for something.

It didn't take long for Adeline to notice the strange comfort in her mother's roaming at night.

Together, they held vigil.

Together, they grieved.

Only a door separating them.

It was all the mourning they would share.

And there was no place more suited to the solemnity of those dark, vigilant nights than the reverence of an altar:

Jason's bedroom.

That first night, lying under her brother's blanket as if it were a fortress, clutching her fox as if it were an anchor, was about waiting.

Jason is about to come through the door in a minute, silly girl, don't you know that already?

That night, she closed her eyes, her lips moving in a silent prayer and for a moment, he was there with her. Even more real than she was. But the comforts of her fantasies were quickly taken away from her.

Adeline fell asleep, you see—she couldn't help it. And in her sleep, the nightmares came, and it was another Jason that walked through that door.

After that, Adeline could look at the pictures she had of him for as long as she wanted, but every time she closed her eyes and thought of him, it was not the image of Jason smiling at her that she would see. What she saw had dead skin, and it smelled of rot.

The monster on the television had a face now, and it was Jason's.

And that monster would visit her every night.

But still, even knowing what awaited her, her brother's bedroom was the only safe place Adeline had ever known, so every night, she would go back.

And she waited for the sound of her mother's footsteps to lull her back to sleep.

Every morning since then, there was dried blood on Adeline's hands—smeared across Jason's clean sheets, her clothes, and even her face. She never meant to do it, not really, but it always happened during the night, once she passed out from exhaustion.

Adeline would dig her nails so hard into her palms that they would tear her skin open.

What, eventually, brought Adeline back to reality, whether she was ready to face it or not, was someone else's needs.

The first time she stepped back into her own room had been the night before, when her father's strange look was still etched in her mind.

After three days, she remembered that she still had to shower and change her clothes. And she only realized that because of a lingering pain in her stomach. At first, she thought it was her anxiety—her whole body had been hurting ever since Jason walked out of that door. But Adeline was used to that feeling, and that pain was different. It took her some time to realize it was hunger—the gut-wrenching kind, the kind she had never known before.

She hadn't eaten or had anything to drink for days.

If her heart had been burning with shame and guilt for Jason, now, it burned for her mother. Because if Adeline herself hadn't eaten anything then her mother, most certainly, hadn't either.

Adeline was such a stupid thing, was she not? Jason would have remembered, if it had been the other way around—if it were Adeline who was six feet under.

But, with that realization, her numbness gave way to something else. Her mourning was pushed aside, replaced by another feeling that took hold of her: fear.

Each time Adeline had tried checking on her mother, offering her a drink or even small bite to eat, her efforts were met with nothing but silence and emptiness.

Adeline knew those signs all too well; she had seen them before, time and time again. Her mother was slipping away, retreating into that dark place where nobody could reach her. And Adeline knew it could always get worse.

Psychosis was a terrifying word—one that had loomed over their family more times than she cared to remember. Each time, it ended with her mother being taken away—days, weeks, sometimes longer—and left their father more frayed than before. His temper grew sharper, his patience withered, and when it ran out, it often landed squarely on Adeline.

Jason had been there to shield her during those times, but it wasn't always enough. And those memories weren't just etched into her mind; they were etched into her skin.

Adeline knew she had never made life easier for either of them, as her father knew it was only a matter of time before she followed her mother's fate and he was the only one standing between their family and that path. Still, it wasn't anger that stung the most—not his fists, not his belt. But resignation. The unspoken certainty that she would fall apart.

Adeline fought not to believe it, but sometimes, the same fears took hold of her, so tightly she forgot how to breathe.

But understanding his reasons had never made it easier to bear. And now, without Jason, Adeline was left to face them both—her mother's unraveling mind and her father's deep-seated fear, alone.

Then an answer came, or something close to it, with an early morning visitor, there to remind her she was still alive.

Earlier that day, Adeline had been at the kitchen table with her coloring books, occupying herself as soon as it was bright enough not to need a light.

Adeline didn't watch TV because, more and more, they would talk or show footage of the monsters. She didn't read because she couldn't quiet her mind enough for it. So she colored, because it was almost like sending her brain to sleep, even if Adeline herself couldn't.

And then she heard the unique sound of a Harley-Davidson's roar.

She was led to the door as if she were hypnotized, only to find a woman—a cop. Behind her, a police car and an old Sportster.

The woman tried asking about her parents, but Adeline came up with a few excuses.

If she had come even a day earlier, things might have been different. Maybe she wouldn't have even answered the door.

The deputy seemed uneasy at first, but she eventually accepted that Adeline was all she was going to get. So she talked about the memorial.

But Adeline couldn't focus—her eyes kept drifting to the Harley.

Because there it was, Jason's bike, and there it was, the reminder that he was never coming home.

All Adeline could process had been the hum of the deputy's voice, but one word had stood out: sunset.

Because Adeline so loved the sunset, because Jason would tell her how beautiful her hair looked under its light, because Jason would take her on walks to distract her from their father's impending return.

But Jason wasn't there anymore.

The memorial would happen at sunset. They would send a car to pick them up. The sun would go down as it always did, but Jason wouldn't be there with her.

The deputy left, leaving Adeline with the bike's key and a small mission to complete.

And so the hours had passed, and now, she found herself standing small at her mother's bedroom door.

Jason would have found a way, she made sure to remind herself. He would pull their mother back on her feet to remember her daughter one last time.

So, even terrified, she slowly opened the door to a cold room in which a faint light filtered through white lace curtains. Her mother was lying in bed, facing the window, wearing the same clothes from four days ago.

"Momma?" Adeline called, still standing by the door.

Her mother didn't respond, so Adeline began to make her way to her, one small step at a time. In her hands, she carried a plate with a sandwich on top and she carefully placed it on the side table. Now, Adeline could see very clearly the bruises spread in her mother's neck and arms and that made a lump form in her throat.

"Momma? Are you awake?" Adeline gently pushed her mother's arm, careful not to startle her. Careful not to break her. Her mother was clutching something tightly to her chest, but Adeline couldn't see what it was. "Momma?"

"Just leave me alone, baby," her mother finally replied and her voice was no more than a breath.

"No, Momma," she said, sitting on the bed. "You need to eat somethin'."

But she said nothing in return.

"Momma, please talk to me."

Adeline had never been one to beg and not for a long time, at least. Ever since she'd begun to comprehend that once her mother slipped into that void, no amount of pleading was enough to bring her back.

"Momma, you're sick. Talk to me, please!"

But Adeline was so, so scared; so unbearably alone. Adeline couldn't bear the alternative, not this time, when she knew what was waiting for her.

"Mom..." She grabbed her mother's hand, trying to pull her toward her. "Momma, please! How can you do this?"

Adeline could feel it growing, dark and corrosive, swelling inside her,threatening to grow so big it could swallow the world.

"Mom, please! Say something!"

With all of her strength, Adeline pulled her mother's hand, but it wasn't enough.

"Mom, look at me, please!"

It burned through her entirely now, born out of dread and pain, and so intense compared to her numbness, Adeline felt for the first time back in her own body again. She tugged on her mother's hand again, desperate to anchor her back into the world. But her mother tore free with a sharp, instinctive jerk and Adeline stumbled, and the emptiness hit harder than that near-fall.

"You have to leave me, Adeline," her choked voice finally said. "You have to."

Her mother's words echoed endlessly in her mind, growing, until they became unbearable. And then something—that which she kept locked in deep inside as a caged animal—snapped, somehow finding the scraps of the strength Adeline had lost when her brother let go of her hand.

"No! No, I won't!" she sobbed. "How can you do this to me? How can you leave me like this?"

Her voice trembled with the weight of everything she had ever held back and her small hands balled into fists as she leaned closer to her.

"Why did you get to stay? How can you leave me here with him? You always do this! I don't care that you're sick. You hurt us, you leave us, you pretend you care, but it's always the same!"

Her words were like stones, each one louder and angrier than the last. But they hung in the silence, burning as if they were scorching her own throat.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Adeline was gasping for air, driven by a relentless urge to wound.

"Jason should be here! He should be here, not you! You should be dead, you hear me? Dead. You only make everything worse! You ruin everything! You're horrible! Horrible and weak and selfish!"

Her mother was silent and every second felt like it was stripping Adeline of pieces she couldn't get back.

"How can you..." she choked on her words, tears streaming down, feeling herself being drained out by the second. "Dad hates me, because he says I'm just like ya. Do you know how he... how he is when you're gone? Now I'll be alone with him, and I can't..."

Her voice broke and her tears were all there was, streaming down in freefall. Adeline felt as if she could lay in the ground as vanish into nothingness. But she couldn't go back, could she? Not again — Jason needed her to remember.

Adeline wiped out her face with the back of her hands and with the last of her strength, she screamed. "Why won't you look at me?"

And all Adeline heard was a faint whisper.

"I'm already gone, baby."

Her shoulders slumped upon those words.

She couldn't understand it.

How could her heart still keep breaking?

Even after feeling it shatter every night, when she was with Jason on that dark road, his throat sliced off by another monster.

Even after every waking moment, when she thought of Jason and he was nothing but a rotten walking corpse.

But there it was her mother, telling her she was utterly alone in this world.

Adeline's heart was as broken as she was.

Strengthless, she sat on the bed again. Even the tears had given up on falling. Adeline could feel the sting now and she glanced at her palms.

Blood.

The same one she would leave behind in her brother's bed, night after night.

And that was when Adeline realized what her mother had been clutching so tightly to her chest.

She couldn't tell when, but one day, she had found her mother sitting on the floor of Jason's bedroom, rocking back and forth like a child, holding a framed photograph of them. When she noticed her daughter standing there, she had fled back to her bedroom before Adeline could even say anything.

So Adeline reached for the portrait. It showed a younger Jason, his face soft from childhood, his blonde hair even lighter. He smiled brightly, holding a very small Adeline up in his chest. Her bright red hair was a wild mess of curls and she wore a sweet, toothless grin.

The sight of it made something twist deep in her chest. Maybe her mother was afraid she would forget Jason too. Maybe their minds were even more alike than Adeline realized—both always hovering near some edge. Maybe that was why her mother roamed the house at night, and why Adeline listened. So she said:

"We need to go to the memorial, Mom." Adeline didn't look away from the portrait. "We need to remember Jason."

Her mother didn't say a thing, but Adeline wasn't expecting she would anymore. She sat there, empty, watching her mother fade into herself. She couldn't feel anything but cold.

Adeline put the portrait back in the bed, by her mother, not noticing the stains of blood she had left on the frame, and left, feeling like a failure.

༻⁕༺

How much loneliness can one person take? Sitting on the curb by Jason's old Harley in a black dress, listening to the birds chirping, Adeline felt like she was disappearing.

She had ignored the Sportster for most of the day, but now, she found herself drawn to it, like a planet orbiting the sun—always circling, never approaching, afraid to touch something so precious.

She had also been thinking a lot about one word: memorial.

Remembering.

Sinking ever deeper into her desperation, Adeline would think about how the very act of remembering implied forgetfulness, and how her memories were already so corrupted, so incomplete. And how her mother didn't deserve to remember Jason the way those who truly loved him did.

What was a memory to a girl who had just lost a part of herself, like a limb torn away from her body? When her grief was the first thing she thought of in the morning? Adeline never thought she would need to remember Jason; he was a constant. He had been there from the first moment she was alive, and he would be until she wasn't.

No one had ever taught her how to hold on to anything. And now, Jason was slipping through her fingers, just like he had that night when he told her to go to her room.

When he promised he would come back.

That old Harley-Davidson was the last part of him before he decided to step out and help someone. It was the part of Jason that could fly free, like a bird. He could have left them all behind and never come back, to a place where no one could hurt him, and where he didn't have a sister to take care of.

When Adeline stepped outside, she was determined to look, but fear had gripped her. It hurt just to glance at it, and she was terrified that it would bring on another wave of tears, especially after working so hard to control the last one.

But look for what?, some might question. She did not know. Maybe something to hold on to, when everything seemed to be fading away. When it felt so much like she used to have a home and it had been taken from her.

Adeline was holding tightly to the bike's keys, the arrowhead keychain digging into the fresh cuts on her palms that she had never bothered to bandage. Some small part of her desperately wanted to pierce her skin again with her nails, but she was afraid of the pain. She didn't even understand how she could do it so often when it hurt so much afterward.

Eventually, her father would come back home, even if some dark, twisted part of her wished he never would. He would find the motorcycle he always hated, and what would she do then?

Adeline put the keychain down. She rose slowly, drawn to the machine as if it were the last piece of Jason left in the world.

If she let it go, all was lost.

She reached out, letting her fingers run over the cold metal of the handlebars, tracing the faint grooves left by Jason's grip. With a quiet breath, she knelt down and carefully lifted the small latch on the saddlebag, revealing a few of Jason's belongings tucked away inside, untouched and waiting.

There was his sunglasses, aviator style, which Jay had once said made him feel like Tom Cruise. The memory almost made her smile.

Tangled with the glasses was a simple leather necklace with a feather-shaped pendant—one Adeline had made for him the year before, a bit bent out of shape now, but still there. She remembered when he accepted the gift with a crooked smile, not saying much, but wearing it every day after that.

Adeline reached for his cellphone too, piling everything beside her on the ground, before reaching deeper into the saddlebag. At the bottom, her hand touched something made of leather.

She pulled it out, revealing a black leather vest, heavy and worn. On the back, two embroidered angel wings spread out from the scapula.

Adeline sat down on the curb again. Her chest tightened as she clutched the vest closer, inhaling deeply.

It smelled of old leather and sweat and something unmistakably Jason.

She put it on.

The weight of the vest felt strange and unfamiliar, almost too heavy for her frame, but as she slipped it over her shoulders, it settled around her like a protective cocoon.

Adeline felt the tears forming again, feeling the rough texture of the leather against her skin, the coolness of it seeping through the thin fabric of her dress

For a little moment, she almost felt safe again, as if there were a little storage in her heart, still unscathed, where she could keep everything that was Jay's, so she would never risk forgetting him again.

Adeline picked up the leather necklace—it was too big for her neck. She looked at the bracelet on her wrist, that for him, she had decided to wear. Hesitantly, she took it off, wrapping the necklace around her scar, instead. Loose—but still, she prayed it wouldn't fall.

Placing the bracelet on her little pile of memories, Adeline reached for Jay's phone. She remembered how much he enjoyed taking pictures, even though he preferred to use a simple Sony camera. They used to share the same love for beautiful things.

Adeline pressed the button on his phone. As soon as the screen lit up, it displayed a saved contact: Daryl.

Uncle Daryl.

Adeline was tossed back to old memories, some of them but weeks old.

She knew him as the man whose face she could see from the open window of his pickup truck, every time he drove Jason home from the garage. The youngest of the Dixon brothers—a man whom neither her mother nor her father liked to talk about. He helped Jason when he needed his motorcycle fixed, and he helped Adeline when she got sick.

A grumpy, but sweet man.

The last time Jason had ever picked up his phone, he was planning on calling their uncle. That realization hit her deep, making her heart hummer in her chest.

Was it when he saw that woman being attacked on the road and he was trying to reach out for help?

Or did he not even think of that, immediately racing to help her?

Was it before he even went on his motorcycle, after Adeline let go of his hand?

Or was it even before all of that, when he was just a boy playing football?

Did he think of calling someone when he was dying alone on the street?

Did he think of me?

The tears began to gather once more, her mind spiraling down. The images just wouldn't stop coming. They wouldn't stop coming.

Jason is dead and he is in the woods and you are there with him. Jason is dead and you let go of his hand. Jason is dead and it should be you.

Her breath came quicker, panic rising. Adeline aimlessly rummaged through his phone, making her way to his gallery. She swiped through his photos, feeling the tears falling from her eyes as she looked at the world through his point of view. Adeline quickly found what she was looking for. She wiped the tears with the back of her free hand and let out a sigh of relief.

And she savored the image of her sweet brother who loved sunsets and motorcycles.

Adeline let out a faint smile as she looked at the blurry pictures of her brother, always alongside Serena or Adeline, always smiling. Some pictures were of his bike, and a lot of them were of sunsets. All set in different landscapes, because Jay was a rider. He was always looking for something else.

Only once had he taken her for a ride—it was their little secret. Theirs and Daryl's. It was a short trip, just up to Harris's Ranch, but it felt like nothing she had ever experienced before. The wind in her face, that rush of happiness bubbling inside her, something exhilarating instead of painful. For that moment, she felt like she could fly. Jason had taken her to see the horses, and as she watched them, she couldn't help but think that riding one must feel even freer than a motorcycle.

Jason had once said that Daryl was a rider, too. That it was a Dixon thing. It seemed strange to her then, since they had never seen their father with a motorcycle or anything like that. But Jay insisted that he was nothing like Daryl—nothing like him, and nothing like Adeline either. Because even if she didn't have a bike of her own, she understood that feeling of searching for something that couldn't be found at home. And even if Adeline didn't understand him, she believed him.

Her mind began to wonder.

Does he love the sunsets and the open roads too, or does he just like to ride?

Would he take me on rides if I asked him to?

What did Jason want to talk to him about?

Is he missing him too?

And the most important question in her heart lingered, heavy and painful: Would Jason like to be remembered by him?

Daryl was a good Dixon, Adeline thought, one who loved motorcycles and the taste of the wind. Jay deserved to be remembered by someone like that, she decided. That was the image of her brother she wanted to hold on to—the carefree, adventurous boy. It was the only Jay he had ever known. To him, he was a friend.

So Adeline picked up the phone once again. And she waited. And waited...

"Who's this?"

The voice was hoarse, almost hostile.

"Uncle Daryl?" She said, the words strange in her mouth. She did not remember what Jason used to call him. It doesn't matter, she decided. "It's Adeline," she continued, her heart pounding in her chest.

"Adeline? You alright? Why ya callin'?" His tone shifted to one of urgency.

She hesitated, trying to choose her words. She didn't have any good ones, so she just said, "There's gonna be a memorial for Jason now." She paused. "I want ya t' come."

A long silence followed. Adeline held her breath, fearing he might say no. Finally, she heard his voice again, still hoarse but... softer? "Alright."

"Are ya gonna come?" she asked, just to be sure.

"I am."

She waited, but he said nothing more. The words that came out next were almost unwanted, created by need. "Ya know," her voice was barely above a whisper. "Jason... he talked about ya. A lot."

Another silence, and Adeline could almost hear Daryl's thoughts turning over, like the slow rumble of an engine starting up. "He did?" he asked, and his voice was softer now, tinged with something Adeline couldn't quite place.

"Yeah," she said, her heart beating faster. "He said you are a rider. That it is in the Dixon blood."

A rough, choked sound came from the other end of the line, and Adeline realized it was a laugh. "Yeah, I guess it is," Daryl murmured. "Look, kid... I don't know what to say. I'll be there, okay? I'll come."

"Okay."

And then there was that long silence again.

"Okay."

Adeline waited for a moment longer, the silence on the other end of the line stretching out between them. She stared at the phone, unsure if she should say something more, but her heart felt too heavy. Slowly, she lowered the phone from her ear and ended the call with a click. For a few seconds, she just sat there, the weight of everything pressing down on her.

Then, she heard the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind her, the familiar sound of someone moving hesitantly. Adeline turned, her heart catching in her throat as she saw her standing behind her.

Her mother, who hadn't left her bed in days, was there, looking frail and pale, but there.

Adeline's chest tightened—surprise mingling with something darker. Anger, maybe. Or hurt. She couldn't quite tell. All Adeline knew was that her mother was finally here, after days of silence, and it was too little, too late.

"Who were ya calling, baby?" she asked, her voice uncertain, wavering like she was afraid to intrude. Adeline didn't answer, turning her gaze back to the Harley instead.

Her mother seemed to hesitate, then slowly sat down beside her on the curb. Her presence felt almost as fragile as the air between them.

"I won't let it happen this time, baby," her mother tried, her voice small.

You already did, Adeline wanted to say. The words burned in her throat, but they stayed silent. Instead, she clenched her jaw and stared straight ahead.

"Can ya look at me, please?" her mother's voice trembled, almost pleading.

And even though Adeline didn't want to—didn't want to give her mother that satisfaction, didn't want to let herself feel the sting of betrayal again—she did.

Her mother reached out, gently taking Adeline's face in her hands. Her thumbs brushed over her daughter's cheeks, wiping away tears she didn't even realize were still falling. Her mother's touch was cold.

"Not this time, okay? I promise you," she whispered. Adeline's blue eyes were wide and moving fast, searching for anything in her mother's face.

Not this time. This time, I won't leave you. This time, I'll be strong for you.

But how could Adeline believe such a promise, when her mother's mind was such a tangled mess, her grip on control so fragile? When every part of Adeline's heart told her that Jason's death had left a hole in her—one Adeline could never hope to fill?

Her mother pulled her into a tight hug, gently rubbing her back.

"I promise you, Foxy."

Foxy.

She had called her Foxy.

Her mother's touch was cold, but still, she stayed.

Chapter Text

Adeline enjoyed going on walks because it made her feel like a hobbit. Jason did it for a slightly different reason.

Walks were the medicine he used to keep his anger at bay. He liked to believe it helped him be a better person, to keep the worst parts of himself away from home. Then he found that running worked even better and eventually, he found football.

He made it a point to be better for Adeline, above all else. Not only did she deserve it, but she needed it. Jason could see in her face what he sometimes caught in his own reflection, even though there was a destructiveness in her he did not recognize.

With Serena, it was different. It wasn't about keeping his demons at bay. With her, he feared he might let them slip. It took months before he let himself get close. The idea of hurting her—it was too much to risk. But Serena, she had a way of sticking around. She wasn't one to walk away easily and before he knew it, they were inseparable.

His mother, though, was the hardest part. When things were good, they could almost work like a team, but when the episodes came, Adeline was his first priority. No questions asked. That was the rule, every single time.

Mason, on the other hand, deserved everything Jason held back. Every inch of it. But he had to be careful. Jason wasn't a kid anymore. Anger could be dangerous now and not only to him.

He'd learned that the hard way.

That's when he realized walks weren't just a way to stay grounded—they were a way to feel like he could escape. Even if only for a few hours. It was enough. Then, he discovered riding.

He imagined that it must be very close to what birds feel like. For a few moments, he had no thoughts at all. Good or bad. There was only the wind and the road. If he had to name the feeling, the closest thing would have to be freedom.

Old Wilson had been a better grandfather than a father as far as Jason knew. The man wasn't exactly a saint, but he took care of his things. And that old Sportster? That was one of them. She was a bit torn out, but so what? She was his.

He'd been borderline obsessed with owning a bike ever since he saw Merle's Triumph Bonneville, back when the three Dixon brothers didn't seem like strangers. Lately, Jason found himself drifting more than usual into thoughts about his family. For years, all he'd heard about his uncles were the rumors, small-town gossip, and the occasional crap his father would throw out about his brothers—remarks Jason had learned to ignore.

He wondered what would have been different if they were all closer and if it would have mattered. Having met Daryl, he'd almost allow himself to think that it would. Almost.

But, of course, it all circled back to one thing he knew well: why Mason had pushed them away. Why keep close the very thing you despised every time you looked at yourself in the mirror?

At the end, they were everything Mason hated, but could never run away from—the only ones who could see exactly what kind of man their brother had become.

They were Dixons, through and through, and so was Mason, no matter how hard he tried to pretend otherwise.

Now, Jason's walks had a different goal: back to Earl's garage again. After the bus stop, it was just trees and mountains stretching out, covered in thick woods. He'd grown up around it, seeing the sun rise and set, painting the sky orange and pink, and then fade into a blanket of stars. But he never paid too much attention, no until Adeline came along. Then his walks had a new image and a new company.

Adeline was the one who made him stop and look, pointing out things Jason had never noticed—how the clouds turned gold right before dusk or the way the wind carried the smell of pine after it rained. She looked at sunsets and mountains with a kind of quiet longing, as if searching for something out there.

It was her way to cope, he believed—knowing that there was something out there, bigger than herself and far from anyone's reach. Or maybe that was just who she was. Adeline paid attention to beauty and she hoped.

Jason knew people who always looked down, burdened by the grind of day-to-day survival, and others who looked up, lost in their own expectations of life. His parents were forever trapped looking back, haunted by what was or could have been. But Adeline?

Adeline looked beyond.

If there was any part of Jason that believed there was something worth fighting for, it was because of her. She was his reason for almost anything.

Lost in those thoughts, Jason barely noticed the change in the surroundings until Earl's garage came to view, half hidden behind trees, the gray of the building contrasting against the green and blue of the landscape. He adjusted the strap of his backpack and crossed the street. Not much made him nervous these days, but something about Earl's garage did. It wasn't a bad feeling, though—just... different.

The reason for his return? A small package in his backpack. He wasn't going to lie—it was a real son of a bitch to find, a few calls to friends of friends and a few hours scavenging in an old junkyard. Small, but valuable: a magneto ignition, the kind they didn't make anymore.

Jason couldn't do much of the repair work himself, not on his own at least, and that was the biggest frustration of his life. But this? This he could do. It was the help he could offer.

As he approached, the first thing he noticed was a man, that Jason hadn't seen the last he had been there, working under the hood of a red Ford F-150. Mid-twenties, face sharp, almost rodent like, skin flushed red from the afternoon sun.

"Hey, man," Jason called, hesitating for a moment as the words caught in his throat. "Is Daryl..." he shut his mouth, clearing his throat.

Earl called the shots. It made more sense to go to him first, right?

"... is Earl around?"

It took a second before he glanced at Jason and another one until he answered, "Yeah, should be around the shop," he said, nodding towards the building.

Jason nodded, still a bit disconcerted. As he walked in, weaving between vehicle carcasses and parts scattered on the ground, Jason caught the distant, unmistakable sound of country music playing on the radio. Why not?, he thought to himself, amused, following the noise, knowing with near certainty that Earl would be close by.

It was Randy Travis, he figured as he got closer, and he almost laughed at himself. Serena always had something to say about his music taste, claiming it was getting dangerously close to old man's territory. Jason had no choice but to agree.

He spotted Earl bent over the open hood of an old, beat-up yellow Chevy C10, tools in hand, muttering something under his breath. Definitely Randy Travis, he thought. The older man was deeply focused, wiping grease off his hands as he worked, and for the looks of it, the truck was almost as old as the Treadwell himself.

Jason grinned, deciding to make his presence known. "Figured you'd be waist-deep in something ancient," he called out, trying to be louder than the music. "Didn't know ya were still fixing cars from the Stone Age, Earl."

Earl didn't look up right away, but a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "She's still got more life in her than half the junk you young folks ride," he shot back, wiping his hands on a rag before finally turning to face Jason. He reached out to shake the boy's hand, his grip firm. "Not gonna lie ta' ya, didn't have much time to take a look at yer Harley yet. Yer uncle's been the one tinkerin' with her whenever he finds the time."

Jason blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "He is?"

For a second, he felt out of place, maybe even embarrassed. Jason hadn't expected that, or had he? He'd definitely thought about it, without realizing. Jason couldn't help but wonder that, in other times, they could have worked on that Harley together and he didn't have to be left out.

But Daryl had taken his bike under his wing and Jason caught himself thinking that it could be more than just a possibility.

Clearing his throat, Jason quickly shifted his backpack to the front. "Well," he said, regaining his composure. "That's why I came back." He unzipped the side pocket and pulled out the ignition, holding it up with a small grin. "Figured you'd be needing it."

"Well, I'll be damned," the older man smiled. "Not a bad find, kid." Earl turned off the radio, turned his head back and let out a howl, "Dixon! Get yer ass over here!"

They heard the sharp sound of something metallic being torn to the ground and a few seconds later, silent as a shadow, his uncle emerged from behind the shop, wiping his hands clean with a rag.

The two Dixons nodded in acknowledgment, no words needed. Jason straightened up without thinking, shoulders squaring slightly as if trying to match Daryl's presence. His uncle's sharp gaze swept over the scene, head held slightly low in that familiar, watchful posture—a predator assessing his surroundings. Jason shifted the weight of the package in his hands, clearing his throat but saying nothing.

Daryl had heard the muffled voices from behind the shop, but he didn't bother to check right away. Truth be told, he wasn't so surprised to see his nephew back so soon. The kid was drawn to that bike like a moth to a flame—just as it should be. Daryl could respect that.

"Look at what the cat dragged in," Earl quipped, but his uncle didn't react.

Daryl's eyes slid to Jason, a flicker of recognition passing over his face. Jason noticed the way his uncle held his gaze slightly low, as if inspecting the ground between them more than meeting Jason's eyes.

Without a word, Jason extended the ignition, trying to keep his excitement in check. "Brought 'er a little somethin'," he said, his voice casual, though he couldn't quite mask the edge of anticipation.

Daryl took the part, his fingers moving over it with an almost reverent touch, his eyes narrowing as he examined it from every angle. Jason held his breath, watching for any sign—just a nod or even a glance. A moment passed before Daryl gave a subtle, barely-there nod. "It'll work."

Relief flooded Jason's chest and for a second, he felt himself stand a bit taller. Maybe he'd done alright after all.

A beat of silence followed before Jason cleared his throat, summoning his nerve. "So... should we try it out?" he asked, his gaze set on his uncle, uncertain.

The silence stretched, thick and slightly awkward before Earl, sensing the tension, stepped in with a casual shrug. "Why don't you two go on, give it a whirl? Got things need doin' in the shop," he said, deliberately backing away, leaving them with no excuse.

Daryl's jaw tightened slightly, casting a sidelong look at Earl—a look heavy with unspoken thoughts that needed no translation between the two men. Earl rolled his eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Yeah, yeah, Dixon, save it," he muttered, turning his back and disappearing around the corner.

Daryl let out a quiet sigh, as if resigning himself. He ought to have a talk with the man later, Daryl thought to himself. "A'right," he muttered finally.

They crossed the garage yard in silence, weaving between tools and spare parts scattered on the ground. The Sportster was parked under a metal awning, tucked between some old vehicles and engines.

"Where'd ya dig this up, anyway?" Daryl's question broke the quiet.

"Found it in a junkyard over in Harper's Grove," Jason replied. There was a touch of pride in his voice, the sort that only came from hours of scavenging.

Daryl nodded slightly. "Coulda' asked me. Merle's got his ways. Knows the yards around here, where t' get decent parts. We've got some layin' around from when he was messin' with that Triumph."

Jason shifted slightly, hesitating before he asked, "What's goin' on with Merle, by the way?"

Daryl's expression darkened for a moment and he let out a low, resigned sigh. "Jail," he answered simply, as if the word itself carried a whole story. "Garwater."

Bar fight. Assault. Judge got sick of Merle's crap and set the bail too high. High enough to drag Daryl back to Earl's garage and high enough to make him call in some favors. It had been a week now, waiting for the court date and paying off for Merle's bullshit again.

Jason nodded, picking up on the signal that the conversation was done. No point dragging it out. He stayed quiet, even though he felt that he had been the one to push it too far.

Daryl looked over the starter and muttered, "Gonna need a second hand 'ere. These bolts can be a pain."

Jason stepped in without hesitation, ready to help. Daryl gave a nearly inaudible grunt of approval before positioning himself to loosen the bolts.

"Hold 'er steady," Daryl said and Jason placed his hands firmly on the bike's frame as his uncle applied pressure to the bolts. When one of them finally gave in with a pop, Daryl let out a grunt of satisfaction, extending his hand. "Socket wrench, the bigger one."

Jason quickly handed it over and watched as Daryl adjusted the next bolt. In silence, they settled into a natural rhythm, Jason following his uncle's lead. No long instructions, just subtle gestures and glances.

At one point, Daryl leaned in, tugging firmly on the starter. "Almost there."

Jason watched him struggle slightly with the alignment and, without a word, he reached out, holding the piece steady so Daryl could set everything in place. Finally, with everything assembled, his uncle leaned over and gripped the kickstarter with his boot. He looked over at Jason with a hint of a smirk. "Now, this here's a real Harley. None of that button-pushin' crap."

Jason watched as Daryl brought the pedal up and slammed his foot down hard in one swift motion. The engine sputtered, hesitating, and for a second, Jason thought it might not take. But then, with a low, steady roar, the engine came to life, filling the garage with its unmistakable rumble.

Jason couldn't hide his grin. "Sounds good," he said, voice barely above the noise, and Daryl gave a small nod. His eyes were still fixed on the bike and there was a a slight satisfaction in his expression as he shut off the engine.

"Yeah," he agreed, patting the side of the bike with a firm hand. "That's how a Harley's supposed to feel."

Jason glanced down, thinking about how different the two brothers seemed to him. Mechanics—and even hunting, when Jason was younger—was Mason's way of making a man out of him. Quit your crying and man up, Jason used to tell himself, but in the end, it all felt like punishment—a reminder he'd never be good enough. He remembered some of the good days, when Mason would even let Adeline tag along, showing her a thing or two. Back then, Jason still tried. But the years passed and Lillian got worse and Mason got worse and Jason eventually had to grow up. His father saw it and a lot changed ever since.

But now, seeing Daryl with the bike and the way they seemed to work relatively well together, that possibility Jason had been working to let go came back in full strength. If there was any chance he could work on the Harley, he had to take it.

Jason thought about what had held him back before. Lack of confidence in his skills, for sure. Lack of guts might also have been a part of the mix. But perhaps also caution.

People weren't always what they seemed to be. His father was proof enough of that. To everyone else in town, he was the ideal family man—the guy who, against all odds, clawed his way out of a rough childhood and managed to make something of himself. The perfect father, carrying the heavy burden of raising two kids despite his insane, troubled wife.

But Daryl didn't seem anything like it. He was who he was and felt no need to hide it. And the way he avoided Jason, like he was ashamed or something, seemed just honest. With Mason, strength was all about keeping everyone in check, a constant reminder of who was in charge. But this? Watching Daryl take time with the bike, handing over tools without making it a power play, it felt different. Real. Daryl didn't have to demand respect or throw around his authority; he simply had it.

And Jason thought back to that night when Daryl had dropped everything to take Adeline to the hospital. When his father was nowhere to be found, his uncle had shown up, unshaken, standing up to Mason without blinking, as if he was the only man in the world to see right through him. That was someone Jason thought he might trust.

Still, Jason knew he had to tread carefully. His sister had that sweet, subtle way of coaxing people into doing what she wanted. Maybe he could try a similar approach.

Jason lingered by the bike, watching as Daryl fumbled through a box of tools, half-focused. He cleared his throat, casually testing the waters. "Ya think you'll be workin' on the bike more today?"

Daryl didn't look up right away and gave a noncommittal grunt. "Maybe." He wiped his hands and tossed the rag to the side. His gaze was locked on the mess of tools as if they held all the answers.

Jason shifted, hoping Daryl might say more. "Could always use an extra hand, right? I mean, might go faster with two."

Daryl sighed. For a second, it almost seemed to Jason as if he was considering it, but when his uncle finally looked up, his gaze was hard and dismissive. "You're payin' for me to do it, ain't ya?" He turned back to the bike, tightening his grip on the wrench. "If you wanna mess around with it, take it home."

Jason scratched the back of his neck, a bit thrown. "Right. Just thought... maybe you wouldn't mind an extra hand, is all."

Daryl's jaw tightened. "Ain't got time to teach, or hold nobody's hand neither. If you're lookin' to tinker, find somethin' else." His voice had a sharper edge. "Bike don't need no overseer."

Jason opened his mouth to respond, but the words dried up. Instead, he nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. "A'right. Got it," he muttered, masking his disappointment. He turned to go, but paused. "Just thought it'd be nice to... never mind."

For a split second, Daryl's face softened, but he looked away, gripping the wrench tighter. "Ain't got time for 'nice,' kid."

Jason nodded and walked off. He might be done for the day, but he wasn't ready to give up—not yet.

Earning a wolf's trust took patience and Jason had time.

༻⁕༺

The C-10 had been complaining all morning. You could hear it through the bay doors—the fan belt's whine, the old V8 coughing, Earl cussing low like prayer. Honest work. Stubborn. The kind that keeps a man's head quiet if he lets it.

Earl didn't. Heat came up off the gravel in waves and his hands were grease-black. Somewhere, a wasp worried a can of soda; somewhere, a Harley sat silent, the kind that said the kid left.

Outside, Daryl leaned against the side of the building, cigarette between his fingers, gaze fixed on something only he could see, miles away. Earls stopped six feet away, rag on his hands against the dark that painted nail to elbow, studying the way you study a machine. "Where's the boy?"

"Left." Daryl didn't give him more. Fools hope, Ear thought to himself.

Earl raised an eyebrow, his voice edging toward curiosity. "What'd ya say to him?"

A grunt. The set of Daryl's jaw did the talking he wasn't going to and Earl waited like he had all day.

"Why ya pushin' 'im away, son?"

Daryl's shoulders stiffened. His response was clipped, "Ain't pushin' anybody away." He took a slow drag from his cigarette and held the pack out to Earl, who waved it off with a shake of his head.

"He's just a boy, Dixon," Earl said quietly. "He wants ta' know ya. What's the harm in that?"

"Ain't no damn babysitter, that's what," was his answer, plain and simple.

Daryl almost laughed, but the sound caught halfway up. The idea of Jason looking up to him—wanting to know him—bordered on absurd. If the boy hadn't figured out this road dead-ended, he would soon enough.

The kid kept showing up anyway, hanging around like a man who'd lost the map and decided the shop might be a compass. Daryl knew what wasn't here. The boy needed a future with a door on it. That wasn't the Dixon side Daryl knew. If Jason needed a man to study, he had a father for that. Not him.

"He's yer nephew, son. Family's impor'nt."

Daryl's mouth thinned. "You're one to talk." A look sharp enough to shave with. Earl was as solitary as a fencepost in a field. What did he know about family?

"I'm just sayin'," Earl replied, hands raised in a gesture of surrender. But his gaze didn't soften. "Kid looks just like yer Lillian."

"She ain't mine." His cigarette hit the ground, crushed beneath his boot, and the set of his fists was a better answer than the words he'd been about say.

He'd noticed the resemblance—in the looks, not in the ways. Jason seemed steady, straightforward. In that, he was Mason. Still—Lillian's laugh came up out of the place he'd buried it. The feral shine in her eyes and the way she used to look at him with something close to hope. But that was a long time ago and he'd buried those memories deep—or so he thought.

"Knock that off, son," Earl's voice brought him back from the past. "So ya tellin' me ya ain't at least curious? Ya wanna get to know 'im as much as he wants t' know ya."

Daryl scoffed, expression hardening again. "Ya like stickin' yer old man's nose where it don't belong, don't ya?"

"Just 'cause he told you to stay away don't mean you oughta." A nod at the ghost of Mason.

Earl knew this much: treat a man like a stray long enough, he'll start to feel like one. Daryl didn't deserve that feeling—not when there was a crack of light to aim at. It needed saying, even if he was about to get his head bit off.

"Not when the boy's right here."

Daryl stepped in a half pace, jaw tight. "You think you got a clue, huh? Sit there with that smug, know-it-all face, flappin' your gums like you wrote the goddamn Dixon manual." Finger came up, steady. "I don't need some washed-up, grease-covered old fool tellin' me what I oughta do. You don't know jack about me, about Mason, about that kid. Ever think folks steer clear 'a you 'cause you can't mind your own business?"

He shook his head in disgust. "Stick to what you know, old man, and leave my family to its own goddamn mess."

He turned away, but Earl didn't flinch. He stood rooted, watching the younger man wrestle with demons he couldn't name.

"Ain't sayin' I know it all," he replied finally, his tone almost sad. "Just know what it looks like when a man's got a chance right in front of him, but he's too damn stubborn to see it."

He started back toward the bay, paused at the threshold without looking over his shoulder. "Don't let pride cost you somethin' you can't get back, Dixon."

The words hung heavier than Daryl wanted to admit. He looked at the crushed cigarette under his boot—small, mean, finished. Cussed under his breath, pulled another from the soft pack, lit it off the wind with practiced hands. One drag. Another. The yard stretched long with shadow. Smoke climbed and twisted and went where it wanted.

He kept his eyes on nothing and asked himself when the simple things had gotten so damn complicated.

Chapter Text

"I do not know which to prefer, the beauty of inflections or the beauty of innuendos. The blackbird whistling or just after."

— Wallace Stevens. Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.

༻⁕༺

"You could just talk to him," Lillian Dixon said to her brother-in-law on a cool autumn evening, on a rare but fortunate occasion when her husband's pickup truck was home, but its owner himself, on the other hand, wasn't. And therefore, at this particular moment, so wasn't Lillian.

She leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed loosely. Jason was sitting cross-legged on the ground near Merle and his motorcycle. The man didn't look up right away. Instead, he twisted the wrench, his movements deliberate and his expression unreadable.

"How fast can it go?" Jason asked, clearly not interested in the conversation between the two adults. His blonde curls caught the sunlight and his green eyes—so much like hers—were alight with curiosity.

Merle smirked, taking a slow drag of his cigarette, purposely ignoring Lillian. "Faster'n you'll ever need, kid. But you gotta respect it, y'hear? Ain't no toy."

Jason nodded solemnly, fingers still running along the bike's frame. "I'd never treat it like a toy. It's beautiful."

"Merle."

He looked up, giving an annoyed huff. "Talk to Mason?" he asked, tone laced with incredulity. He let out a short, bitter laugh and shook his head. "What the hell would I even say?"

"Anything," Lillian pressed, stepping closer. "You're his brother. If anyone could get through to him, it's you."

Merle snorted, flicking ash to the ground. "He don't wanna hear nothin' I got to say, Lilly. Hell, I ain't even sure I'd want to say it."

She sighed. "He's hurting, Merle. He didn't take it very well. I know this is being hard for all of you."

"Hold still, Uncle Daryl!" Lillian heard her daughter's squeal. Not far from them, Daryl stood under the big oak tree, Adeline perched high on his shoulders, wild red curls shimmering like a flame in the golden light. She was giggling as her tiny hands reached for the lowest branch of the tree. At five and a half, Adeline had a boundless energy that seemed to rival the wind itself.

"Ya keep wigglin', and we both goin' down," Daryl grumbled, though there was a rare softness in his voice. His hands gripped her legs securely, steadying her as she leaned forward, and Lillian allowed herself a small laugh.

Daryl had borderline ignored her when she arrived, much to Merle amusement and Lillian's disappointment—for the lack of a better word. Whatever bond they once had, had been growing fainter each year, but she couldn't deny herself that she'd missed him at one occasion or the other, especially before.

Before everything.

But Daryl failed to ignore Adeline. Jason was pulled to the bike as a moth to a flame and her daughter clanged to Daryl like glue. With the weight of the past threatening to burn her family down to ashes, Lillian could find comfort in the fact that at least her children could still find small moments of happiness and peace.

Adeline giggled, small hands stretching toward a branch. "I'm almost there! Just a little higher!"

Daryl sighed, though the corner of his mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. "What's next? Want me ta' grow a few inches?"

Adeline paused in her pursuit long enough to plant her hands on her hips and lean forward. Her hair now covered Daryl's face like a curtain made of fire. "You could try, Uncle Daryl."

That earned a short, unexpected chuckle from Daryl. "Smartmouth," he muttered, shifting slightly to give her more reach and Lillian felt a wave of a bittersweet ache.

Things had finally begun to fall into place, for all of them. After years of turbulence and uncertainty, the world seemed to offer them a fragile truce. The new medications were working—truly working—and for eight uninterrupted months, Lillian had been nearly free of episodes. She'd even completed her own little garden on the porch just two weeks before, a vision she'd carried since she was a little girl staring wistfully at the well-kept yards of others. Now, rows of lilies, marigolds, and petunias bloomed under her care, a tender testament to dreams quietly nurtured and finally realized.

Mason, too, had turned a corner. The promotion at the construction store—assistant manager—had brought with it a financial stability they hadn't known in years. He celebrated the news by surprising her with a bouquet of white lilies—her favorites—and a new dress that made her feel, for the first time in a long time, like herself again. They went out for dinner that evening, a proper date, where he'd smiled across the table with a warmth she hadn't seen in years. Lillian allowed herself to believe that things were changing. That he was changing.

Her husband had been calmer. More patient. Kind, even. Each night, he tucked Adeline into bed with a story and a kiss on her forehead. After school, he played catch with Jason in the front yard, laughing and joking as though the weight of the past finally had lifted. You've got an arm on you, kid, Mason would say, grinning. One day, you'll make a hell of a quarterback. And for a moment, Lillian could remember why she'd once loved him. Why she'd believed in him. She'd forgotten what a good father he could be.

Jason and Adeline were happy and their laughter filled the house in a way that made it feel alive. Adeline, her little firecracker, was thriving at her new elementary school. Her teacher had called just last week, effusive with praise about her sharp mind and radiant confidence. She's already the leader of her little group! And every day, Jason grew a little taller, a little gentler, blossoming into a sweet young man.

They've had their ups and downs before, only this time, it didn't seem fleeting. For the first time in years, Lillian allowed herself to hope. This life—this ordinary, beautiful life—was everything she'd dreamed of when she was a girl: her husband steady and kind, her children thriving, and her world a delicate balance of joy and peace. For the first time, she could breathe without waiting for the air to catch in her lungs. For the first time, she dared to believe in a future worth living.

And then Willard Andrew Dixon decided to die.

"Got it!" she heard Adeline exclaim, triumphantly, holding up a single feather she'd plucked from the nest. It was small and white, almost glowing in the golden light.

"Good job," Daryl said, lips twitching into the faintest of smiles as he carefully lowered her to the ground. "Now don't go botherin' the nest too much. Birds don't like folks messin' with their home."

Adeline hugged the feather to her chest as if it were a treasure, bright blue eyes sparkling with pride. "It's for Jason!" she declared, running toward her brother.

Jason glanced up as she approached, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "What's that?"

"A feather!" she said breathlessly, holding it out to him. "For you! So you can fly like the birds!"

Merle chuckled, flicking his cigarette into the dirt. "Kid's got more sense than the lot of us," he said, standing and patting Jason's shoulder. "Don't forget that when ya get older."

Jason took the feather from Adeline with a reverence that made Lillian's chest ache. "Thanks, Addie," he said softly, tucking the feather into the pocket of his shirt.

Willard Dixon hadn't decided to die, of course. Heart attack, plain and simple. The kind that left no room for second chances. They said if it hadn't been the heart, it would've been the liver. Years of whiskey-fueled anger and nicotine-laced silence had seen to that.

At first, she thought her husband might weather it. He cried at the service, something she'd never seen him do before. He let Jason sit on his lap during the wake, quietly explaining things in words the boy could understand. For one fleeting moment, Lillian thought his father's death might break him open, not break him apart.

She was wrong.

The grief didn't settle like dust; it stormed through him, violently. It wasn't long before the whiskey came back, its acrid scent clinging to his clothes like an accusation. The fights returned, cutting through the fragile peace they'd built like a knife through silk. The nights were the worst. Lillian made sure her children would never see it. She'd tell them to sing, but it wasn't enough to cover the noises.

He's just sad, baby, she would tell her son when he asked. Imagine how you would be if you'd lost your daddy. It was the best she could manage, the only answer that didn't feel like a lie.

And Lillian understood. She truly did. Because grief, to them, was not the bittersweet ache born of love and loss, the kind that blossomed for someone well-loved who'd lived a life worth remembering. When men like Willard died, the grief they left behind was a malformed creature, the one that twisted its way into their veins and rotted deep within their bones.

But her words fell on deaf ears and her efforts to bring them back to what they had been met only with silence or worse. Mason was slipping, and she could feel herself slipping too, her grasp on the fragile control she had fought so hard to maintain growing weaker by the day. The thought of returning to what they had been before—those dark, unyielding years—was a terror that clawed at her heart and she knew she couldn't endure it again.

Yet there were two other men who understood Mason's pain. Two men who carried their own scars from the same bloodline. Men Mason had pushed further and further away as the years passed, with her quiet complicity. She'd helped him sever those ties, believing it was what he needed. But now, what choice did she have?

To the Dixons, blood mattered—perhaps more than it should. Even if Mason had forgotten it, even if he'r spent years trying to bury it, it still coursed through his veins, binding him to a family he couldn't fully escape. Perhaps grief, for all its cruelty, could be the thing to bind them again. It had to be. Lillian had to believe that it could.

Daryl, though, could never be the answer—not for Mason. Not after the history they shared. Mason wouldn't listen to him, couldn't see past the bitterness and jealousy that had festered for years. And Lillian knew Daryl too well to know the shame he carried—the way he felt so small under his brother's shadow. But Merle was different and Mason didn't resent him in the same way. They spoke the same language, one of harsh truths and jagged edges. He would charge in, unapologetic and raw. If anyone could force Mason to look in the mirror and face his past, it was Merle.

"Look," she began again. "I know you and Mason aren't exactly getting along right now. And I know he can be... difficult."

Merle let out a sharp, bitter laugh, cutting her off mid-sentence. "Difficult?" he spat the word like it tasted foul. "That pompous little bastard thinks he's a damn gift to the world. Walked away from us like we were trash he couldn't wait to toss, like we weren't good enough for the rest of y'all." He tossed the wrench onto the ground with a loud clatter, standing with deliberate aggression, his face scrunched up in disgust. "Difficult's a hell of a nice way to put it, Lilly."

"Merle," Daryl warned as he stepped closer.

Lillian didn't back down. "You know that's not the whole truth. Mason... Mason's not proud of what he came from and maybe that's wrong, but it doesn't mean he doesn't care. You think it's been easy for him? For any of you?"

Merle barked out a bitter laugh and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see what it is now. Poor Mason, right? Tryin' so hard to pretend he ain't one of us, it's breakin' his little heart? Don't make me laugh, Lilly. That bastard couldn't care less if we were dead and buried. He's got his shiny house, his shiny job, his shiny life. And if you think he's losin' sleep over us, you're not just a fool, you're a goddamn idiot."

"Merle, enough," Daryl's voice cut sharper this time as he stepped forward between his brother and Lillian. His hand closed firmly around Merle's arm and he jerked it free with a scowl, stepping closer to Lillian.

"Don't you come 'round here askin' me to fix what ain't my fault, darlin'," he sneered, though there was something behind his words—resentment, yes, but also something heavier, something that almost sounded like hurt. "Mason made his choices. Let him choke on 'em."

Merle brushed past her, storming inside the house. Like a sulking little bitch. She let out a hoarse laugh, her hand going up her forehead and the other to her chin, trying to stifle the manic edge of her laughter. Lillian looked at the sky. Where did it go? she wondered, to whoever might listen. Where did the fight go?

"Mom?" Jason's voice broke through her thoughts as he approached her. Adeline stood a few steps behind Daryl, small hands fiddling with the hem of her shirt.

"Let's go, kids. Now." Lillian's voice came out clipped.

"Do we have to?" Adeline asked.

"Yes, we do."

"But I don't wanna leave yet," Adeline protested, her small face scrunching in defiance.

"Adeline, now," Lillian said, her tone brooking no argument. "I'm not gonna tell you again."

"But—"

"Let's go, Addie," Jason interjected gently, stepping forward to take her hand before their mother could say anything more. Adeline glared at him, but she let him pull her along, dragging her feet as they moved toward the truck.

Behind them, Daryl cleared his throat. "I can talk to him," he said. "Might not be much, but—"

"Don't," she said flatly, cutting him off with a sharp shake of her head, her gaze snapping to him. "Not you. If it comes from you, he won't hear it."

Daryl simply shook his head, the weight of her words settling in his silence. She didn't need to look closely to see the pain she had caused—it was there, raw and unguarded, etched across his face. How many times would she push him away, further and further, before he finally let her go? Before she finally let him go? That was the truth, wasn't it? There would never be a time when she wouldn't give anything to return to his arms. Well, almost anything.

With a final glance towards him, Lillian walked away.

༻⁕༺

The sun was hanging low in the sky, casting the world in hues of gold and rust, and Lillian felt her own life dimming along with it. She thought that if she closed her eyes just then, she might disappear entirely, dissolving into the evening air like a wisp of mist fading into the horizon.

The fields lay quiet, solemn, their silence almost reverent. A chill seeped into the ground, touching everything, filling the air with a somber weight. Shadows stretched long and thin, dark etchings against the waning light.

Before her, with its back against the dying sun, beside a bodiless granite tombstone, was a portrait. And in that portrait, a boy who never had the chance to grow into a man. A man who, perhaps, had never truly known how to be a boy.

And Lillian always knew he was destined to leave her.

Abandonment had a face, and she knew it as intimately as she knew her own.

Her own life had been a series of leavings, a story told through the echoes of people slipping away. The beginning of her life was nothing more than a preface to her end, her death embedded within every breath. A cliche, she was certain, yet one she couldn't escape.

Her first desertion was her mother's. A mercy, it was, and many years passed until Lillian came to understand it, when she cradled her own children in her arms.

The first time she felt it was like plunging into an endless void. She could still remember the sensation of drowning, her small body seared as if being pierced by shards of ice, fragile arms pulling her from the depths and pressing her close to a form only slightly warmer than her own.

The second time, there was a baby in her arms and her mother's mercy met her as the walls were consumed by a furious red and her throat breathed flames. The same fragile embrace held her and she felt the night air fill her lungs for what felt like the first time. Behind her, nothing but ashes and embers.

And after that, she was gone, quietly and with the stealth of the dawn. Lillian remembered darkened, green eyes staring through the door, and then—nothing.

Everything else became a bitter consequence. To her father, Lillian was the echo of his Eleanor, a ghostly reminder of what had been taken—he could never look her in the eye without facing that loss. And between the father drowning at the bottom of a bottle and the mother who had left, to Emily, Lillian was nothing more than the sister she had never been able to hold in her hands.

But Lillian was never innocent. Every choice, every broken tie, nothing but a consequence she had orchestrated—a slow, inevitable unraveling of all she had dared to hold close.

So one by one, they left, never to return. Inside the old wooden bones of what had never been a home, dust settled upon the seats at the table, their portraits showing pictures of no one.

Nobody but ghosts are left.

But what happened when the product of a doomed bloodline found its way into an equally tormented household? One as deep in sorrow as it was in ruin? Mason Dixon was a man as buried in his past as she was, and for that, he was the promise that had never never fulfilled—a force that seized her with iron talons, draining her warmth until all that remained was a hollow shell, stripped of its light.

Mason, too, was built of leaving, his own abandonment buried beneath the iron grip of his control. They were broken in nearly the same way, carrying the same darkness, the same capacity for cruelty. Love was a language they had never learned to speak, an art they could only hold in their hands as something fragile and foreign.

So Jason and Adeline had paid the price, and it bound husband and wife together, as two halves of a shattered whole, trapped in a bond they could neither sever nor truly keep.

In a way, Lillian was a broken promise to him, too—a promise of redemption, of something pure and good. She had failed him as much as he had failed her, each of them grasping at a salvation neither could provide.

But with Jason, the fracture was different, subtler—a quiet slipping away rather than a violent tearing apart. She couldn't say when it began. Was it when Adeline was born, when he first held his sister's fragile, tiny body, and something in him changed? When he realized what it meant to love so deeply, so purely, that the life they lived suddenly felt unbearable? Was that when she first felt him slipping away, inch by inch?

Or was it the first time Lillian got back from the hospital? That look he gave her—she never forgot it. It wasn't angry and it wasn't hurt. It was the look of acceptance.

She knew, then, that something had broken, irrevocably, out of her reach. Something inside both of her children had died and the fault lay with her—more than with her husband.

It was then that Lillian saw how dangerous she truly was. Not just because of her illness, but because they loved her. And there is nothing more lethal than loving someone beyond salvation. Nothing more poisonous than the love that clings where it should release.

Her hands—these hands that had once held her children close—had taken more than they had given. They were hands that could only destroy. Jason's hands were ones that built, the ones that sheltered and offered hope. Perhaps the only good she'd ever done for her son was giving him someone to love in a way that defied all reason, all fear. The kind of love you would leave everything behind for.

And so Jason had let her go and she knew, with a hollow certainty, that one day she would have to learn how to let him go too.

But she never could. Never, not once in her life, Lillian had ever let go of anything. She knew the void within her—ever-lasting, ever-growing—would never release what it held. She was a graveyard of memories, clinging to ghosts long gone.

Lillian felt sorry that he never got to leave her. No, it wasn't sorrow—it was nameless. As there was no name for a mother who has lost a child, there was no name for what she felt now. What coursed through her was as ancient as life itself. As inevitable as death.

What wouldn't she give to see the day Jason would finally walked out of their door for the last time? To watch him glance back, not with resentment, but with the quiet strength of someone who loves without the hope of being loved back? He would take Adeline with him and would become everything to her that a father should be, and Lillian... she would fade, a forgotten specter, her presence nothing more than a faint, distant memory.

And the thought lingered, as it always had and always would, a bittersweet ache that dissolved into the reality before her. The air around her was heavy, saturated with the faint scent of hyacinths, their blooms carefully arranged at the base of Jason's portrait. Their vibrant purples and blues, symbols of sorrow and deep regret, were like echoes of the unspoken—of everything left unsaid and undone. Lilies, she would have chosen, if the whisper of life had been closer to her grasp. Lilies that meant purity and innocence and death.

And the granite tombstone stood silently amidst it all, its presence cold and impersonal—a placeholder for something too vast to contain.

Beloved son.

Beloved brother.

A husband, he should have been. A father. He was the one who had the chance to get away, to break free, and now he was gone.

Shadows of people gathered loosely around it, murmuring softly as if afraid to disturb the evening air. Serena was standing along her parents, engaged in a quiet conversation with the ceremonialist. Even from a distance, Lillian could see how poised she was, expression filled with tenderness. She carried herself with a quiet authority that seemed almost unnatural for someone so young. Serena had stepped up since the moment she arrived—perhaps, Lillian thought, since the moment she had met her children.

And then, sat on a bench, apart from everyone and everything, small frame silhouetted against the fading horizon, gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the landscape, was Adeline.

Adeline, the daughter who was too much like her for her own good.

In her hands, would her daughter thrive or would she fade? Lillian had nothing to give her anymore, except to hold on for a little while longer. Until when, she did not know.

And then, as Lillian's mind drifted in search of a salvation that might never arrive, she saw him—he, who was her son's last fragment of innocent hope.

He was approaching from the edge of the field. His figure blended into the deepening shadows until the soft glow of the fading sun caught his face. He moved with deliberate hesitance, eyes scanning the crowd, fixing on Adeline for a moment and then on her. There was a quiet resolve in his steps—a strength that Lillian both envied and resented in equal measure.

They sat together in silence, the quiet settling over them like a fragile truce.

"She called you," Lillian finally said with a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. It softened her face for a fleeting moment, a tenderness that passed as quickly as it appeared.

"Yeah." Daryl nodded, looking down, as if those words carried more weight than he could bear. "Figured I should come."

"She's lonely," Lillian said in a whisper. "I haven't... I haven't been there for her the way that I should've."

An understatement, and a visceral one. If it weren't for the stains of blood her daughter had left behind, Lillian would be dead.

Perhaps that would have been my mercy, she thought bitterly.

Daryl shifted beside her, his boots scuffing the dirt. "Don't beat yourself up," his tone was uncertain. "You lost someone too."

"Yes." She nodded, a quiet resignation in her voice. "Yes. But for her... it's worse."

It was. Lillian had lost her very heart, the half of what kept her breathing. But hers was a weak, almost faded one—not too much of a loss. As to Adeline? Jason was her chance, the very ground beneath her feet.

Daryl's eyes drifted toward her daughter. "What's she doin' there?"

"Looking for him, I guess," she whispered, more to herself than to the man sitting beside her, as if a secret reserved only to the melancholic souls. "She'll never be able to say goodbye," Lillian confessed. "If she's anything like me, she won't."

"She's got a quiet strength," Daryl said, almost to himself. "Don't think she even knows it yet."

They fell into silence again and Lillian wanted to believe so. Daryl didn't know Adeline. He could have, had everything been different. The ties that bound them were a lost brother, an unfulfilled love, and grief.

Blood, past, and Death.

And a stuffed fox.

How much salvation these things can offer when her daughter was drowning and the anchor holding her down was the very family that was supposed to keep her safe?

"I should've come earlier," he said, facing down. "I wanted to, but—"

"You're here now." Lillian looked at him for the first time and he looked back. She saw everything behind those blue eyes. Everything that mattered. "You're here now."

For a moment, the weight of their shared sorrows hung between them, silent but palpable. Lillian could see without much effort, even if she didn't share the same feeling, why her son had looked at him and glimpsed the possibility of a different life—a better life. Something beyond the hopelessness of an ill mother and a vicious father. Jason had seen it because Lillian had seen it once, too, a lifetime ago. Then, she was young and still being cracked open. Love was still unknown to her.

She remembered as clearly as a dream the way it used to feel to stand beside him. Daryl was a man who carried loyalty and strength as an invisible armor, even when he couldn't see it for himself. If only Lillian had been courageous enough to stay. If only she had not given up on herself. Daryl Dixon was the one of two people Lillian had looked in the eyes and not seen the shadow of someone who had renounced her. He was her solace, her tormentor. Her Theodore de Peyrou.

Of course, he never looked at her with that disappointment because she'd been the one to leave him first. Lillian had severed the bond before he had the chance to break it himself. Only now, his gaze carried the same guarded caution she had seen in so many others, the wary distance of someone standing near something shattered, unsure if it might cut them or fall apart entirely.

Daryl was someone who was broken, too. But he carried his cracks like a mosaic, each one telling a story of survival. He stood like a deep-rooted tree amidst the storm: weathered and battered, but still standing.

Does he know? she wondered. Does he know what he meant to him?

Does he carry the same guilt as I do?

Lillian didn't believe so. But now, how unfair would it be to torment him with what she carried so deeply within himself? Now, when there was nothing left to be done, or was there? She opened her mouth, but before she could find the words—because her life was a graveyard of evaded truths and long-lost salvations—the quiet hum of the crowd faded.

"Loss is a strange and stubborn thing." The ceremonialist's voice broke through the quiet, soft yet commanding. A faint murmur rippled through the crowd before it was swallowed by the weight of his words like pebbles dropped into a still pond. "It bends time, stretches it until minutes feel like hours, and weeks like an eternity. In its shadow, words often fail us, leaving only echoes of what we wish we could say."

Adeline's head turned just slightly, her gaze shifting from the horizon to the man speaking. Slowly, she rose from the bench, her movements hesitant at first, then purposeful, as if the words had pulled her forward.

"How do we honor someone who no longer walks among us? How do we hold onto something as fragile as memory, when the world insists on moving forward? Jason Dixon was a son, a brother, a friend. But to reduce him only to what he was to others would miss the truth of him."

Daryl watched Adeline approach, his expression unreadable, but his body tensed slightly as if bracing for something. Lillian sat frozen, hands clenching tightly in her lap as she tracked her daughter's steps. Adeline walked past the gathered crowd, past Lillian, eyes never meeting her mother's.

"We are not here today to say goodbye to Jason, because goodbye is final. We are here to say, 'You were here. You mattered.' That is all any of us can hope for. To have mattered. And Jason did."

Adeline stopped beside Daryl. Then she lowered herself onto the chair, sitting beside him.

"But love does not end in absence, nor does memory. Jason lives now in the hearts of those who loved him, and with that love comes a responsibility. To carry him forward. To live." The man's words echoed through the crowd, the recipients of it, solemn and awaiting. "To live for those who no longer can."

To live for those who no longer can.

The words settled heavily over Lillian, as if they had always been meant for her. They weren't a call to action but a burden—one she had carried with her from the moment of birth. For Lillian, it wasn't a duty, but a curse. The curse of living for those who had left.

As the echoes of the ceremonialist's words faded into the hum of the crowd, she caught sight of her daughter sitting beside Daryl, and Lillian was left with an unyielding yet assuring truth.

Because Lillian knew then that Adeline had left her, too.

Chapter Text

"Jason was the kind of person you could see from a mile away. Not that he tried, though. He was quiet. Kept to himself. He didn't like being the center of attention. But when he passed, people watched, and when he spoke, they listened."

Serena stood before the small gathering of mourners, there to remember Jason. A single white azalea was tucked behind her honey-blonde hair, keeping it neatly swept behind her ear. She hadn't dressed in black like most of them; she wore a white lace dress whose hem skimmed her knees. The fabric was almost luminous against the dim afternoon, and for a moment it felt as if that whole green field was holding its breath.

Adeline had pulled on a black dress dredged from the back of her closet—the expected choice, thoughtless and safe—but as Serena spoke she felt the white making its own argument. It wasn't, she decided, a coy nod to the bride Serena would never become; Serena had no use for gestures like that. White could be purity, yes, but also mourning elsewhere; the absence of color and the sum of it; a refusal to let grief be draped only in darkness. Perhaps it was simply that Serena wasn't like most people Adeline knew, and Jason wasn't either, and the brightness felt truer to the boy they were trying to remember—that he deserved something that didn't dim him.

"I don't want to talk about his last moments, or how the world feels scarier right now," Serena continued. "Jason has always saved people. He didn't need big gestures to show that he was brave or that he cared."

She paused—perhaps deliberately, perhaps not—and her eyes drifted to the crowd.

"I could spend all night here talking about the ways that I failed to save him," Serena admitted and her voice faltered as she did, "about the things I should've done, the things I could've done differently..."

Her voice trailed off into silence, and for a moment, it seemed to the crowd she might not continue. As if gathering her strength, a slow breath left her lips.

"But not today," she said and her tone was firmer now. "That's for tomorrow, after we've strengthened ourselves in our grief."

Adeline fingers traced the half-moons on her palms, the ones she had carved again and again, the pain they promised feeling more welcoming now than before.

"Today," she continued, "I wanna talk about how he stood bigger than the world that tried to drag him down. How he found a way to stay soft when everything around him screamed at him to do otherwise. How he carried the weight of others without ever making them feel like a burden."

Serena turned her gaze to his tombstone—empty beneath its surface—and said, "The world falls darker without you in it. But know I'll search for you in every sunrise and every sundown. In how the winds carry the breath of spring, and in the way the birds sing. I'll carry this pain with honor because this pain means you."

Right hand clenched tightly around something no one couldn't identify, she moved closer to the tombstone and knelt, placing her palm flat against the cool granite, lingering there as if grounding herself. After a quiet moment that belonged only to her and the Jason that still lived in her memories, she rose, eyes swollen with unshed tears, and with the solemnity of a widow she returned to her seat. At the base of the tombstone, a small, carved wooden bird.

Moments later, a boy named Mark stood and mirrored Serena's movements, resting his hand briefly on the stone before stepping back. Then, one by one, others followed. Some knelt, their heads bowed in quiet reflection. Others placed a hand on the granite as if it were a familiar shoulder. A few leaned in close, lips moving in whispers too soft for anyone to hear. But all of them followed Serena's lead, their movements deliberate, reverent, as if part of a shared ritual.

And Adeline thougt there was something ancient about it—a practice rooted in the bones of humanity itself. An unspoken knowledge that seemed to be shared by every single one of them, except for her. And wasn't that what she was looking for to begin with?

A way out?

Out of longing and confusion, Adeline did the only thing she could think of: she asked, "What are they doin'?"

The sudden sound of her voice seemed to have startled the man sitting beside her. Daryl glanced down at Adeline, hesitating before answering, "Leavin' somethin'. Somethin' that mattered to 'em."

Not much of an answer, she thought. At least, not the one she'd been expecting. But before long, the tombstone became adorned with small tokens. Wildflowers, hastily gathered from the field, lay scattered across the base. A purple jersey, his number emblazoned on the back above the name Dixon draped gently over the stone. A football rested beside it, its leather worn and scuffed from use.

Adeline traced the leather string wrapped around her wrist. The embroidered leather vest had been left behind in the saddlebag, tucked away with everything else. Not only had it slipped from her shoulders the second she stood on her feet, but Adeline was never able to build up the courage to bring it with her.

Among all the other things she'd found, the vest was too easy to corrupt. It didn't belong to her, but not in a way that could be defined by ownership. Shoulders that flew in the wind and carried the taste of freedom, as Jason had been, and Adeline hadn't yet discovered her own wings.

It was never meant to be left behind as it was never meant to be hers either.

The necklace, now, was the only thing she'd brought along that belonged to her brother. But without it, Adeline would be the girl with blood on her hands and a scar on her wrist. She would be without the easiest of Jason's part to carry.

Adeline looked at the man again, "Why?" she seeked to know, her own voice betraying her, searching his face.

Daryl shifted his weight, glancing at the tombstone before meeting her gaze again. "Might help," he said simply. "Sometimes."

Adeline looked down, eyebrows furrowed. "But..."

"Ya don't have to," Daryl added. "Only if ya want."

They went silent for a moment, Daryl looking away from her back to some point in the horizon, but Adeline's eyes remained fixed on him.

His voice was hoarse, she noticed; nothing like her father's, which was deeper. But Daryl's voice had a way of being firm without the rough edge. She kept searching for his face, trying to find what was missing from it. The resemblance the two brothers shared, though not obvious at first glance, was clearly there, especially in the eyes, the same shade of blue as hers. And now that Adeline was left to see him through her own eyes, there was something that intrigued her and she could not, for the life of her, figure out what it was.

Capturing her thoughts back from the man sitting beside her, as the sun disappeared behind the hills and darkness settled over them, so definitively that the faces of those around her transformed into unrecognizable specters, something happened that Adeline didn't expect.

The string lights above them—woven across the open field—flickered on, bulbs glowing with that soft, golden light. The small crowd let out murmurs of surprise and awe, and their gasp filled the silence. It felt right, Adeline believed, and for a reason she could not explain, it made her feel calm. Beauty had a way of doing this, she thought, of setting things in place.

Not as mesmerized as the others, but as if it had simply calmed him down, Daryl was looking up too. And Adeline found it. There wasn't something missing about him, as she had thought, but rather something he did not carry: and in that absence, there was room for tenderness.

Adeline wondered if Daryl had something he wanted to leave behind as well. Something Jason had passed on in the summer they spent working together. But suddenly, the thought of him leaving her side made something ache in her chest. Her hand twitched, almost instinctively reaching for his. But she stopped herself.

Adeline didn't know what she would find if she did.

༻⁕༺

Adeline stood at the edge of the field with her mother beside her. A few paces off, Daryl spoke in a low voice to a man she didn't know—old, broad-shouldered, a thick white beard and hair that caught the string lights. Earl, the name arrived uninvited. Jason had mentioned him more than once, always saying Adeline would've liked the man.

"Mrs. Dixon," a voice called, close enough to be gentle.

Leaving her parents by the driveway near their pickup truck, Serena was approaching them. She smiled down at Adeline and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder before addressing her mother,  "I was talkin' to my mama. We could have Adeline at our place if you need a few days to yourself. I know you got a lot on your plate."

Her mother's gaze fell to the gravel. Her mouth parted and found no answer. The silence held long enough to become heavy, and Adeline broke it. "It's okay, Rena. I wanna go home."

What awaited for her back home was this: her mother, certainly locked up in her quiet of bedroom again, and the promise of slowly watching her fade; her father's indifference, if she was lucky enough; and no Jason, not ever again.

Home was the last place she wanted to be but back home there was also Jay's motorcycle, still parked as if he were to return at any moment; Jay's bedroom and Foxy still tucked beneath the unmade blankets; and the camera that held her brother's smile frozen in time.

And Adeline didn't know how to exist without those things.

Serena crouched so their eyes were level and took Adeline's hand. "Ya sure? Everythin' all right at home?"

Adeline nodded. "Mm-hmm." Her gaze slid past Serena's shoulder and stayed there.

Serena bit her lip. "You call me if you need anythin', okay? I'll come get you in a second. I promise."

"Okay," Adeline said, and the word tasted of too many promises to count.

Serena lingered for a moment longer and her hand squeezed Adeline's gently and only once before standing up again. "We're just a call away, Mrs. Dixon."

Her mother nodded faintly and Serena hesitated before walking away, glancing back only once as she returned to her parents. Adeline looked toward Daryl and the bearded man. Their talk seemed to end with a hand on a shoulder and a single, firm nod; Earl stepped back, and Daryl turned toward the other Dixons.

"Ready?" he asked as he approached, keeping to the street side as if distance itself might be a kind of courtesy. Her mother nodded faintly; Adeline hesitated.

"C'mon," he said, doing the talker's part of it, and tipped his head toward the truck. "Let's get y'all home."

Adeline trailed behind them, silent and filled with nostalgia. For nearly a month, she'd watched from her bedroom window as Jason arrived home in the passenger side of that same pickup truck. A '73 Ford F-250, he'd once told her. Jay had a knack for identifying every car they came across, rattling off makes and models like a second nature. But that's easy, she would tell him then. Everybody here drives Fords and Chevys.

The cab smelled of cigarettes—unpleasant—and of dust and sweat and something old, which was comforting in its own kind of way. Her father's truck wore the cloying sweetness of car-wash perfume and always made her stomach turn.

Her mother slid in after her, leaving Adeline between them. Daryl turned the key in the ignition and the truck rumbled to life, filling the cabin with the low growl of the engine. Without warning, the crackle of a radio broadcast broke through the noise, with such loud volume and thick static her hand instinctively went up to cover her ears.

"—authorities are urging residents to remain indoors. The CDC has—"

Daryl reached over and switched it off with a gruff sigh. The sudden silence was jarring, broken only by the hum of the engine. Adeline's eyes flicked toward him. "What was that about?" she asked, heart still pounding heavily and ears buzzing at the memory.

"Nothin'," Daryl muttered, gaze fixed ahead. "Just people overreactin'."

The monsters, she thought, and the dread arrived with its usual precision, like a page turning to the point of no return. In stories that feeling thrilled; in daylight, it did the opposite.

A thought rose and sat in her throat: if everyone was meant to stay inside, how had there been a memorial? Jay must have been important to them, she thought, but was that even the answer? The proximity you held someone in your heart? Adeline had been at the memorial because she needed it. Her mother, she could not tell. Her father, however, wasn't present and still, she knew that he cared, didn't he? About Jason, she knew he did, even if his ways were different than hers. That was the reason he couldn't stand being home, just as her mother could not stand the weight of her own reality. She had always known that love looked something different for different people.

However, as of late, she had been catching herself wishing she was important enough to make them both stay, even if at the same time, she wanted them gone. Even if sometimes, she would wish for something much worse.

And just like that, for everything or maybe nothing at all, Adeline was angry again. And so impossibly tired she almost leaned into Daryl's shoulder. Instead, she looked at him. What would he have to say if she was to ask him? Until now, his answers had been reassuring and yet confusing at the same time, in a way that reminded her of Jason.

Her brother would tell her that people were simply stubborn; he was always saying how things moved slower in their town, the outside world too fast for anyone to catch up. Folks here take pride in doing things their own way, he once said. Just like those hobbits a' yours.

That familiar sting of tears threatened to rise again, but she held them back, not asking any further questions. Silence stretched between them as she leaned her head back against the seat, eyes fixed straight ahead yet unfocused, seeing nothing at all. The silence was only broken after what it felt like hours, by her mother's voice:

"The streets are so empty," she stated, eyes lingering out the window and Adeline turned to look. The town was unrecognizable: the once-busy diners and coffee shops were now shuttered, their neon signs dark. A few people moved along the sidewalks, their steps hurried and heads low. Even the air seemed heavier, carrying a tension that wasn't there a week ago, as if the town itself was holding its breath.

"Has anything happened here?" her mother asked, sending a quiver through Adeline's spine. "Besides..." she didn't finish. She didn't have to for Adeline to understand the words hanging in the air.

Weighing his words, Daryl glanced at her. He'd heard the whispers: people vanishing and hospitals in nearby towns getting overrun — the sort of talk that traveled fast and twisted as it went. He'd seen some panic firsthand, too, in places he'd chosen to steer clear of. Most of what came through the TV was probably bullshit, sure, but Daryl knew one thing: put enough scared, stupid people together and trouble wasn't far behind.

Focused on the conversation, Adeline's eyes were fixed on him — Daryl didn't understand the purpose of talking about it there; the kid didn't need one more reason to be scared. "Not that I know of," he said and the conversation died again.

They remained in silence for the rest of the way, but Adeline found herself still lingering on his answer — if the three biggest and bravest people she knew weren't scared, why was it that she couldn't let go of that feeling that something was terribly wrong?

Maybe because one of them is dead.

However, soon enough, Adeline's ribcage felt as they approached their house before she could even acknowledge it, leaving room for nothing else. She glanced over her mother's shoulder and did not see the black pickup-truck parked anywhere in the garage—it was always too big for the limited space. But even then her heart didn't offer truce.

"Ya don't have to come in if ya don't wanna," her mother said in that sharp tone of hers when Daryl parked. "We'll be fine."

"Where's Mason, Lilly?" Daryl asked in a guarded voice and her mother seemed to hesitate for a moment. Her back was turned against them and her hands gripping the doorknob. Without a word, she stepped out and slammed the door shut with such unnecessary force the truck shook, making Adeline flinch.

Without a second's hesitation, Daryl pushed open his door and followed. "Lilly, where is he?"

Adeline's fingers clutched the edge of the seat and every muscle in her was tense, listening.

"What's the fucking difference?" she heard her mother's voice.

"The fuck you mean what's the fucking difference?" Daryl snapped back. "He oughta be here for you. For that kid."

Her mother's scoff reached her ears. "So you don't think I can take care of my own daughter, is that it?" There was a laugh. "Go to hell, Dixon."

"It ain't what I said," Daryl's voice dropped, quieter, as if trying to rein himself in.

"You don't gotta say it. I know what you think. I know what everybody in this goddamn town thinks." Her mother's voice cracked. "You have no idea how fucking hard this is."

"Then let me help ya," Daryl shot back. "I'll find 'im. I'll—"

"Do whatever the hell ya want," she hissed, interrupting him. "He'll come home when he's good and ready, like he always does. Or he won't. It doesn't fucking matter either way."

For a moment, there was silence. Adeline's heart pounded in her chest as fingers traced the small cuts in her palms. Not long after, the passenger door groaned as Daryl swung it open. "C'mon, kid," he said and his voice was still tinged with anger.

Adeline slowly slid out of the truck and glanced up at Daryl, expecting him to head back to the driver's side, but instead, he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, nudging her toward the house. The unexpected touch made her flinch, but she didn't wait to see if he noticed. She trudged toward the door and after a moment, the barely-there crunch of his footsteps followed close behind.

The house was eerily quiet and her mother was nowhere to be seen. She hesitated in the doorway and Daryl reached in behind her, flipping on the light. The sudden glow was harsh against the dimness of the room.

One arm braced against the doorframe, Daryl still lingered on the porch, taking in the house with distance. It was messy in an untouched way, but Adeline doubted that the state of the house was what occupied his mind. She wondered when it had been the last time he was truly invited in. Whenever he brought Jason home, he never stepped out of his truck no matter how much her brother insisted.

Before that, her memories of him were vague and scattered. She knew he'd once taken them to the hospital when she needed her appendix removed, but it was something that was told to her, not something that she remembered. And then there was a memory, faint and distant, of sitting on his shoulders beneath a tall tree.

Hours could've been spent wondering about the countless reasons for her family to be the way it was, but she was tired. As if somehow her body had been caught up waging a war against her mind and she was about to lose.

But still, it didn't seem fair—Jay wouldn't think it was fair. He'd cared a lot about him, as Adeline knew well. She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, glancing up shyly at Daryl. "You can come in, ya know," she said in a voice quieter than she'd intended. "I'm not gonna bite ya."

For a moment, there was the shadow of a smile on his face, but he simply shook his head. "I gotta go look for yer dad now," he said. His voice was gruff but not unkind; still her heart sank and her brows knitted together in silent protest.

He stepped away from the doorframe, but seemed to hesitate before turning fully. "When I leave," he began, "lock the doors behind me and shut the curtains, a'right? You only open the door for me or yer dad. You hear me?"

Her chest tightened. "Why? You said there's nothin' goin' on here, that people are just over—"

"Just to be safe," he cut in, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say more, but he turned way and stepped off the porch.

Her chest burned with a sudden sense of urgency and the words spilled out before she could stop them, "Wait," she called, stepping outside after him. He stopped immediately and turned to face her. "Can... Can you help me put Jay's bike in the garage? I don't want my daddy to see it when he gets home."

Daryl's brow furrowed, face all scrunched up, but he didn't question her. However, Adeline did question herself as for why she did not leave that last part out; she had never, not a day in her life, talked about her parents and neither had Jason. Does it matter now?, she asked herself. She never knew why, she simply didn't. A lot of things seemed to have stopped mattering now, for some reason.

"Open up the garage for me, will ya?" Daryl's voice pulled her back to the moment; she blinked, realizing he was already by Jason's Sportster, hands on the handlebars.

Her heart thudded against her ribs—she hadn't even noticed him move. Without a word, she turned and darted into the house. Inside the kitchen, she grabbed the key hanging by the doorframe—the one with the faded red tag her dad had labeled Garage—and ran back outside.

The garage was detached, sitting a few feet behind the house. She unlocked the side door and swung it open, and Daryl rolled the bike carefully up the driveway; the Sportster's wheels squeaked annoyingly on the concrete floor as he did.

"In the back, please," she instructed and he did as she told, leaning it carefully on its stand.

They both paused as the weight of the act settled between them. She met Daryl's gaze already fixed on her, and in that quiet she knew—deep in her chest—that he was missing him too. Shame pricked as she realized she hadn't considered what the Harley meant to Daryl, perhaps more than it ever could to her; they had laid more of their history across that bike than she'd ever had time to make.

She wanted to sink to the floor and cry, to see if grief might finally answer back, but she knew that if she started, she might never be able not stop. Instead, she crossed to the shelf at the far wall, blinking hard, and reached for the black cover—carefully folded, edges creased smooth—its Harley-Davidson emblem scuffed but unbroken.

It's how Jason would have wanted it to be.

Before she reached it, though, she was startled by a sharp, muffled thud that seemed to have come from somewhere beyond the garage walls. The sound echoed, as if something heavy was bumping against a solid surface. She glanced at Daryl behind her and he had stopped mid-motion, head tilting slightly as if to confirm he'd heard it too. They stood in silence until it came again, not long after but a little louder; a pause, then another thud—irregular, both in volume and rhythm. Adeline looked at Daryl again as he walked in her direction, picking up the cover she had momentarily forgotten, and the sound seemed to have startled her more than it did him.

"It must be the neighbours," she tried, keeping her tone to a whisper, checking to see if he had anything to say about it without making it look like she was too scared.

Daryl threw the cover around the bike with a grunt. "An animal or somethin'."

Adeline knew Mr. and Mrs. Long, the elderly couple who lived in the house beside them. She used to stay there when she was younger, whenever Jason asked them to look out for her. They were the first thing to go wrong that night when everything else went wrong, like a pebble that started an avalanche. It was the last time they babysat her and the next person Jason ever trusted was Serena.

However, Adeline knew the Longs didn't have pets, but raccoons or bobcats weren't uncommon around there. She nodded, wanting to believe Daryl was right—it was just another nuisance of country living, wasn't it?

But if so, why was it that she still wanted to cry?

"When did ya see yer father last?"

"What?" she asked, caught off guard, the thud sound from the other side of the wall making her flinch again; Daryl was looking at her with what seemed to be almost worry. Before he could repeat himself, though, she shook her head and said, "I don't know, I..."

A memory struck her—a hazy image of the front porch. It was blurry, almost as if it belonged to someone else, but Adeline remembered the look her father had given her; she remembered because she had never seen it before.

"Yesterday mornin'," she said finally, eyebrows furrowed as she stared at her pink Converse. "But I don't know where he went."

"And he just left?" he asked and his eyes were alight in a way that confused her, but his voice was calm, very calm. "He didn't say anything?"

"Well..." Adeline began, but no other words came out. Stumbling steps were the only hints she had about her father's whereabouts, but that wasn't saying much.

"A'right," Daryl muttered after a long moment of silence, still studying her. "Lock this up behind me, alright? I got my phone if ya need anythin'."

Adeline nodded wordlessly. He lingered for a moment, as if waiting for her to say something more. When she didn't, he stepped out of the garage and headed toward his truck.

He didn't make any promises, Adeline noticed. But yet another person that was leaving. Would he be the one to come back this time? Adeline watched as he started the engine and gave her one last glance before driving away. She wondered why she hadn't said anything more. Adeline wanted to call out, to ask him to stay, even if she couldn't say why. But the words stayed locked in her throat, and all she could do was watch him go.

Chapter Text

The tears came to Adeline's face early, as painful but long-awaited visitors.

Finding herself alone in the garage with the Harley-Davidson behind her, covered and silent, had been the final straw.

She wondered if someday the roar of the engine would resonate in the softness of the night again; if someday it would return to follow the sunset like a swift bird in the wind, free and undaunted. Or, if like Jason, buried, in the limbo of memories of better days, something that remains beautiful but hollow.

Adeline locked the doors behind her, as she had been told, and drew the curtains, the sound of banging from the property next door following her like a shadow, even into her brother's room.

After what felt like endless hours of tossing and turning between fitful sleep and restless wakefulness, the shuffling steps in the hallway began. This time, not bringing their usual comfort, but soon, they fell silent.

And then, a gentle knock on the door.

The woman two doors down the hallway also had been caught up in the restlessness of the dark hours, contemplating the choices of the past and the despairs of the future. All she found in the end was the only thing left that still mattered.

Lillian Dixon needed her daughter.

When she opened the door to her son's room and called for her, she expected silence and emptiness, but found a breath; a whisper; a call, and Lillian was still a mother. She followed.

Uncertain in her movements, she sat by the edge of the bed. Adeline was turned away from her and the deep copper in her hair was caught in the dim golden light of the lampshade. That light and the dead turned this room to church and her silence was appropriate; they were rare the times she walked into her son's bedroom and they went scarcer each year. The incense was rust, oil, and youth; the sacred was her son; and Lillian was the one sinner.

She looked at the small figure under the blankets again, chest moving in soft breaths. "You haven't left his bedroom, have you?"

Silence, and then another breath, "I keep waitin' for him to come back."

"Jason or your father?"

A pause, the kind that makes time stretch thin.

"Both."

They fell into silence again. Lillian couldn't tell if her daughter wanted her there or not, yet the thought of leaving felt impossible. Words had never come easily between them; they didn't suit either mother or daughter, not outside the pages of a book or the private confines of their own minds. So how could Lillian tell an already damaged child that she wanted to try — truly, desperately wanted to — but knew she wouldn't succeed?

Adeline finally turned to her side, facing Lillian but never quite meeting her eyes. Until hours ago, her mother was angry, but it was that anger that covered for exhaustion, wasn't it? It was the kind meaning that somehow, she was still fighting, wasn't she? It was something, Adeline wanted to believe, even if it wasn't enough, and even if she didn't know how much longer it would last, and because there was nobody else to hear, she said:

"I can't even remember him anymore." Her voice was trembling despite her efforts, teetering on the edge of tears. "All I see is that... thing."

"Oh, baby..." Lillian reached for her but paused right after. The gesture collapsed in on itself as her hand fell back to her lap.

"You think this will ever go away?" Adeline's voice was soft, fragile, but her gaze carried a bittersweet hope that pierced Lillian's heart. "That I... That Jason..."

Lillian swallowed hard, forcing down her own rising tears. She didn't have the answers — she didn't know how to ease her daughter's pain or offer the comfort she deserved. But honesty... honesty was something she could give her. Carefully, she pulled her legs up onto the bed, turning so she could face Adeline fully.

"When I try to think about your brother," she began, "it's like standin' on a hill and watching his life from far away. I can see him, know he's there, but there's this distance between us that I can't cross."

She took a deep breath. Each one a knife, the memories she never got no make and the years she wasted away, and her heart became something jagged and sharp-edged. The golden-haired boy with that easy smile turned to into a stranger — a man Lillian had helped build and helped ruin in equal parts, and yet never truly got to meet.

"I can remember the sound of his voice, the way he laughed, how he'd always been so sweet. But that's all I've got," Lillian continued, voice trembling as a tear slipped down her cheek. "I can't remember the last time I held him, touched his hair... I don't know who he became. All I know is I put too much on his shoulders. And that's my fault—I let him escape and I didn't even try to hold on."

Her words caught in her throat as her hands moved to wipe the tears from her face. The silence stretched until her daughter's small, hesitant voice tried again:

"Is there something wrong with us, Momma?" Lillian looked at her with quiet sadness. "Serena's grief was so, so... beautiful. His friends', too. Like they knew what to do with it without..."

...without falling apart.

"There's nothing wrong with you, baby," Lillian said. "They didn't lose Jason the way you did. You're still learning, sweetie, it'll get easier someday. I promise."

Adeline looked at her as she was expecting her to continue and Lillian wished she could say more — find the perfect words to mend her daughter's heart. But everything felt inadequate, as though anything she said might deepen the cracks instead of sealing them.

"I saw how Jay was around them," Adeline continued when Lillian said nothing else. "He was so, so happy, Momma. That's the only side of him they ever knew. Do you think..." she hesitated, fingers tightening around the stuffed fox in her lap. "Do you think that, somehow, this part of him will carry on? Just the good?"

"I hope so, baby," Lillian said. "But you know, Jason would have wanted for you to carry him on too. He loved you more than anything, sweetheart. The most important part of him, he gave to the world through you, do you understand?"

For a moment, Lillian thought she saw all those years Adeline carried on her expression fade. Her sadness seemed to have become easier to bear, only for a moment, to then appear again.

"Before Jason and I left for the game, what was it you two were arguing about?" Adeline asked. "I never wanted to ask him then, but... it feels important now."

Lillian hesitated, pondering on her words. "Somethin'... Somethin' he asked of me but I could not give him," she said simply, biting her lips.

"What was it?" Adeline insisted, a crease forming between her brows.

"Hope, I guess," Lillian admitted, sighing. "For the two of you. Maybe for the three of us."

Adeline frowned, her thoughts turning inward. Hope. She knew it as something only described through words on the pages of books, a feeling born in other people's hearts. Beautiful in its innocence; delicate, and yet more powerful than any terror.

Hope was a verb. Adeline hoped for bravery; Adeline hoped for strength; Adeline hoped for something different, even if she hadn't always known what that something was. But it wasn't the same as feeling it. Hope had never been something she sought for herself because she had never realized she needed it.

She should've asked her brother when she had the chance, but now she had the feeling he never would have given her an answer even if she had. But, even though she felt as if her mother was still keeping some essential truth from her, what Adeline knew now was: while she had a promise that would never be fulfilled, her mother had this. And, somehow, it seemed worse.

"Why couldn't you give it to him?"

Lillian's lips pressed into a thin line before she spoke. "Can't give somethin' you don't have, baby," she said. "But your brother... he had plenty of it. I guess he just wanted me to have some for myself, too."

Adeline's brow furrowed. "I don't get it."

"I know, baby, I know." Lillian took a deep breath. "It's just... Sometimes, not understanding is safer, it keeps you from... No."

She shook her head, voice faltering as her eyes drifted toward the shadows beyond the room. "That's how your brother felt. All he wanted was to protect you, to make sure you were happy..."

Her voice softened. "But me..." Her head dipped, hands clasping together tightly. "For me, pretending was easier. I'd look at you and try to convince myself that everything was fine, even when I knew it wasn't."

Her mother's words were confusing her even more. Adeline had a quite sensible notion to decide when things were bad and when they weren't, at least, she believed she did. However, it felt like her mother was talking about something else entirely now.

"I wish I could take you away from all of this, baby," Lillian said finally.

The words weighed heavily in Adeline's chest, pressing against something raw and fragile. She felt like crying again, but the tears refused to fall, clinging stubbornly to the edges of her eyes.

"Mom..."

"Yes, baby?"

"It's just..." Adeline hesitated. "I know you're sick, Momma. I really do. And before, I was so scared you wouldn't come back, but now..." Her words began to falter, "...but now I'm thinking that it's not just..."

"What are you tryin' to say, baby?" Lillian asked. Her throat was dry, afraid of what might come next.

Adeline took a deep breath. "When Daisy Finley's sister died, her parents got a divorce," she said without meeting her mother's eyes. "Is that what's gonna happen to us?"

"Oh, baby..." Lillian felt the tears rising. Her voice broke as she spoke, "It's... It's more complicated than that."

"Why?"

A shaky breath escaped her lips. "I can't take care of you, sweetheart."

"I can take care of both of us, Momma," she replied with urgency. "I'll be better, I promise. Maybe Daddy won't hate us so much then."

"Adeline..." Lillian murmured, voice shaking as tears welled in her eyes. She reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her daughter's face. She flinched, a mere flicker of instinct, but she didn't pull away.

"It's just..." Adeline's tears finally began to spill. "Jason used to be so good at this, he always knew what to do, and I know I'm difficult to Daddy and that I'm not Jason but now he's never home and I think it's because of me but—"

"Adeline..." Lillian cut in gently, trying to catch her breath between the heartbreaks.

"But I'm trying, Momma," Adeline sobbed. "I swear I am."

Her face twisted into a frown as the words cracked out of her — Adeline was crumbling right in front of her. "Addie..."

"I don't want to be alone, Momma," she cried, the words torn from her chest now, and Lillian moved without thinking, lying down beside her and pulling her close, arms wrapping around the small body that shook against her. She ran her fingers through Adeline's hair in slow, soothing strokes.

"You're not gonna be alone, okay?" Lillian whispered. "I promise you that." Adeline's sobs began to soften, though her breathing was still ragged, each exhale a fragile thread. Lillian kissed the top of her head, murmuring again, "It's okay, baby. I'm here."

Oh, what had she done? When her daughter was absorbing the blame for the violence she was the victim to; when her innocent mind was being pulled apart — one fragile string at a time; when her son was being slowly crushed under the weight of that enormous burden of his... Where was Lillian?

Bitter words, those coming from her mouth. Lillian was aware of the weight of them — aware they were borrowed against time she didn't possess. But Mason had never been as cruel to Adeline as he was to her and Jason, and she still clung to that fragile... hope?

But for how long?, she asked herself. How long could Lillian still hope that her daughter could live a life worth living when both of them were gone and she was soon to follow? Because to each of them, it meant something different, but the sharp, unrelenting truth was that Jason was the bond. And that bond was gone.

"Mom?" Adeline's voice came small, almost a whisper.

"Yes, baby?"

"I'm so sorry for the things I said to you. I didn't mean—"

"No, sweetie, no," Lillian interrupted gently, brushing her fingers through Adeline's hair. "Don't. You have every right to feel the way you did. I should be the one apologizing to you."

Adeline waited, but her mother said nothing else — maybe she was trying to avoid the subject; maybe Adeline was trying to avoid it, too.

But her mother wouldn't apologize. There was a time when she would, though. Her father, on the other hand, was sorry quite often. To every scar, an apology.

Well, almost every scar.

Adeline let her tears fall silently, soaking in the warmth of the embrace, too tired to think any further about the things that made her sad. The scent of soap and clean clothes clung to her mother and she couldn't help but wonder that, if things were always like this — just like this moment — they wouldn't be so bad, would they? What harm was there in pretending, just for a little while longer, that things could stay like this?

The quiet began to stretch between them and she noticed for the first time that the banging sound from the Longs' house had stopped. Realizing how still the night had become, she held her breath, and after what it felt close to hours, she felt herself drifting back to sleep; she didn't remember the last time she'd stayed this close to her mother, so in peace.

Then came the low hum of an engine, distant, but drawing closer. Her ears strained to catch the sound more clearly; it could've been any car, she told herself. But the slow crunch of tires against gravel told her otherwise:

Her father's pickup truck.

Almost on cue, the banging from the Longs' house resumed, louder now, as if drawn by her father's arrival. That irregular thud was the only sound while the minutes stretched unbearably, until the distant groan of the front door opening was heard, followed by the sharp clatter of something — keys, perhaps — being tossed onto a surface.

Her father wasn't quiet; the sound of furniture being shoved aside and slammed back into place carried up to them, and heavy boots met the wooden stairs. She didn't dare move and mother's arm tightened around her as the footsteps reached the top.

And for a long moment, there was nothing but silence again.

"Lillian!" His voice echoed through the rooms and she flinched at the sound. He moved down the hall and his steps came to a stop; the door — the one at the master bedroom — creaked open, followed by his voice again, "Lillian!"

"Mom..."

"It's okay, baby."

Lillian's thoughts raced with growing dread, circling back to one nagging fear: had Daryl actually gone looking for Mason? Had he found his brother and dragged him back from whatever bar, gutter, or friend's house he'd been hiding in?

If so — if her husband knew his brother was even close to his house — the night was already doomed.

She couldn't quite say why she'd spoken to Daryl the way she had earlier or why she hadn't explicitly told him not to search for her husband. Maybe she never believed she actually would or maybe because some part of her — deep, bitter, aching, and still loyal to her son's memory — wanted it all to fall apart and something else to begin.

Or maybe it was the first sign she was beginning to lose control, the sense of her own hands slipping away, and her mind teetering on the brink.

But it didn't matter anymore — whatever had been done was done; Mason was there now. If she didn't step out soon, he would find his way to Jason's bedroom and she couldn't let that happen, not tonight. And even more urgent than this, she had to make sure he stayed.

She gently disentangled herself from Adeline's hold and leaned down, brushing a stray strand of red hair from her daughter's damp face. "Stay here, baby."

"Mom..." Adeline's voice cracked and her grip tightened around Lillian.

"It'll be alright. Just lock the door, okay?" Lillian said, already moving, already gone. She pulled the door shut behind her with quiet finality.

"Lillian!" Mason's bellowed again. "Where the hell are you, dammit?"

The sound was thick with liquor and anger, and her stomach twisted on itself. Lillian forced a deep breath — in for four, out for six — ran her hands down her clothes to steady herself, and stepped into the hallway.

"I'm here, Mason," she called, voice level as she moved to meet him, already bracing for the storm.

He turned at the sound of her voice, stumbling on his own feet before catching himself on the banister. His eyes — bloodshot, unfocused, and burning with something wild beneath the surface — found here for the first time since she accused him of a murder that was as much her fault.

"Well, look who's up," he sneered. "Finally remembered you got a daughter, huh?"

As if waiting for her to say anything, he stood still and silent. But Lillian was still caught up in his eyes, searching — until now, he seemed to not know.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

"She's in her room," Lillian said. "Leave her be."

"What?" Mason barked out a laugh and leaning in closer than she liked; the stench of whiskey on his breath made her stomach churn. "What do ya think I'm gonna do, huh? Who ya think took care of her when ya were too busy tryin' to die in that fucking bed?"

Lillian's eyes flashed, chest simmering with rage to the memory of her daughter screaming in her bedroom as if her own life depended on it. If that anger was either for herself or for her husband, she could not tell, but it was enough to make the words spill out, full of disgust, "Then where the fuck were you?"

Mason's laughter cut off abruptly, his face twisting. "Excuse me?"

"Where the fuck were you for this whole goddamn day?" Her voice rose. "When your daughter was crying, alone, hurting herself? Where the fuck were you during your own son's funeral? Do you even remember?"

Mason's smirk faltered, replaced by a scowl. "Don't you fucking bring him into this, you hear me?"

He looked away, his face twisting into a sneer.

"You call that a funeral?" he spat. "That wasn't a fucking funeral, it was a goddamn circus act. They took his body away from us, remember that? It wasn't real. None of it was."

Lillian took a breath so deep it hurt, pressing both hands to her forehead as if she could keep everything — the turmoil, the mania, the grief — from spilling out. "You were the reason he was out there in the first place."

She waited in the silence, numb. And what followed were poisonous words:

"You don't know what you're talking about," Mason growled. "And you know why? Because you weren't here. You're never fucking here."

He took a step back, and his body lost the fight.

"Not my fault he decided to run away like a damn coward."

The slap came before Lillian even realized she'd raised her hand. The sharp crack echoed through the quiet of the house as Mason's head snapped to the side, cheek already reddening where her palm had struck. The moment sank into silence and not even then did she feel the slightest trace of regret.

"Don't you dare," Lillian hissed, voice trembling with fury, "talk about him like that. Don't you dare."

"You've lost your damn mind." Mason lips curled into a twisted smirk. Before she could speak, he grabbed her wrist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"What's next, huh? Gonna throw the frying pan at me? Maybe they'll have a padded room waitin' for ya, just like last time." His grip tightened, dragging her closer, and breath was hot with whiskey. "You think I asked for this life? You as a wife? Marrying the woman who could make the nut house look like a—"

A loud crash interrupted his words, echoing from outside. Something heavy slamming against another hard surface, it seemed, coming from the property nextside. The noise reverberated through the quiet house, carrying with it an unsettling sense of urgency. Her husband's grip loosening as his head instinctively turned toward the direction of the sound. Taking advantage of the distraction, Lillian spat back, "And your children?" Fire flashed in her eyes. "Did you ask for them too?"

Mason's expression darkened. He let out a hollow laugh and shoved her arm away as though the very act of touching her disgusted him.

"Yeah," he said, turning away toward the stairs. "That worked out real great, didn't it?"

"Don't you dare walk away right now," Lillian shouted, stepping after him. "Don't you dare leave us again."

He didn't even glance back as he stomped down the stairs, each step louder than the last.

"Mason!" she tried again, following close behind. She paused at the foot of the stairs long enough to see him reach the kitchen to grab a whiskey bottle. Without wasting a second, he unscrewed the cap and poured himself a glass as if none of it mattered. Lillian stayed where she was, eyes fixed on him.

"You're pathetic, did you know that?" Mason said, his voice eerily calm. He didn't even bother to look at her. "You couldn't take care of your son. Can't take care of your daughter. It's always me cleaning up after your fucking mess."

Wiping her tears with both hands, Lillian took a deep breath, walking towards him one careful step after the other.

"I don't care what you think," she spilled out the words. "I know you hate me, and I know we're way past any kind of hope. But Adeline needs at least one of us to put our shit back together. If you stop tryin' to break her—"

Mason scoffed, raising his glass and taking a long drink. He set it down with a sharp, deliberate clink. "You think I'm breaking her? You really think I'm the worst thing that's happened to that girl?" A bitter laugh slipped out. "A bit late for you to play the mother now, Lilly." He leaning against the counter, looking deeply into her eyes with gaze that cut into her with unrelenting precision. "Take a good, long look at her. If you'd stop being so goddamn self-absorbed for just two seconds, you'd see it. You'd see exactly who's to blame for why she's like that."

"Like what?" Lillian's voice rose. "Like what, Mason?"

He didn't answer and for a moment, the silence between them stretching until it became suffocating. And a part of her felt relief, the bitter kind, that rots from the inside; relief that he wouldn't put into words what she already feared; relief tainted with shame for not knowing her own daughter as she should and dread for knowing exactly what he might say if he did.

"She's hurt, Mason. She's angry. And she needs us," Lillian continued, fists clenched at her sides. "I can't do this alone, Mason. I just fucking can't."

A long pause stretched between them and Lillian waited for even a glimpse of a reaction. Then, Mason's face twisted into something bitter and broken. "Maybe she's better off without either of us," he said finally in a hollow voice, and the realization of the meaning of his words struck down on her, as hard as a punch.

"And what?" Lillian shot back, stepping closer. "Alone? Adeline? In some shelter? You don't mean that. You can't fucking mean that, not after all those fucking years." Her hand slammed the counter in front of her husband. "She's your daughter, you motherfucker."

His glazed eyes remained locked on her. Lillian waited and waited, and not even a glimpse of a reaction flickered across his face. Then, he scoffed, lips curled in disgust. "Fuck that." He grabbed the bottle by the neck, heading toward the door in careless strides. He yanked it open, not even bothering to close it behind him, stepping onto the porch.

Lillian laughed, a bitter sound escaping her lips, almost feral. She grabbed the empty glass from the counter without thinking and followed. The laugh melted into something closer to a growl as she stepped onto the porch. "You really gonna crawl into your truck like a fucking coward?"

Mason was already by the Silverado, driver's door wide open. He took a long swig straight from the bottle, head tilted back. "Get back inside, Lillian," his tone was nearly bored; detached from all of it.

She moved closer, hand tightening around the glass. Without a second thought, she hurled the whiskey cap at him; it missed, landing in the grass with a dull, meaningless thunk.

"Now that's real mature," he muttered.

She followed right after, catching him just as his foot slid into the cabin. One hand gripped the door, holding it open before he could slam it shut, and the other snatched the bottle of whiskey from his hand. "You're not fucking leaving us—"

"Relax, dammit," he growled, stepping back out of the truck, now towering over her. His body closed the distance fast, close enough for her to smell the booze on his breath. He ripped the bottle back from her grip. "I'll be back before you rot in that goddamn bed again."

"Go to hell."

"Already fucking there," Mason snapped, jabbing the bottle toward her face. "You fucking dragged me into it!"

His voice carried — louder than it should've — and a porch light flicked on across the street. Another followed. The hush of distant blinds being nudged open reached their ears.

"Fuckin' hell," Mason hissed, glancing around. "Look at this. You just had to make a goddamn show." He slammed the truck door and shoved past her, storming back to the porch.

"Oh, please," she scoffed, letting her voice carry louder. "Embarrassed now, Mason? After years tearing us apart behind closed doors? You really think they didn't notice how you left us to rot? Let them fucking watch now."

Her words barely had time to be processed before a dull, flesh-on-metal thud hit the back of the truck. The Silverado's alarm erupted not a second later, a wailing scream that tore through the night, sharp enough to rattle the windows. Lillian flinched and her hands flew up to cover her ears, Mason cursed from the porch and fumbled in his pocket for the keys; he jabbed the button and the alarm cut off, but the bumping sound followed right after, and Lillian finally turned around to look: a figure stumbled near the tailgate, half lost in shadow; small and broad, bumping against the rear bumper like she didn't even notice it.

"Mrs. Long?" Lillian called, squinting.

There was something wrong with her. Perhaps the pallor of her skin or the way her limbs jerked like her body didn't quite belong to her, but she couldn't tell if Mrs. Long — an old woman with a health of iron who never allowed alcohol past her porch — was drunk, injured, or sick.

But Lillian Dixon wasn't exactly famous for her ability to take notice on people around her.

"Mrs. Long, are you alright?" she asked again, trying to hide the way her face tightened in unease. The other woman didn't respond. Instead, she continued her slow advance. Her head was tilted slightly as if trying to focus on something, bumping against the back of the truck as she walked. There was a low, guttural sound — a strange, uneven gurgle, almost animal-like. It wasn't immediately clear where it was coming from.

"Lillian, come here," Mason called and his voice held an edge now she hadn't heard all night.

And a small part of Lillian did want to turn back and let the situation handle itself.

But then she would be just as much a hypocrite as everyone else.

The woman staggered again. Her foot caught on the curb and her body pitched sideways, arms flailing, and she stumbled hard, catching herself against the truck's rear wheel.

"Dammit," she muttered, already rushing toward her.

"Lillian, stay back," Mason growled, louder. She didn't listen and reached the other woman in seconds, heart hammering in her chest.

"Hey, Mrs. Long, are you okay?"

Her hand barely had time to close around her arms when Mrs. Long began to rise on her own. Her head snapped upward with a jolt and that gurgling sound grew sharper — louder and more violent, almost enraged. In the dim light, Lillian caught a glimpse of her neighbor's face: bloodshot eyes, mouth slack, and a smear of something dark trailing down her chin.

Lost someplace between numbness and horror, Lillian staggered back and Mrs. Long's movements suddenly shifted, no longer slow and staggered, but swift and jerky, as if something had snapped inside her. The elderly woman lunged forward and her hands clawed out with a force that was unnatural; her mouth gaped wide, revealing bloodied teeth as she sank them into the flesh of Lillian's inner arm, just below the armpit.

A scream tore from her throat as the pain seared through her and she felt the warmth of her own blood jarring against her skin. She fell backward, dragging Mrs. Long with her; the older woman's grip didn't falter, but her teeth released Lillian's arm, only for her head to snap back down with a horrifying, ravenous speed.

"Fuck!" she screamed, flailing as she tried to push the woman away. She thrusted her free arm between them in a desperate attempt to shield herself, but Mrs. Long clamped down on her right wrist. The pain was like a white-hot blade slicing through her and the world tilted as Lillian hit the ground; blood soaked into the grass beneath her and Mrs. Long loomed over her as her teeth tore into the flesh of her wrist.

"Mom!" A crying voice pierced through the haze of pain and fear.

Her daughter — her tiny, fragile little girl.

As the panic began to overtake her, the weight on Lillian's chest suddenly vanished. A forceful shove sent Mrs. Long sprawling to the ground with an inhuman growl. Lillian's blurry gaze darted up and she saw Mason: a towering, furious figure wielding a shovel.

Body jerking as she tried to rise, Mrs. Long writhed on the ground — Mason didn't give her the chance. He raised the shovel high above his head, its blade catching the dim porch light for a fleeting second before it came down with a sickening crunch.

Lillian watched as Mason brought the shovel down again. And again. And again. Each blow landed with a brutal finality and the wet, bone-cracking sound filled the air. Blood splattered across the ground and Mason's boots, dark and viscous in the dim light.

Distant and muffled, Adeline's sobs reached Lillian's ears, as though they were coming from underwater. Trying to staunch the flow, her hands clutched at her bleeding arm. Pain was a distant second to the horror unfolding in front of her.

The sound of the shovel hitting flesh and bone finally stopped and Lillian forced herself to look. Bloodied shovel dangling from his hands, Mason stood over the lifeless body of the elderly woman. His chest heaved with each ragged breath and his face was twisted in fury. As though expecting it to move again, his gaze was still fixed on that mangled corpse.

"Momma," Adeline cried, finally reaching her, dropping to her knees. Her voice trembled as she tried to press her small hands against Lillian's bleeding arm and tears stroke her face.

It was her daughter who brought her back — Adeline needed him, more than she ever had.

"Mason," Lillian croaked, but her voice too weak and too strained to be heard. Her voice was louder when she called again, "Mason!"

His hands loosened around the shovel, letting it drop to the grass. Blood splattered his jeans and boots and his face was pale beneath the smears of red. His breaths were shallow now, his shoulders trembling, as if the weight of what he had done was finally sinking in.

"Mason!" Lillian tried again, but he didn't even flinch. His gaze drift to the neighboring houses. Through the darkened windows, faint figures moved — silent witnesses to the chaos that had just unfolded. Lillian's chest tightened at the sight. They were watching, but none came to help. None even stepped outside.

"Daddy," Adeline called out.

Mason's body tensed at the sound and his steps faltered as he stumbled toward the truck. He moved without purpose, like a man lost, legs heavy and unsteady beneath him.

"Daddy!" Adeline cried again, louder.

Mason stopped, his shoulders stiffening, and the silence was deafening.

But he never turned around. Instead, he opened the truck door and climbed inside. Lillian's heart sank as the engine roared to life. Mason didn't look back. Not at Lillian, not at Adeline. He drove away, leaving the shattered remnants of his family behind.

That was it, wasn't it? It was finally over. It was faster than she had ever expected.

Lillian's gaze returned to Adeline. Her daughter's small hands were trembling as they pressed against her wound.

"It's okay, baby," Lillian whispered. "It's okay."

Chapter Text

She could feel the blood running down her back — thick, warm, cold.

She could smell the metal.

She could taste it on her tongue.

There was blood on the grass. On her father's skin. In a trail behind her. The world was crimson-red and coming to an end.

The blood-soaked figure was gone and he had left Death behind him.

A small, red-streaked shape on the stairs and her body was the only thing keeping the woman upright; she wasn't going to make it.

How could she?

They nearly fell again; her free hand gripped the wooden banister for support and splinters dug into her palm.

"No, no, no, no," Adeline cried. "Please, Momma, just a little further."

She adjusted her weight, arm looping around her mother's waist; the fabric of her shirt was already soaked through with blood.

They reached the final step — lungs burning, legs quaking, and bodies desperate to surrender; her mother nearly did. Lillian's knees buckled, slamming against the floor, and her right hand, a ruin of torn flesh and splintered sinew, shot out blindly to keep her from collapsing altogether. Her daughter gave one last push, a final step to the landing, pulling from the final shreds of strength buried deep in her bones.

Somehow, impossibly, they stayed upright.

"C'mon, Momma," she whispered, breathless.

Blood as slick as oil, she struggled with the doorknob; finally, she managed to twist it and the door creaked open. Her mother stumbled forward and collapsed onto the carpeted floor, dragging herself halfway onto the bed.

"Emergency kit," her mother mumbled between ragged breaths and Adeline didn't hesitate. She bolted into the bathroom and yanked open the cabinet beneath the sink; her hands trembled as she grabbed the faded red-and-white kit, as she did a hundred times before. Within reach, a clean white towel and she seized it, feeling the sticky warmth of the blood still spreading across her arms.

An unending crimson tide.

Gushing out of Mrs. Long's head.

What was left of it.

"No, no, no," she whimpered, bawling her fists and knocking them against her forehead, again and again. "Focus, Adeline. Focus."

She forced herself to take a breath. Then another. Then another. She took a step, fighting against the rising urge to lock herself behind those doors and never come out.

Every surface around her mother was soaked; a deathbed. She shoved the thought away, fixing her focus on her mother's shallow breaths. On her trembling hands. Every movement seemed to cost her.

Her own hands moved to help, unwinding the cloth around her mother's arm; now, useless. Blackened. Dripping. The wound beneath had worsened. The flesh was dark and swollen, torn edges weeping thick blood. Black veins crawled outward like cracks in ice.

"Open it," her mother rasped and Adeline dropped to her knees on the bed, fumbling through the first-aid kit. Gauze. Tape. Trembling hands. Her mother gave a weak gesture toward the towel and Adeline pressed it to the wound, watching helpless as the white turned red almost instantly.

"Wrap it tight," she murmured and Adeline did as she was told. Her mother winced, but gave a faint nod of approval.

"I think... I think you're supposed to keep it elevated," Adeline mumbled and her mother nodded. The girl grabbed a pillow and slipped it beneath her arm and without wasting time, she reached for her mother's wrist.

The bite wasn't as deep as the one on her arm, nor did it bleed as much, but her stomach still twisted at the sight, gaze lingering for a moment too long. A tingling sensation crept across her own wrist; the leather string was gone and her scar now plainly visible — she forced herself to look away, pushing the memory to the back of her mind, burning as vividly as the day it happened.

She pulled a clean antiseptic wipe from the first-aid kit and dabbed at the wound; her mother flinched from the sting. "Sorry," Adeline whispered, blinking her tears away.

"You're... doing good," her mother murmured. "You know... you know what to do."

Her eyes flicked up, a frown pulling at her brows but only for a moment. She forced the memories back — there were so many of them; no time to drown in them now.

She pressed a sterile pad over the wound, wrapping it tight with another strip of gauze. Her fingers fumbled as she secured it with medical tape, but the bandage held. Her mother's eyes were closed.

"Momma..." Her fingers brushed lightly against her mother's arm and her eyes fluttered open. Her gaze was distant — somewhere far beyond the room.

"You... did good, baby. Now..." She paused, catching her breath. "You need to call 911. Call for help."

Adeline swallowed hard and grabbed the landline phone from the nightstand. The dial tone buzzed in her ear and a prerecorded message cut through the static, "Due to an ongoing emergency affecting the area, 911 is experiencing extremely high call volumes. Response times may be significantly delayed..."

"No, no, no," she slammed the phone down. "Momma, they're not answering!"

Her head tilted, eyelids fluttering. "It's alright, baby," she murmured, slurring her words. "We can... We can wait."

"No Momma!" she cried. "You're bleeding too much!"

Her mother's chest rose and fell in shallow gasps and her pale skin was now tinged with a faint blue around her lips.

"Momma..." her voice cracked; she reached out, shaking her mother as gently as she could. "Momma, please stay awake! Look at me!"

Nothing. She grabbed the phone again and the same robotic message filled her ears, "Due to an ongoing emergency affecting the area, 911 is..."

"No!"

She hurled the phone to the floor and it skittered across the room; she turned back to her mother — paler now, each breath more strained. Her fingers brushed against her cheek.

Cold, so cold.

"I don't know what to do, Mom," she mumbled between sobs. "Please... tell me what to do."

Impossible to tell if the towel had eased the bleeding. Black already, soaked through with blood, and the bandages on her wrist didn't look any better. She wiped her face with trembling hands and bawled her fists against her forehead once and twice and again, trying — desperately — to stay calm.

Her brother had been bitten and so had the man who did it; the man on the television was eating someone alive. What was it that drove them? Evil? Hunger? Something else entirely? Was that what would've happened to them all — her mother, her brother, his killer — if someone hadn't stopped it? Her father had swung the shovel in fury, leaving nothing behind; the man on the TV had been shot over and over again; she wondered how many times the deputy had shot her brother.

Oh, someone else should be here! Anyone but her, this weak, fragile, broken thing! Her father could've driven her to the hospital; Jason would've carried her up the stairs; he was always the one who knew how to pull their mother back; the one who was supposed to live.

Then, a voice.

I got my phone if you need anything.

Distant and clear — a quiet kind of safety.

He was strong. Like Jason. Like her father. Daryl would know how to take care of her mother... wouldn't he? Would he come if she called? He'd come, once — when Adeline called, he came.

She bolted from the room, slipping once on the slick floor but catching herself before she fell. She rushed to Jason's bedroom, tearing at the sheets until her hand closed around the phone hidden beneath his pillow. No hesitation. She ran back. By her mother's side again, she opened the contact list, stopping at one name.

Daryl.

Staring at the screen for a moment, doubt caught at her throat. She didn't listen to it and pressed the button. The phone rang. Her fingers shook. And she held her breath.

Voicemail.

Her heart sank, but she tried again. Then again. And again.

"Why aren't you answering?" she cried, voice cracking and tears streaking her face.

One more try.

Nothing.

The phone slipped in her grip as she lowered it. Her gaze drifted back to her mother. Pale. Still. Damp with sweat. Her chest barely moved.

"I don't know what to do," she whimpered, taking her hand in her trembling one. "I'm so sorry, Momma."

Her mother's fingers closed around hers. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, drifting past Adeline. Her lips parted, the words barely audible, "Did I... lock the door?"

She blinked, startled. "What? Momma, don't worry about..."

"I told him," she mumbled. "Told him to come inside... it's getting dark. He shouldn't be... out there. He's too young."

"Momma, who? What are you talking about?"

She didn't answer.

"Momma, what is it?"

Adeline held her breath, expectant. Her mother's eyes were closed again. But in the silence, she heard it:

"Hello?"

The voice was faint but unmistakable — full of static. Her head shot up, eyes darting to the phone, and the voice came again, louder, "Hello? Is anyone there?"

Her heart slammed in her ribcage — she realized with a jolt that she had never hung up the call.

"Hello? If no one responds, I'm going to disconnect."

She scrambled across the floor, grabbing the phone and pressing it to her ear. "Wait! I'm here! I'm here!" she cried, words spilling out in a rush.

"This is 911. Can you tell me your emergency?"

"My mom, she's hurt," Adeline explained. "She's bleeding really bad. I don't know what to do."

The dispatcher's tone was very calm as she spoke, "Alright, honey, take a deep breath for me. Can you tell me your name and where you are?"

Adeline did as she was told.

"Alright, Adeline, my name is Joan. Now tell me what happened. How was she hurt?"

"She was bitten," she replied. "By... by someone. On her arm. And her wrist too. It's really, really bad."

There was a pause; somewhere a dog barked and silenced himself; a siren sung in the night but she couldn't tell to which reality it belonged.

"Okay. I need you to listen to me carefully, alright? Was the person who bit her... acting strange? Did they seem... aggressive?"

Flashes of the attack burst in her mind — wild eyes, gnashing teeth, and the guttural sounds of something not human. She swallowed hard. "Yes."

"Alright," the dispatcher said. "Is there anyone with you? Your daddy, maybe? A grown-up?"

Her father; he left; he was gone — was he ever really there?

Maybe she's better off without either of us.

"No..." she murmured.

"Alright, do you have a room in your house where you can lock yourself inside? Somewhere safe?"

Her brow furrowed. "Why? I can't..."

"I know it's scary," the dispatcher interrupted, "but we need to make sure you're safe, honey. Is there a bedroom, maybe, so you can lock yourself inside?"

Adeline blinked. "Yes, but... but I don't understand. Why can't I be with her?"

"Sweetheart, you need to avoid contact with her. Don't let her touch you. Don't let her scratch or bite you. Do you understand?"

Her stomach twisted. "But..."

"If she... changes, you won't be safe. You need to stay locked in that room until help arrives. And if you're left with no choice..." the woman paused, as if searching for the right words. "If she tries to hurt you... aim for her head. Do you understand?"

She went half-still, half-numb; her mind was reeling. "Her head?"

A corpse on the grass. A deformity coming out of her neck. A tall figure standing above it.

"Honey, I know it's hard," the dispatcher said softly. "But you need to stay safe. Please. Can you do that for me?"

"I..." she tried, but the words wouldn't come out.

"Listen to me, Adeline. This is not your mother anymore, do you understand?"

Her mind drifted away. To Jason. To her neighbor. To her mother beside her.

"Help is on the way, Adeline," the woman said. "Just stay with me, can you do that for me?"

Her head was spinning as she fought to keep control. Everything was wrong. Her mother was bleeding — it wasn't Adeline who needed help.

She was bitten.

The bite was dangerous.

Where is Daryl?

There was something wrong.

"Sweetheart, are you here with me?"

The room was so quiet now. She held her breath, lowering the phone out of her ear. She closed her eyes and listened.

No sound.

Her eyes opened, slowly, and her mother, who had been struggling to breathe moments ago, was now still.

"Momma?"

Inching closer, her hands reached out to touch her mother's shoulder.

"Momma, wake up!"

The phone slipped from her hand, clattering to the floor. The dispatcher's voice echoed faintly from the receiver, distant and forgotten.

"Momma," she called again.

Nothing. Silence. Pure death.

"Momma, no!" she cried, shaking her head. "No, no, no, please!"

Tears blurred her vision as she clung to her mother, fingers fisting the blood-stained fabric of her shirt.

"Momma, wake up, please!"

She folded over her mother's chest, sobs ripping out of her. The smell of blood filled her lungs, clung to her skin, seeped into everything.

"I'm sorry, Momma," she choked. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

She cried until there was nothing left in her; no air and no voice, only a raw ache where her heart used to be. And at some point, her body went quiet — wretched, empty, numb — and she shifted by instinct, that which was buried deep inside her, a need for warmth, for closeness; her body curled against her mother's side, cheek resting on the soft slope of her stomach like her own deathbed. Tears slid down her face in slow, steady strokes — gentle and warm, when everything else felt shapeless and cold.

"I'll stay here," she murmured with what was left of her voice. "I'll stay with you, Momma. I won't leave."

Adeline stayed.

Time unraveled. Hours. Minutes. Something endless. Something final.

Her mind was nothingness; pain, the only thing left. But something spoke — a voice, at the back of her brain, at the edge of everything alive.

Her chest rose in a sharp gasp; heart slammed against her ribs; cold rushed through her veins — she was back on her body again and something resembling fear was beginning to surge.

But her mother was dead — it was over. There was no fear anymore. She just wanted it to be over. The dispatcher was wrong. How can anything dead be dangerous? It didn't happen to her.

She was her mother.

Ma'am, that bite was right through his jugular, she remembered the Sheriff's words. But what did that mean?

It means you bleed to death.

Jason had died — he'd bled to death.

He wasn't your son anymore.

The Sheriff had shot him. How many times?

This isn't your mother anymore.

It was her mother, and her mother had died and Jason had died and her father was gone — she could not save them; she had failed to make any of them stay.

Burying herself deeper into her mother's side, she shut her eyes tight. Tears still slipped down her cheeks and she tried to push the thoughts away; tried to quiet the noise in her head. She didn't want to think. She only wanted to stay. To be with her. Why couldn't she just be with her?

Then, she felt it: a faint, almost imperceptible twitch beneath her cheek.

Her breath hitched sharply and the tears stopped. Slowly, she lifted her head, heart pounding so hard it drowned everything else. Was Adeline finally losing her mind?

Her mother's chest moved in a shallow rise. Her head tilted and her eyes fluttered open and Adeline's heart leapt for a brief, fleeting second.

No, something is wrong. Something is wrong. Something is wrong.

The eyes that met hers she didn't recognize. Lifeless they were — an endless void. A low, guttural sound rumbled from deep within her mother's throat, a sound that didn't belong to her.

"Momma?"

Her movements were slow at first, body shifting as though she didn't quite know how to move. She turned her head toward her daughter, eyes locking onto her, and a hand — her hand — shout out, seizing Adeline's hair and yanking hard enough to send a bolt of pain through her scalp.

"Momma! Stop!" she cried, clawing at her mother's fingers.

Her mother's mouth opened and snapped shut, teeth gnashing as she lunged. Adeline recoiled on instinct, pulling back hard; her balance gave out and she tumbled off the bed, dragging her mother with her.

They fell in a blur. Her mother's body slammed against the nightstand with a sickening crack and Adeline hit the floor back-first, breath ripped from her lungs. For a moment, she couldn't move. Her mother laid beside her, also unmoving, and a jagged wound split her forehead, blood pouring down her face in a dark, steady stream.

"Momma... I'm sorry, I..."

The words died on her throat; her mother wasn't listening — she was moving again.

She is not your mother anymore.

Adeline scrambled back on her hands and feet. Her chest heaved as the dispatcher's warnings flooded her mind:

If she changes, you won't be safe... Stay away... Aim for the head.

Her mother pushed herself up with unnatural strength and Adeline's back hit the wall as she struggled to stand, legs trembling beneath her.

Jason's room.

The last safe place — her heaven.

Behind her, the dragging steps grew louder. Growls rose like a shadow stretching over her. Her fingers fumbled with the handle and panic surged through her chest. She yanked the door shut, pulling with all her strength — but not fast enough.

The door slammed shut on her mother's arm and Adeline's eyes widened in absolute terror. The limb twisted at an impossible angle, bone shifting under the pressure with a sickening crunch. Her mother didn't flinch and kept pushing, fingers curled like claws, trying to force the door open. Adeline gasped, straining to pull it shut, eyes locked on the face pressing toward her.

"Momma, please stop!"

She yanked again, harder, door crushing the limb caught in the frame, but still, her mother pushed. She was hurting her mother in the most horrifying way, pulling with everything she had, and yet not a single muscle on her tried to stop because desperation drove her forward.

What kind of monster am I?

The gash on her mother's forehead had split wider against the frame, blood slipping down her cheek. Her jaw opened and snapped shut, teeth biting at the air. The sound of her arm twisting filled the hallway, but she kept pressing forward, and her shoulder was wedging through the gap inch by inch.

Slow — Adeline was too slow. Before she could break and run — before thought could even catch up — her mother forced her way through with a final lurch, collapsing into the hallway with a guttural growl. Adeline stumbled back, legs trembling as she tried to turn, but a hand caught her: fingers clamped around the back of her shirt beneath the collar, a tight and unrelenting grip cutting off her breath.

Her mother dragged her closer and Adeline twisted and fought, feet slipping on the blood-slick floor. She shoved at her mother's shoulder, desperate, but it was useless — her mother lunged and teeth snapped inches from her face; the sudden motion threw them both off balance and they staggered, too close to the stairs.

They fell together. Wood slammed into her back, again and again, each step sending a fresh shock of pain through her spine, ribs, and shoulder; her head cracked against the railing and darkness was all there was.

When she finally came to, her chest was heaving and her vision blurred as she blinked against the pain. She lay sprawled at the base of the stairs and her back screamed in protest when she tried to move. A warm liquid slid down her forehead when she looked up; her mother was crumpled at the bottom of the stairs and for a moment, everything was still.

But a low growl was heard and she knew it wasn't over yet; her mother's body twitched and began to rise with an unnatural speed. Her breath caught and instinct screamed. Palms scraped against the floor as she slid backward. She twisted to crawl away, but before she could stand, a hand clamped around her bare foot and knees hit the floor hard. "No!"

She kicked and thrashed, heel slicing through the air, trying to shake herself free. Her foot slipped from her mother's grasp for only moment, but it wasn't enough — her hand shot out again this time locking around her calf.

"Let go!" she cried, twisting with everything she had. Her free foot snapped up and caught her mother at the temple; the head whipped sideways and the grip faltered. Adeline scrambled up but didn't get far — the body came again, all dead weight and momentum, driving her to the floor. Hands shot to the shoulders to hold her off; muscles burned, arms shook; a blood-slick face pressed close, teeth working the air inches from her skin.

Time stretched endlessly and horror filled her veins — a suffocating flood of dread as her thoughts spiraled.

Is this how Jason felt? Was he calm? Brave? Did he think of me?

She thought of him now — of the two of them together, of the ache loosening at last.

Maybe this was it, she thought and hoped it would be true. Maybe she was finally going to see him again.

Her mother's eyes, once familiar, stared through her. They had never truly comforted; how many times had Adeline looked into them and felt only dread?

But she was her mother. It was still her mother.

A monster, a voice whispered.

My mother, she whispered back.

Or wasn't it?

The gash at the brow had opened wider; blood pooled and ran, warping the face she knew. The nose was broken and leaking. The breath smelled wrong.

Should I let go? she thought and felt piece. She only wanted it over. She wanted her mother. She wanted Jason.

Her arms trembled. The weight bore down. She couldn't hold it long.

The front door crashed wide. Heavy boots hit the floor in a hard, fast rhythm.

The first shot detonated the room and her mother jerked, a hole opening in the back.

The second tore the neck.

The third found the head, and the body collapsed — sudden, immense — pinning Adeline beneath a heat that was already empty. She lay there gasping, shaking, the world narrowed to weight and ringing.

"Secure the area, now," a deep voice called, as if from underwater. "Get the girl."

Her head. Aim for the head.

She couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. She wasn't sure she wanted to.

Voices rose somewhere, calling for a name — was it hers? — but there was only the blank roar of nothingness.

Blood dripped — somewhere. Her heart thundered. Was she still alive? It didn't feel like it. There was no face on her anymore. Only blood. A shapeless form. No green eyes.

Blood blood blood.

Soaking and dripping on her.

Thick.

Warm.

Cold.

Her throat burned. Her chest was splitting apart. A raw, guttural scream tore through the room, unending. Her ears buzzed. Her head throbbed.

The scream was her own.

The pressure eased from her chest. They were taking her away? They are taking her away. Her arms shot out, holding on to that cold form, pushing to her chest. Screaming. Fighting. Howling.

They let her go.

She curled up beside her, head resting against her chest, arms around her waist. Hands reached for her — pulling, tugging, touching — for her shoulders and her arms. Voices rose around her. Familiar, unfamiliar. Echoing, overlapping, urging her to let go.

It wasn't a monster — it was her mother.

A monster.

A mother.

A monster.

No. My mother.

She tightened her grip. She wanted to be with her. Why couldn't they let her? The voices swirled around her, but she stopped hearing them. No one came closer. Not anymore.

Time dissolved. Days passed. Hours passed. She was fine, at last. She had her mother. She wasn't going to leave. Jason was coming. In a minute. He'd promised them. They would simply have to wait.

The voices came to a stop. There was no scream. No crying. The only sound was the weight of heavy steps.

Then, a shadow fell over her.

"Adeline."

Her body stiffened, clinging tighter to her mother.

"Adeline," the voice came again, firmer.

A hand brushed against her shoulder and her body recoiled at the touch.

"Get away!" she screamed. "Leave us alone!"

"It's me," the voice said. "I'm here."

"No!" She shook her head. "No!"

"C'mon, kid," said the voice again. "She's gone. You gotta let her go now."

"No! You're lying! She's right here! Don't take her from me!"

"Addie, look at me," he said, stepping closer.

Addie. Addie. Addie.

Adeline.

A firm hand laid on her shoulder again. She flinched. He didn't let her go.

"It ain't her anymore. You know that."

Her breath hitched and her cry faltered for only a moment.

"Look at me," he said and his voice was softer than she ever heard it.

His calloused hand cupped her face and his thumbs brushed away the blood and the tears streaking her skin. With the other, he eased her upright, gently lifting her torso from the chest that no longer rose and fell beneath her.

A grounding touch — real.

Her wide, unfocused eyes found their way to his, unresisted.

Blue eyes were looking back at her.

Familiar.

Tender.

She knew those eyes.

She knew his voice.

She had called for him — many times.

More than she could count.

And he was there.

He was finally there.

"Daryl," Adeline whispered, a sound coming from her own heart.

"That's right," he said. "I'm here."

Her body nearly collapsed. His hands were firm. His hands were real. He didn't let her go.

"I can't," she cried, shaking her head. "I can't leave her. I can't."

"You ain't leaving her," Daryl said, inching closer. "You're just lettin' her rest now."

Her grip faltered, trembling hands slipping from her mother's bloodied form. The reality of his words crushed her, leaving her gasping for air as a sob escaped her lips. Without a second thought, Daryl drew her into his arms.

"No..." she whimpered, hands pressing to his chest, but the fight slipped from her fingers. Her body gave in, trembling against his.

"I got you," he murmured and his voice was rough. Gentle. "It's okay, Addie. I got you."

She clung to him, sobs muffled against his chest. She held on as if to an anchor, her hand clutching on his shirt.

"It's over now," he said. "I got you."

One hand cradled the back of her head, the other secured her trembling frame. And he wasn't going to let her go.

"I got you."

Chapter Text

Daryl was irritated.

Maybe not irritated, exactly. But something about the whole damn thing didn't sit right with him.

Jason had been at the shop all afternoon, following Earl around like a lost pup. Daryl had seen them fussing over that Harley when he showed up, the kid nodding along to whatever Earl was saying, soaking it up like a sponge. Daryl took one look, shouldered past the office door, and carried his work out back. He popped a hood, let the fan chew hot air, and gave his hands something honest to do.

It had been over a week since Jason last showed his face. Then, two days ago, the kid came by, had a quick word with Earl, and left soon after. Yesterday, he stayed a little longer. And now, he'd been here for three whole hours.

But Daryl didn't know why. He hadn't asked and Earl hadn't told him. Not that they'd been talking much lately. Ever since that old bastard decided to push past a line, things had been off. Daryl could admit he hadn't made talking easy—said a few things he wasn't proud of, did a few more—but the distance held. He meant to leave it that way. Not knowing was cleaner.

He felt Earl before he heard him—the weight of the stare between his shoulder blades, the scuff of boots he knew by sound, solvent lifting off concrete, a belt squeak under the whine of the fan. Daryl kept his eyes on the alternator bracket and let his patience wear thin. The old man was working his last nerve.

"Need somethin'?"

"Just takin' a break." Earl had that thin edge of humor that meant Daryl had already taken the bait.

Daryl sighed. "That boy still hangin' around?"

"He is," Earl said. "Didn't figure I needed to tell ya, seein' as you walked that Sportster outta your bay anyway." Daryl grunted and leaned on the ratchet until the bolt protested more than needed. "He's tryin' ta learn, y'know. Ain't just foolin'—he's payin' attention. Tryin' to hide it, but he is. And he's good. Rewired a busted tail light yesterday. Didn't even need me to check it."

Daryl kept his eyes in the engine, letting the fan chew the hot air. Earl didn't let the silence stand. "Says he's lookin' for a summer job." Daryl's hands paused, then turned the wrench again. "I was thinkin' of takin' him on. If you're willin' to teach."

That finally made him stop. He looked at the man for the first time. "Say what now?"

"C'mon, son." Earl crossed his arms. "Ya got way more time'n I do. And yer better with bikes than I am, I'll give ya that."

"Ain't got time fer babysittin'," Daryl muttered, ducking back under the hood.

"Ain't askin' ya to hold his hand, Dixon." Earl huffed, shaking his head. "Just show 'im what he don't know."

Daryl fixed his eyes on him for a moment. "Why ya pushin' this, Earl? What's in it fer you?"

The old man leaned back against the workbench, rubbing his jaw. "He reminds me a' someone."

Daryl scoffed. "We ain't nothin' alike."

Earl let out a slow breath, shaking his head. "Yeah? Keep tellin' yourself that."

Daryl heard his footsteps retreating and for a second, it almost seemed like he'd given up. But just as quickly, they came back.

"Look, I ain't about to waste my time tryin' to figure out why ya always act like a damn wounded dog," Earl snapped. "I ain't a damn shrink."

Daryl set his jaw and went back to steel and threads, tightening until the metal clanked—a cleaner noise than talk—and let the sting in his knuckles stand in for the words he wouldn't say.

Earl hooked his thumbs in his belt and didn't blink. "Boy's lookin' for somebody to point the way. You don't gotta be his best friend—just give him a lane. Hell, wrenchin' on that Harley together might do you both some good. I know it'll do him some."

Daryl exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Ya talk like he's some stray or somethin'. Kid's fine. He don't need ya fussin' over 'im like that."

"You are as squared as a damn toolbox sometimes, Dixon, I swear." Earl sighed. "Ain't no harm in lettin' the boy learn a few things. And we both know things ain't exactly smooth over at Mason's place. A bit of guidance now might make a difference later."

Those words landed heavier than he wanted to admit. He'd heard talk about Lilly's struggles, always in and out of mental hospitals, and the way folks talked about her in town. But he never pried. He wasn't the prying type.

"Ain't my business what goes on over there."

"Maybe not. But you know, sometimes a bit of work is all a man need to keep his mind steady. Better he learns from you than figure it out the hard way, like we did."

Daryl's grip on the wrench tightened, shoulders tensing. "Well, I got by just fine on my own. Didn't need nobody showin' me anythin'."

"And look where it got ya. Ain't sayin' ya didn't manage, but maybe he don't gotta take the same hard road. Ain't hurtin' nobody t' give 'im a chance." Earl lifted his eyebrows at Daryl. "And ya know that's not all true."

Daryl glanced off. He'd been a kid without a net himself, and when Merle wasn't there, every now and then Earl was. He hesitated longer than he liked, though. He had nothing against the boy—Jason was blood, and that wasn't nothing—but when it came to Mason's family, there'd always been a line he didn't cross.

And still, the kid kept coming back, even after Daryl pushed him off, even after he made it clear he wasn't looking for responsibility. Stubborn or stupid or something else, the boy showed up. He was near grown, old enough to choose where he spent his hours, wasn't he? If he wanted a job for the summer, Daryl could let him have it and be done when August turned.

Mostly, he was tired of Earl jawing in his ear. He scrubbed a hand down his face, already regretting the words as they formed. "You sure about this?"

Earl's mouth twitched like he'd just won a bet. Daryl scowled, knowing he'd hate himself later. "Yeah," Earl said. "Ain't like we're swamped."

Daryl eyed him. "Don't think I don't see what yer doin'."

"Maybe you do, maybe you don't," Earl chuckled, unfazed. "But you ain't foolin' me either, son. He's your family. Nothin' wrong with helpin' family."

Daryl snorted. "Ya gettin' too soft, old man."

"Yeah, yeah." Earl's mouth tipped like he'd heard that one his whole life. "Keep tellin' yourself that."

There wasn't any point arguing with a man who'd already decided he was right. Daryl rubbed a hand along his jaw and let his eyes drift out to the yard. Jason was still crouched beside the Sportster, a rag in one hand, fingers feeling the edge of the ignition cover like he was reading braille. He wasn't just poking around; he was listening to the machine, finding the place where the seam sat proud, where the metal told on itself. Not bad, Daryl thought, and stayed in the shadow a second longer than he meant to. If Lillian could see him hovering like this, she'd have some sharp thing to say and he'd deserve it; Merle would call him a damn fool and that'd be fair too. It didn't matter. The kid's thumb pressed and the cover shifted a hair. He'd felt it.

Daryl sighed, made peace with regretting the next ten minutes, and stepped out. "You ain't gonna fix that with your bare hands, y'know."

Jason startled, glanced up, then hid it under a quick smirk. "Was just checkin'."

"Checkin' don't mean much if you don't do somethin' about it." Daryl dropped to a crouch beside him, forearms braced on his knees, eyes over the case. Jason shifted to make room without being told and kept his mouth shut, which counted for more than most people understood. Daryl rolled an Allen key in his palm, then tapped the cover's edge with his knuckles and ran a finger along the seam. "See how it sits just a touch off? That ain't loose. Gasket's crooked. Leave it and she'll mark her territory in oil from here to Harris's."

Jason leaned in, eyes narrowing like he was rewinding his own steps. "Didn't catch it."

"Ain't about catchin' it," Daryl said, putting the wrench in his hand. "It's knowin' where to look."

The kid set the hex on the bolts, loosened them steadily, eased the cover free, breathed with it. He worried the gasket back where it belonged, settled the plate, and snugged everything down again—no show, no fuss. Daryl ran a fingertip along the join and felt nothing but the line he wanted. He nodded once, small enough it almost didn't happen.

"Better?" Jason asked, rolling back on his heels.

"Yeah." Daryl wiped his hand on his jeans, fished for another tool, and let out a breath through his nose. "Alright. Let's see what else you screwed up."

Jason's mouth tilted into a smirk he couldn't quite smother. The fan chewed the heat; the yard smelled like dust and oil and the kind of summer that bakes things even after the sun quits. Side by side, they reached into the same piece of work and let the talk drop where it belonged—into hands, into threads, into the simple language of parts that either fit or they don't—and for once that was enough.

༻⁕༺

Jason was crouched beside the Sportster, pressing his fingers against the primary chain through the inspection cover, testing the slack. His movements were steady and even confident—nothing like the hesitant touches from the first time he set foot in Earl's shop.

Rain pounded against the tin roof. Wind pushed it sideways, sending cold sprays through the open garage door, where puddles were already forming on the pavement. Lightning flashed before fading into deep, rolling thunder. The air smelled of wet asphalt and oil, with the promise of a long night ahead. Inside, the garage was warm, untouched by the storm outside. Across from him, Daryl stood with his arms crossed, watching with that unreadable look of his. Not judging, just making sure.

He didn't need to ask for confirmation anymore. If something was wrong, Daryl would grunt or reach over and fix it himself. But mostly, he let Jason do it. The quiet between them wasn't awkward anymore. It just was.

Jason wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, leaving a streak of grime behind. "You ever gonna admit I ain't completely useless at this?"

Daryl grunted, shifting his weight. "Still debatin'."

Jason huffed and reached for the adjuster nut. Earl clomped past, dripping rain and carrying a carb like a drowned cat, and shot them both a sideways grin. "Damn miracle, Dixon. You almost look proud."

Daryl rolled his eyes and Jason held down a laugh. "Guess we'll find out if I screwed it up soon enough."

"Ain't about findin' out," Daryl answered, stepping in and dropping to a crouch beside him. "It's knowin' before you turn the key." He pressed his fingers to the chain, felt the give, and shook his head. "Too tight. Back it off a hair."

"Hey," Earl called from beside Daryl. "Tell yer sister to keep usin' that fancy mustard she got. Damn near made me enjoy a sandwich today."

Jason snorted, tightening the bolt. "Yeah? I'll let her know. Might make her whole week hearin' that."

"Don't tell her too fast," Earl groused, wiping his hands. "Last thing I need is that kid thinkin' she's got me wrapped 'round her finger." He tipped Jason a look, then cut his eyes at Daryl. "Boy's gettin' good, Dixon. Pretty soon he won't need you breathin' down his neck." Daryl answered with a noncommittal grunt. Earl smirked, thumped Jason between the shoulders, and headed for the back. "Don't fuck it up," he tossed over his shoulder.

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. He was pretty sure that, at this point, out of all of them, the one who was most looking forward to finishing the bike at once was Adeline. Every morning she packed lunches for the shop—Earl, Daryl, Sam—and somewhere along the line Mason started griping about how fast the pantry emptied. Jason had quit making it a fight and started buying the groceries himself. Money well spent, he thought. It was her way of participating—of feeling like she had earned her own little part of the Harley,  laying claim with bread and mustard and careful little notes. Not that she had to earn anything. She was happy and that was all that mattered to him. Jason was always checking, always making sure of what she was feeling. She was already too much like... well, too much like her.

Jason didn't like thinking about things like that—it felt wrong. She was just a little girl. A little girl who loved bikes. That's all she needed to be. All he needed her to be.

"Y'know," Jason began, tightening a bolt before leaning back on his heels. "Addie's already makin' plans for when it's done."

Daryl grunted, adjusting his grip on a wrench. He was used to Jason talking on and on about her. "That right?"

Jason huffed a laugh. "Yeah. Says I gotta take her ridin' first thing." He wiped his hands on his jeans. "She wants a pink helmet or somethin'. With butterflies on it. Have no idea where I'm gonna find the damn thing."

A shadow of a smile tugged Daryl's mouth, but he let it pass unremarked.

"She thinks you're cool, by the way," Jason added.

"Then she don't know me that well," Daryl said.

She could, if you'd just show up, Jason thought, and swallowed it. He'd learned the hard way that talking family with Daryl was a minefield. Daryl never asked about the house; never got close. Then Serena told him something that brought more sense to his uncle's character: apparently a good load of people, except for him, knew about his mother and Daryl's relationship, way back in the past.

It didn't set right for him for a time. That probably wouldn't be too upsetting for most people and he didn't exactly understand why that was for him, until he caught himself wishing that his mother had never left him in the first place.

Serena couldn't tell for sure what happened between them, but after enough pestering, she told him what folks mostly agreed on: eventually, Lillian saw Daryl was a dead end and went for the brother who actually had a chance. Jason had almost laughed when he heard.

If only they knew.

But he didn't think that was true, mostly anyway. He wasn't going to ask, though. To neither of the involved. Now, his mind would sometimes wonder if his uncle still cared about her, somehow. Jason had barely any memory of their interactions, so he couldn't tell, but he still hoped that Daryl did.

Until he reminded himself that hope was usually a dangerous thing to have.

Daryl wiped his hands on a rag, tossing it over his shoulder. "That last batch of parts should be in by next week."

Jason nodded, tightening a bolt before leaning back on his heels. "Yeah? What's left after that?"

Daryl exhaled through his nose. "Got that Keihin carb rebuild kit comin' in. Gonna swap the jets, clean it up. Needs a new clutch cable too, the one in there's stiff. And the damn pushrod seals are still leakin'."

Jason huffed. "Shit, forgot about that. Thought we already fixed it."

Daryl just snorted and Jason shook his head, rolling his shoulders. That was it, then.

Not much left to do.

It had been nearly two months now, almost the entire summer. What at first was just a part-time summer job—a lousy excuse to work on the Harley—soon became something more.

It didn't take long for part-time to become full office hours. Jason held his own. He pulled his weight, learned what he could. Between waiting for parts to arrive—or having to scavenge them themselves—most of their time was actually spent on other bikes or cars, filling the gaps between repairs.

And somewhere along the way, he and Daryl had figured out how to work together. How to move past grunts and mutters into full, actual sentences. Hell, they even had whole conversations now. In the end, Jason had fallen in love with the work way more than he thought he would and now, he didn't want it to be done.

"I can make a run down to Fontana," Daryl said after a while, his expression softer than before. "Pretty sure Frank's still got that old two-into-one exhaust sittin' around."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "We finally ditchin' the stock pipes?"

Daryl shrugged. "If we can get it cheap. Might give her a little more kick."

Jason smirked. "Hell, now we're talkin'. What about the suspension?"

Daryl grunted. "Unless ya find a bag a' cash somewhere, we ain't touchin' that. She's sittin' low already, ain't worth the trouble."

Jason chuckled, wiping the grease off his fingers. "Guess we'll just make her louder, then."

Daryl shook his head but didn't argue.

Jason wiped his hands on his jeans. "What about the heat from the pipes?"

Daryl glanced at him. "Leavin' it as is. Ain't a problem unless you're stupid enough to press your leg against it."

Jason scoffed. "Kinda hard not to when it's right next to your damn thigh."

Daryl shrugged. "That's a Harley for ya."

Jason huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah, Serena don't like it much. But we mostly just use her truck anyway."

"Yeah," Daryl said, reaching for a wrench. "Girlfriends usually don't like that."

Jason glanced at him, but Daryl didn't elaborate. He could've pressed, could've asked. But he didn't.

And neither of them said anything else.

༻⁕༺

Jason had expected the rain to stop by the end of the day.

No such luck.

He could wait for the storm to ease, at least some, but that would mean being late and Jason couldn't let that happen.

If he knew he'd be caught up at work, he would've had Adeline stay with Serena until he could pick her up. He always planned around it—always made sure she wasn't left alone with them for too long.

It was bad enough she had to be home with Lillian all day, even if she'd been relatively stable for a while now. But Mason was a different story.

Jason didn't trust him. Not alone. Not with Adeline.

It'd been complicated for that whole summer. It was as if they were both waiting for something to happen.

If it weren't summer vacation, he could trust that Adeline would be fine at school—where she wasn't mostly his responsibility. And if things got really bad, he could even bring her along to practice. But Adeline didn't like it. She didn't really fit in. Or maybe... maybe it was Jason who didn't like that very much.

He'd avoided thinking about it for the last couple of months, about the things that could go wrong. But it caught up to him anyway, in a way he hadn't expected. It was an emergency now.

He had to walk through that storm.

There wasn't much of a choice.

Jason stepped toward the storm, pulling his hoodie tighter, ready to make the walk, but a voice cut through the rain, "You plannin' on walkin' in that?"

Jason turned. Daryl was leaning against the doorway of the shop, arms crossed, eyes flicking between Jason and the downpour. His face was unreadable, but he knew.

Jason shifted his weight. "Yeah. I gotta go."

Daryl exhaled sharply through his nose, glancing toward the rain, then back at Jason.

A long beat of silence.

Then, "C'mon."

Jason blinked. "What?"

Daryl pushed off the doorframe, already grabbing his keys from his back pocket. "Ain't gonna have ya drownin' in that damn flood. Let's go."

Jason hesitated for half a second.

Then he followed.

That was a first.

And for once, Jason let himself hope.

Chapter Text

"We are bound by the secrets we share, and the scars we carry."

—Libba Bray. The Diviners.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterward, many are strong at the broken places."

—Ernest Hemingway. A Farewell to Arms.

༻⁕༺

Adeline felt so small in his arms. So fragile.

So alone.

Daryl felt every tremor, every broken hitch of her breath as she burrowed into his chest. Small fingers fisted his shirt like it was the last solid thing left. Each sob thudded into his ribs and set a dull ache gnawing; he tightened his hold and kept still, breathing slow so she could find him and match it, trying to be something steady when she couldn't.

Stepping outside, everything hit at once. Police radios crackling, paramedics talking in low, urgent voices, and neighbors whispering as they gathered, watching; he barely registered any of it. He tightened his hold on Adeline as she buried her face against him, as if trying to disappear completely.

Thompson locked eyes with him almost immediately. The Sheriff's face, lined with exhaustion, flickered with something almost human—relief, perhaps—as he began making his way over.

When Daryl saw the police cars and the paramedics surrounding the house, all things narrowed down to a single thought and he was out of the cab before the door had fully swung shut. Past the car, past the deputies, and past the headless body on the grass, he ran to the front door in terror and purpose.

Dixon! he'd barely registered the shout as he reached the porch, and another body slammed into him from the side and forced him off balance. Dixon, stop, dammit! Thompson's grip was like iron as he used his weight to block Daryl from barreling inside. You can't go in there!

Get the hell off me! Daryl was shoving against Thompson as another deputy joined in and grabbed his arm; the weight of the two men barely held him back. Where is she? he shouted, trying to break free. Where are they?

Dixon, you need to calm the hell down and listen to me! Thompson's voice boomed like thunder; it wasn't the sound that made Daryl pause but the look on the Sheriff's eyes. The girl's alive, he began and relief filled his veins for a heartbeat, but the Sheriff went on, but the mother turned sick. We had to— Daryl exploded. His body surged forward and the two men dug in, grips tightening as he fought against them.

If you wanna see that girl ever again, you need to pull yourself together now! Thompson's words hit like a punch and Daryl finally stilled. His breaths were ragged. She's hysterical. She doesn't want to leave her mother's side. If you go in there like this, you'll scare the hell out of her even more. Thompson leaned closer and his voice dropped. She needs you calm, steady. Do you understand me? She's barely hanging on, and if you go in there like a goddamn storm, you're gonna lose her too.

His chest heaved as Thompson's words sank in and the ones that came next did nothing to prepare him for what he saw when he got inside:

She's not gonna be the same girl you remember right now. You need to be ready for that.

When Daryl walked through that door, he knew he would never forget that scene; it would haunt him for as long as he lived. He forced himself to look past the body and focus only on the little girl all curled up and covered in blood—something carved out in tragedy. He remembered thinking she must've been so cold, and even more deeply, he remembered the instinct to hold her close.

You're gonna lose her too.

She'd never been his to lose; they barely knew each other. What could he possibly say to make any of it better? Who was he to her, other than the man who hadn't shown up when she called? She needed her father, not him, and even in that he had failed her. For a moment, shame tugged at his feet and he thought about walking away.

But he couldn't leave.

He could see himself in that lonely figure and the way she'd looked at him just hours before—desperate, yet still trying to remain strong—was still etched his mind. Drawn to her, he couldn't have left her even if he'd wanted to.

When he reached her, he thought she was gone; those blue wild eyes held nothing but ghost, but she looked at him and knew who he was and for some reason, that had been enough. When he held her in his arms, something in him finally stilled—she wasn't too far gone.

Adeline was going to survive.

And now, that was all he could focus on—her. He couldn't afford to think about anything else. Not Lillian. Not Mason.

Lillian.

My Lilly.

Dead.

"Dixon," Thompson's voice broke down his thoughts. He approached them with slow steps, as if noticing his caution.

But Daryl didn't stop.

"Dixon," he growled, "you need to let us take a look at her."

His hold on Adeline tightened at those words. "She don't need nobody touchin' her."

"She's hurt," Thompson spat. "You know that, man."

A second deputy—a boy, barely into his twenties—stepped up behind the Sheriff. His face was pinched, uncertain, but Daryl didn't miss the way his hand hovered near his hip, not on his belt but on his gun.

"What ya think ya gonna do with that?" Daryl snapped, eyes fixed on the boy. His steps faltered for the first time, not out of fear but out of anger, building hot and fast in his chest. His voice was stone when he stopped and his eyes were steel, "Ya gonna pull that on me? On her?"

The younger deputy stiffened, but his hand didn't move. His gaze flicked nervously to Thompson as if he were waiting for a cue.

"Brent," Thompson said sharply. "Don't be stupid. Take your damn hand off it."

The younger one hesitated at first, reeking of a boy who still hadn't learned how to obey a direct order. Slowly but not soon enough, he moved his hand away, raising both in a placating gesture. "I wasn't gonna—"

"Shut up," Thompson snapped, not even sparing him a glance. "Hey, I get it, I reallydo, man..." his words trailed off and his jaw clenched. "But we need to check her out for bites."

Daryl felt thrown off balance. "Bites?"

Thompson nodded. "They bite you... or scratch you... you turn. That's how it is now. That's how it happened to her mother."

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from his lungs. The blood was everywhere—clothes and hair and skin—and he couldn't tell where it was coming from; couldn't see what was hers and what wasn't. But bitten? He'd heard the words before, on the news and later on whispers, from people who'd seen too much. He didn't pay much attention then, even after Jason, but sometimes you have to see first to understand.

The truth of those words, however, wasn't enough to ease his mind, not when there guns present and Adeline on the line.

"Then what, huh?" Daryl growled. "What y'all gonna do to her? She's a kid," he spat. "Ya gonna do to her what ya did to her mother? To her brother?"

Thompson flinched and it was clear that those words had gotten to him. Adeline retracted in his arms, as if bracing for something, but the Sheriff's response was nothing but a deep breath, and his face softened.

"We won't do anything to her," Thompson began again, "I assure you. It's not how things work around here, you know that. If she's not bitten, we'll patch her up and figure out the rest, but you gotta let us check."

His gaze dropped to Adeline. Her red curls were damp with blood and her small hands clung to his shirt like her life depended on it. And he couldn't swap away the feeling that he'd failed them. All of them.

"Dixon," Thomson cut through his thoughts once again and his tone was careful. "She's counting on you to keep her safe, man, to do the right thing. Don't make it harder for her."

Those words settled on him deeply and for the first time, he truly realized the position he was placed in.

The right thing.

How was he supposed to know what that even meant for her? He had never been relevant in her life—quite the opposite—and even now it wasn't because he did something good to earn it. Blood and the fact that he was here weren't enough; Adeline deserved better, but who that even was?

Shame, grief, and adrenaline were battling for room. He was still partially drunk and he had arrived too late and Lillian was dead and Adeline was hurt. Mason was probably a terrible father—but still her father—and that deputy in front of him was the one who'd kept Daryl from loosing... everything.

And wasn't that his truth? If Adeline had been found dead, whatever was left of him would've been gone with her and he would've been the only one to blame for it.

He was grasping for clarity now—what the fuck was he supposed to do? But there was a second truth about Thompson and that was that he'd been the one to put Jason down. A few days ago, that had meant something else to him, but now Lilly was dead inside the house and her daughter was bleeding in his arms and that put another perspective to things. Now, Daryl saw it differently.

Thompson had figured it out before anyone else; he knew what had to be done and didn't hesitate. He had saved her from the worst of fates and he was willing to let him—them—decide.

And hell, that meant more than anything Daryl had ever done for her.

Slowly, he loosened his grip and lowered Adeline to the ground. "No!" She clung to him harder.

"Adeline," he murmured, throat tight from a lump he hadn't been able to dissolve. He knelt in front of her and his hands gripped her small arms as he eased them away from his neck. "It's alright, kid."

Her wide blue eyes, brimming with tears, met his, and the look on her face nearly broke him. She looked altogether defeated. Lost.

"She didn't bite me." She shook her head as though trying to convince herself as much as him. "I didn't let her. She didn't bite me. She didn't scratch me. I promise, please, I promise."

Those words staggered him down. They weren't supposed to be the words of a kid. She was too young. Too young for what she'd been through.

Thompson stepped forward and his voice was soft as he spoke to her, "That's good, sweetheart, that's real good. But we still need to check, okay? Just to be sure. You've been so brave. This is just one more thing, and it's over."

Adeline inched closer to Daryl, almost hiding her face against his shoulder. "You won't leave?" she whispered to him.

"I won't."

Daryl looked up at the Sheriff and he signaled with his hand. The paramedic—a woman in her early thirties, dressed in a crisp blue uniform and wearing a no-nonsense expression—approached them in swift steps and crouched down to Adeline's level in one fluid motion.

"Alright, sweetheart, my name's Erin," she said. "Do you mind if I take a quick look at you? It won't take long, I promise."

Adeline's eyes met his once more, as if still pleading, in a way that made him want to wrap his arms around her again and take her the hell away from this place.

But he didn't.

"Go on, kid," he murmured instead and the words were bitter in his mouth.

Feet barely sliding over the grass, she took a small, hesitant step away from him. The paramedic reached for her wrist, guiding her closer, more a suggestion than a pull. Adeline's fingers grasped his hand, almost by instinct, but she didn't resist; her grip slowly loosened as the woman drew her closer and Daryl's hand flexed helplessly at his sides.

Erin took Adeline's arm first and her movements were careful as she examined it from shoulder to wrist, but when she reached her palms, the girl flinched, pulling her hand closer to her body.

"It's just a few cuts and splinters, sweetie, but nothing serious," Erin said. "We'll clean those up later for you."

But the real trouble came with her right arm: as Erin reached for it, Adeline jerked back instantly, clutching her wrist tight against her chest.

"It's alright, sweetheart," the paramedic said softly, trying to soothe her. "I'm not going to hurt you."

Adeline didn't move; her gaze stayed locked on the ground and that made panic flicker behind his ribs. The paramedic glanced at him. No words, but it was clear—she was waiting for him to do something. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard because the lump was still there. "You gotta let her look, kid," he managed to say.

Erin didn't look away from him, as if waiting for him to say anything more, and when it didn't come, she spoke again, "Listen to your dad, sweetheart. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can get you out of here."

"Ain't her dad," he was quick to correct and Erin froze for a split second.

"Oh, it's just... when I saw you runnin'..." She shook her head and turned back to the girl. "Well, you listen to him anyway, okay? I'm here to help, sweetie, I promise."

Adeline was still silent.

"Kid," he said again, as gently as he could, "listen to her. We need ta' make sure."

Finally, Adeline looked up, eyes wide and frantic. She didn't say anything, but after a moment, she slowly extended her arm by a degree, still keeping it close to her body as if she were trying to shield something. Erin took her hand gently and turned it over, and when she did, Daryl saw it: a scar, pale and deep, winding around her small wrist.

For a moment, he felt disconnected from himself—why did the sight of it shake him so badly? Scars were normal, weren't they? Kids get hurt sometimes. But something about the way she held herself—the way she tried to hide it—made his stomach churn.

Erin didn't say anything; her face was carefully neutral as she moved on, examining the rest of Adeline. Her gaze swept over her pajama pants, checking for signs of injury—nothing. Then she gently tilted Adeline's head to check her neck—still clear.

Daryl's pulse began to steady, a flicker of relief creeping in, until Erin reached for the hem of Adeline's shirt. Her little hand shot out immediately, grabbing the fabric and pulling it down. It was a brief moment, almost too quick to notice, but Daryl saw it, and for long enough to make his heart drop: white lines on her back—faint, but their shapes were unmistakable.

More scars.

His mind was spinning now and his grip tightened on Adeline's shoulder, grounding himself, trying to make sense of everything. Erin was saying something to her, but he didn't process.

It can't be.

The paramedic turned to him. "She's not bitten. But she's got some bruises and cuts we'll need to clean up properly."

Where the hell is Mason?

"You're gonna do it here," Thompson cut in. "Not at the hospital. Here."

Erin straightened. "She's got a head injury. I can't—"

"Dixon, take her to the ambulance," the Sheriff interrupted again. "I need to have a word with Erin here."

His gaze was locked on Thompson as he stood up; the idea of that conversation happening without him was suddenly more urgent than anything else. But the knowledge, that little voice that told him he was no one to her—no one to decide anything—crept in again and he felt even more out of place, wondering, once again, what the fuck he was supposed to do. His mind circled back to his brother—the one person Adeline still truly had—but the scars came back to him. Was he the one who put them on that girl? Did he even want Mason to come back?

There's gotta be more to it. I couldn't have been so damn blind.

Thompson seemed to catch the conflict playing out on Daryl's face and stepped in again. "Dixon, you don't want her listening to this."

Daryl hesitated more than he should have. He was trying to make sense of it all, but everything felt too heavy, too scattered, like he was a step behind, grasping at things he couldn't quite piece together. Why did he feel so out of control, like everything was slipping through his fingers? The truth was that he wasn't sure about anything anymore.

But still, he nodded, and his gaze dropped to Adeline; her small fists were clenched tightly around the hem of her shirt, knuckles white. She was staring at the ground and her expression was distant, as though she wasn't entirely present—lost in some reality no one couldn't reach.

Carefully, he placed a hand on her shoulder, already anticipating her flinch. "C'mon, kid," he murmured, nudging her forward. His gaze was still fixed on the Sheriff as they walked, trying to make sense of the conversation, but the voices were too low for the noise around them and he hated it—not knowing.

But his ears caught a small whimper that med him look down again. Adeline was stumbling more than walking, movements crooked and uncertain. Her breaths came ragged and shallow, and her hand was braced against her side, as if trying to hold herself together.

Damn you, Dixon.

He sighed. "You're hurtin', huh?"

She didn't answer; her silence said enough and guilt washed over him—the girl was way more hurt than she'd let out.

"Come 'ere," he said as he reached out to pick her up. Even through the faint sighs of pain, she accepted the embrace without resistance and wrapped her arms weakly around his neck, resting her head against his shoulder. Her weight in his arms was light, but the tension in her frame pressed into him with every step and he felt as if he were carrying glass, ready to shatter at any second. But he kept his mind clear and his gaze forward, now looking for the signs he'd looked past when he first got to the house.

The blood on the grass was the first thing he looked for, trailing from the front porch and pooling finally around a corpse: a woman. What was left of her head was a ruined mass of flesh and bone, and next to her a dirt-caked shovel laid, handle splintered at the end.

He remembered what he'd heard with Adeline earlier at the garage—the banging sound. He'd dismissed her concerns, An animal or somethin', he'd told her.

Was all of it his fault? His heart thundered in his chest.

All over the grass, heavy tracks of struggle and large steps were trailing toward the driveway. His mind spiraled, working with countless different thoughts, but he forced himself to keep moving. The concrete on the driveway bore thick, dark streaks of blood and black tire marks overlapped it, gouges scraped into the surface. Only a heavy pickup truck could've left those marks, and the scene told a story he didn't want to think about, but it was there too plainly to ignore.

But he held in. He couldn't ask Adeline the questions. Not right now.

The ambulance loomed ahead. A paramedic, an older man with a grizzled beard, stepped forward as Daryl approached. His eyes flicked to Adeline, assessing her condition instantly, before settling on Daryl.

"Let's get her seen to," the man said.

Carefully, he climbed into the back of the vehicle, Adeline still held close. The paramedic helped guide her onto the stretcher and Daryl lowered her down, this time without resistance. But the moment he let go, Adeline's hand shot out, grabbing his and despite feeling oddly out of place at the touch, his hand held hers back.

The paramedic snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and leaned in, tilting Adeline's chin up with careful fingers, inspecting the small gash near her hairline. "Hit your head?"

She nodded faintly and her fingers tightened around Daryl's. "Fell down the stairs," she whispered and his chest tightening at those words.

"Alright, let's take a look."

The paramedic grabbed a light stick and shone a small light into her eyes, tilting her chin gently. "Follow the light for me... That's it. Good." He frowned slightly. "She's got signs of a mild concussion. Pupils are reactive, but the fall and that cut... it's enough to keep an eye on her. She really should see a doctor to be safe." He glanced toward Daryl, his expression cautious. "Where's Erin?"

"Talkin' to the deputy. He don't wanna take her there."

The paramedic paused, nodding. "I see..." he said carefully, as though weighing his next words. "Well, if that's the call, I'll wait for her. Don't think she needs stitches..." He then turned to Adeline again. "Alright, so you fell down the stairs. Where else hurts?"

They both waited for her answer, but she kept her gaze down and Daryl noticed her biting her lips.

What the hell now?

"Her ribs," Daryl answered in her place, remembering the way she was holding the side of her body.

The paramedic's hands moved to her sides, carefully palpating the area. Daryl tensed when she flinched, a soft whimper escaping her lips.

"Easy now," he soothed. "Bruised, not broken. Probably hurts like hell, doesn't it? Some difficult breathing, too." He hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly to Daryl. "But she really should go to the hospital, I—"

"Can't ya patch 'er up here?" Daryl asked, his tone harsh.

"I can, but—"

"Then do it," Daryl spat and the other man recoiled slightly. He had a pretty good idea why the Sheriff had been trying to avoid hospitals. He wasn't taking any chances, not with her.

The paramedic nodded and moved on to the cut on her forehead. Daryl's jaw clenched as he watched, thoughts refusing to stay grounded. They kept circling back—Jason, Lillian's body, Adeline's scars. The way she was so resigned to hide them and hide her pain, like she had long accepted there was no point in showing it to anyone.

And all of it came back to Mason.

His attention was pulled to Thompson and the woman paramedic nearby, still talking, the voices around them rising. Thompson was on his radio now and his expression was tense, and that younger deputy walked up to him

The boy's face tightened as they exchanged words and his posture was stiff. Then, after a curt nod, the young man turned and jogged off. Daryl heard the distant slam of a car door followed by the wail of a police siren.

Thompson's gaze shifted to Daryl, catching his eye for a brief second. Something in the look made his stomach twist. Without a word, Thompson and the paramedic began walking to the ambulance.

The paramedic inside was still working on Adeline, talking softly to her as he cleaned and assessed her injuries. But she wasn't really listening—Daryl could see her drifting away by the second.

"Dixon," Thompson called. He stood in a short distance from the ambulance in a way that looked like he was leaving the choice to Daryl—whether to meet him or stay put. Before stepping in, Erin glanced at Daryl in a way that made him think she knew something that he still didn't.

That motion caught Adeline's attention. Her head lifted slightly and her wide, tear-streaked eyes locking onto Daryl. She was watching him like she was trying to figure out what he was going to do next and he hesitated for a moment, not sure about it himself.

But he forced his legs to move. He dropped her hand and stepped toward the edge of the ambulance. "I'll be right back," he muttered, his voice rough, avoiding Adeline's eyes as he added, "Just stay here."

"But—"

"He'll be right outside, sweetie," Erin interrupted gently, stepping closer to Adeline. Her tone was calm, measured, like she had done this before. "You'll be able to see him the whole time. I'll stay with you, too. Promise."

Adeline glanced between them, lip quivering. To avoid leaving room for a reaction, Erin took his place at her side and he felt a sharp pressure in his chest. But he didn't look back; she was well taken care of, wasn't she? And he had to find out more—he needed to know what the hell to do.

"How is she?" Thompson asked as Daryl came close.

"She's holdin'," he answered. "He wants to take 'er to a hospital."

Thompson shook his head. "No, that ain't happening, not today. And I think you know why."

He stayed quiet and Thompson let the silence stretch between them for a moment, as if pondering on something, looking at Daryl like he was sizing him up. Then the Sheriff exhaled through his nose and turned his head, eyes directly on the body on the grass. "Dixon, what do you have to say about that? Did she tell you anything?"

He'd decided, then. "Couldn't ask 'er."

"I can't say that I blame you," Thompson said grimly and his tone shifted, more contemplative now, "Something tells me it wasn't the mother who did that."

Daryl stayed silent, shoulders tensening. Thompson didn't need his agreement—it was more like the Sheriff was trying to see if he had figured it out by himself. But the scene was clear enough. Even without Thompson's experience, it didn't take a tracker or a damn detective to figure out what had happened, no matter how much Daryl wanted to deny it.

"We've talked to a couple of neighbors," Thompson said. "They didn't see much. Just some shouting and a black pickup on the street. They saw him arrive and leave. Whole thing took half an hour, maybe not even that."

Daryl felt his body stiffen and his hands closed to fists. Cowards, but he wasn't surprised. The world was filled with stand-biers and he'd grown up with that knowledge—life had been sure to teach him soon enough. Sheep, he and his brother used to call them: people who stood still, passive, while others took the fall and carried the weight of things.

Adeline wasn't one of them. She was a fighter and he wondered now how long ago she'd found that out about her herself. She'd kept herself alive for long enough for someone else to save her and that was saying something. Had one of them at least called the police? Or had Adeline done it herself, her mother's blood still in her hands? How different would things be if someone—anyone—had decided to act?

Maybe Daryl was looking for someone else to blame, but that list was already long enough without adding more names to it and long enough to stretch back through generations.

"Maybe he didn't know what the bite does, but still," the Sheriff continued. "He knew enough to pick that damn shovel and hit her in the head. And the way that he did... I don't think a man who does this and leaves right after is the type of man who comes back," he said, as if to himself. "No, I don't think so."

Did Daryl really not know his own brother?

Year after year, they'd drifted apart and yet, despite his instinct for cynicism, he still couldn't quite make sense of it—how the man he looked up to as a boy, even if that feeling had long since curdled, could become something like that.

Of all people, it had been to Mason who turned out exactly like the man he used to hate and swore he'd never become.

"I'm not taking that girl to a hospital," Thompson said, catching Daryl's attention back, "and I won't call CPS either. Not now. If this was any other day, both those things would already be happening. You see what I mean?"

"Yeah," he answered, trying to see the point Thompson was trying to get to.

"That's the only reason I'm still here right now and not out there." The deputy sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. "That girl... she wasn't my first, and I'm sure as hell she won't be the last—not before this is over. The things I've seen, man..." His voice was deep, everything in his expression disturbed. "She put up a fight, a hell of a fight. Most kids... most people..." he trailed off.

Daryl's jaw clenched—Mason had left Adeline to die.

"I won't call CPS," Thomspn said, looking at Daryl sharply. He could almost see the engines turning inside the Sheriff's head, too many thoughts at once, but Daryl still felt on the blind—he couldn't see through the man's line of thinking. "But I am taking her to the station with me. I don't want to, not after all of that, but I'm already breaking every damn protocol here. I've still got a few people there—not a lot, but I do. I'll decide what to do then."

A weight settling deep in his chest and for the first time he realized how that night was going to end: Adeline was going to be taken from there, no matter what Daryl had to say about it or not. But he wondered once again if that was even his place; his part in all of that, whatever it might have been, it had to be over.

Didn't it?

Then why the hell did it feel like this?

He thought of the dead—the ones he'd failed—and what they would've wanted for her: sage and to not be alone, that much he was certain. But again, Adeline deserved someone better and that surely wasn't him.

Through the open doors of the ambulance, he could still see her silhouette. Small and still, she hadn't stopped looking at him. With something like hope, she held on to a stranger who only stepped into her life after everything had already fallen apart.

But look at her and he decided. Once again, deep in his bones, he knew he couldn't leave her. Not like that and certainly not yet—not at least until someone better could decide what to do.

But who the hell was that?

He straightened, jaw tight. "I'm coming with."

Thompson studied him for a long moment, gaze unreadable. He nodded once, something shifting in his expression—something Daryl couldn't quite make sense of.

"Yeah," Thompson said quietly. "Didn't think you'd let her go just like that.

Chapter Text

The entire drive to the station, Daryl's hands stayed locked around the wheel, knuckles pale against the strain and foot firm on the throttle. Convincing Adeline to let him go had been hard enough; convincing himself had been worse. It was written plainly in her eyes—the unease, the mistrust—and he carried the same in his own. But when they arrived, he barely had a moment to take a step before Thompson stepped in, cutting him off before he could get to her. He told him that he had to wait. That there were things that needed to be done.

His jaw tightened and his gut twisted in protest, but he didn't argue. What could he do? He gave one last glance toward the ambulance, toward Adeline, and forced himself to turn away. Alone and waiting now, in a small, quiet room inside the station, and his mind wandered to the handful of possibilities ahead, none to which he was ready for.

The place was eerily still. He had been to his share of police stations before—usually because of Merle—but this was different. No yelling, no drunks being dragged in, and no deputies bustling around with paperwork. Nothing but a silence broken every so often by the low hum of tires as a patrol car pulled in or out. It was wrong and even more wrong than that was having Adeline in that place alone.

"You're gonna wear the floor out if you keep pacing like that."

Thompson's voice cut the silence as he entered the room and Daryl didn't give him a second to settle before snapping, "Where is she?"

The Sheriff raised his hands, palms out, like he was trying to tame a wild animal. "She's inside," he said in a measured tone. "We've patched her up, cleaned most of the blood off, and got her into a clean set of clothes. But she's not talking to anyone." He sighed and his face twisted into something that resembled pain. "Not that I can blame her. She's in a lot of pain, and there's not much more we can do for her right now, not without..."

He let the sentence hang and Daryl understood the meaning behind unspoken words; it was the reason as to why he was here, at least to the Sheriff's measure. Not his. The older man with dark patches of exhaustion beneath his eyes lowered himself into a chair by the table, gesturing to the empty seat across from him. "Now," he began, "there are some things we need to talk about."

Daryl didn't move and the tightness in his jaw said enough. "Alright." Thompson sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Suit yourself." His eyes stayed on Daryl for a long moment, studying him carefully like he was weighing his next words, "Why were you there, Dixon?"

One question with about a thousand different possible answers. Daryl could've picked any but he was still staggered by it. He hesitated for too long and the answer he chose was simple—bordering on poor, "She called me."

"Before or after?" Thompson pressed.

"I just saw the missed calls," Daryl admitted, guilt creeping in with a shrug of shoulders. "I got in my truck and went."

Thompson nodded slowly. "I see. So you are close to her. To your brother," he stated in a way that waited for confirmation and Daryl didn't give it, jaw tightening in response instead.

"Where ya goin' with all this?" Daryl's eyes narrowed, studying the man with a hint on impatience, and Thompson leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. His expression softened, but his tone remained firm as he spoke:

"Because I've got a scared, injured minor in my station, and you're the only one here to answer for her. So, yeah, forgive me for trying to figure out a few things."

"He had his life. I had mine," was all Daryl knew how to say.

"Then why call you, of all people?"

Daryl felt out of place—he didn't know how to answer that properly. He was still asking himself the same thing, so he went with the obvious first, "She had my number." He shrugged again and hated how it made him look like a child. "I got 'em home after that memorial. Guess she didn't have anyone else to call."

Thompson's brow furrowed. "Why you took them home? Where was her father?"

"He wasn't at the house when I got there," Daryl replied, voice tightening despite his efforts. "She said he hadn't been home since the morning before, so I went lookin' for 'im."

Only now he saw he'd been looking for a man who didn't want to be found. Then he lost Lilly and almost lost Adeline too.

They were never yours to begin with, Dixon.

The Sheriff nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together. "You weren't close to the family," he stated. "Why were you at the boy's memorial?"

"We worked together. For a time."

Daryl looked away, the memory of those days hitting him all at once—of all the things he didn't do or should have done differently. He still remembered how it felt seeing Jason's name displayed on his phone and listening to that small voice that somehow gave him courage.

"And then the kid called me."

Thompson nodded and there was something solemn about it. "I was gonna ask about you and your brother," he said carefully, "but I got this feelin' you wouldn't give me an answer. Or you'd punch me in the face."

Daryl's lip twitched slightly at the casualty of his tone, but still he said nothing and Thompson sighed, leaning back slightly in his chair. "But I think I already know enough. You know, I was at their house. I was the one who told them about the boy... about Jason."

It was Earl who'd told him about his nephew. Merle had already gotten out of jail by then; he'd been crashing at his house for about a week. Daryl barely remembered that day or the next, one cup of whiskey after the other. Shame was what he felt now with room for nothing else—he was too busy getting his ass drunk when they were alone after Jason's death. Ya think they want ya there? Merle had asked him, rhetorically. What good could you possibly do to them, huh? And he was too busy getting drunk when Adeline called for him.

"I've been doing this job for close to forty years, Dixon," the deputy continued. "Can you imagine how many times I had to deliver that kind of news? It's surprising how much you learn about someone at those moments. When you step into their home and tell them someone they love is gone... Well, it's about as raw and real as people get." Thompson's tone dropped lower, quieter, "The mother... she just broke. The girl was confused, kids always are. But that wasn't what stuck with me. You know what did?" He didn't wait for Daryl to answer, "She was alone. Just alone. And can you guess how Mason was?"

His father wasn't at the house when the fire happened. A bar? A gutter? Who knew. Before Daryl could even grasp what was happening, Mason had his arms around him, holding him tight, keeping his eyes away from that blackened pile of ashes. He held him as his knees threatened to hit the floor.

I got you, brother, he said. It's you and me now.

They sat by the curb for hours, waiting. When their father returned, there was a cigarette between his lips and no urgency in his steps. He remembered the silence. He remembered wiping his tears quickly so he wouldn't see that he'd cried—Mason hadn't. He remember a door slamming shut. He remembered spending a day dusting off that old cabin by the woods and the fire he'd build to burn the bodies of rodents and the game the Mason had shot dead.

"That man was still," Thompson continued. "His son had died, his wife had crumbled to the floor, his daughter was the one trying to hold her together, and he just stood there. Did nothing." Thompson shook his head, sighing. "Some people take time to figure it out, you know? It wasn't even the worst thing I'd ever seen. Still, something about it was off. It all just stuck with me, not just him, all of them. But I didn't do anything. Not then. You brother, he's well rounded. Lots of friends. Successful. People like him. But not his wife."

Wasn't that the truth? The core of all corruption? Easy to blame a sick woman and easy to hide one's own fault in hers. Him and Mason were the same in that account and Daryl was just as hypocrite as everybody else.

"I'm not much of a gossip man myself, but my daughter in law is. She told me some stories about her. About the girl too. It was gossip, you know, but still. And I told myself that it was just it." He paused for a long deliberate moment, as if bracing himself, and his gaze flicked to the table before meeting Daryl's again. "And then I got the boy's autopsy back."

Something heavy settled on his chest despite the knowledge that this was where this conversation was heading in the first place.

"My boy was a football player back in his days. His boy is now a quarterback. Big kids, both of them. They've had their fair share of broken bones, sprains, bruises—normal stuff. But nothing like what I saw in that report. Some of the fractures were old. Too old. And there were a few too many of them."

By now, despite that fire burning up his veins, these words weren't much of a surprise to him. But he was still waiting for what might come next.

"Then there were the scars on his back," Thompson said, his voice quieter and grim. "Football just doesn't do that."

There it was, Daryl thought bitterly, forcing to keep his gaze steady and to not put his fist through anything. The Sheriff paused for a moment, studying the reaction his words had caused on the other man.

"You didn't know about any of that, did you?" Thompson asked, though it wasn't really a question. "I guess the girl ain't much different. Saw the way you got when Erin was checkin' her."

His thoughts turned to before, to when he wasn't a complete stranger to Mason's family. He thought about how Adeline used to run through the yard as if the world belonged to her; about how she used to be a fearless and happy little thing. The girl he came to know after was a small, solitary figure framed by a window, watching the world from a careful distance—scarred and guarded, seeking comfort in a man she barely knew anymore simply because there was no one else left to turn to.

He didn't know her well enough, but he had known Jason—the way he'd grown restless; how he used to be too quiet some days; his need to run, to keep moving, to search for something he thought he could find in a man who had barely been family.

And he knew Lilly and better than he knew himself. Loud-mouth and reckless; too alive for him to keep up at times and fragile enough to make his world stop at others. Everything he'd heard about her in these last ten years wasn't so different from the girl he remembered. And he always thought Mason was the one to keep her stead, because he never could. Did it matter now, how much he knew or didn't know? The harm was done beyond repair and Daryl had been the first to look away.

"Dixon, I'm really hoping here for you to tell me I'm wrong about all of this," Thompson said and there wasn't anything hopeful about him. Daryl's didn't say a word, but he felt like the Sheriff didn't need them—he could see right through him.

"What's gonna happen to her now?" Daryl finally asked, done with the subject.

"We've asked her, and she told us about an aunt in LA. Emily Wilson. You know her?"

"Used to," Daryl answered, though the words felt heavy in his mouth. He tried to recall Lilly's younger sister, Emily. She'd left for college and never came back, not even when that Old Bert died. He wasn't even sure Adeline knew her in person and that thought unsettled him. Emily had been brought up as a solution, but Daryl couldn't help but feel uncomfortable about the idea.

But then again, what right did he have to feel that way? He hadn't exactly been present in their lives either.

That was always how things would play out, wouldn't they?

"I talked to her over the phone. We found her number online. She's an attorney, apparently." Thompson continued. "She said she hadn't spoken to her sister ever since their father died, but she seemed willing to come for the girl. Said she'd do what she could."

"And when's that gonna happen?" was Daryl's turn to press for and answer and Thompson sighed, resigned.

"With the roadblocks and flights being canceled? No idea. Could be days. Could be longer."

He paused, looking at Daryl carefully, face grim. Somewhere in the distance, a siren cried to the night and a patrol car pulled off.

"Now, I need you to listen to me, Dixon," Thompson said. "In a normal situation—listen carefully—temporary custody of Adeline would be granted to her aunt after some procedures, until she eventually received permanent guardianship, which is what usually happens in cases like this. I would never, and neither would CPS, place a child in the hands of a Dixon, so she'd likely stay in a group home until Wilson arrived."

Daryl flinched slightly at the last part, but he didn't rise to it. He was too tired, too worried. Maybe if things were different, if he wasn't running on fumes and frayed nerves, he'd have something to say. But right now, his focus was on something beyond that.

"But," Thompson sighed, his shoulders slumping as he looked down at the table, "that's in a normal situation. And the situation we're in now, well—it's a whole lot shittier than that." His gaze flickered back up to meet Daryl's. "Now, I've got dead people that don't stay dead. I've got 911 calls that just keep coming, and no one left to answer them. Half my personnel are either missing, sick, or worse. And no one—no one—is answering my goddamn calls."

A growing unease settling deep in his gut. This wasn't just about Mason anymore. It wasn't just about one night.

Up until that week, all Daryl knew about what was going on came from bits and pieces he'd overheard on the TV while Merle flipped through channels, or half-heard rumors about chaos in the big cities. Always the same. All under control, the newsmen would say. And even after Jason died, he thought it was some sensationalist bullshit. People eating other people? Nah. It didn't seem real then and still didn't feel real now.

Thompson leaned forward and his voice lowered. "No, CPS is exactly what I'm trying to avoid here. And that brings me to my point."

Unsure of what was coming, but already bracing for it, Daryl narrowed his eyes.

"I know this isn't what you were expecting," Thompson admitted, his tone cautious. "Hell, it's not what I expected either. I'm not exactly comfortable with it myself." He paused, eyes narrowing at him. "Can I trust you to look after the girl until her aunt gets here?"

"You're outta yer mind," was all he was able to say at the moment, not matter how ashamed he'd feel about it later.

"Look, man," Thompson began again, sighing. "I know this isn't exactly... orthodox. Let's say a few weeks from now, this whole mess calms down. I'll be in a hell of a lot of trouble for this. But I'm doin' it because I think it's what's right for her."

Right for her.

There were those words again. Everyone seemed to think they knew what was right for Adeline, except for him. Daryl wanted to snap back and ask why the hell a deputy who barely knew her cared so damn much, but the answer wasn't so difficult to figure out. Thompson had been deep in this long before Daryl had even stepped in.

"I know you care about her, man. I've seen it," Thompson continued, his tone softening. "You wouldn't have driven all the way here if you didn't. You wouldn't have asked about her the way you did, or even stood here listening to my little speech."

Daryl huffed quietly, glancing away. He sure as hell didn't see himself that way. The last thing he'd ever call himself was a caring uncle. Hell, he wasn't even sure he qualified as an uncle at all.

"I have no other choice here, man," the Sheriff pressed and hell, neither did he. Leaving Adeline alone when the world was going to shit and dead people were rising wasn't even close to an option. And Daryl could see it clearly now: whether it happened when he chose to go to the station with her or when he saw the missed calls—or maybe even before that—the decision had been made long before he walked into that room.

He exhaled. "I'll take her," he said finally. "For now."

Thompson studied Daryl for a moment longer, like he was still trying to figure out what kind of man had just agreed to take on this responsibility. But he finally nodded and took a notepad from his back pocket. He scribbled something down quickly, tearing the page off and holding it out to Daryl.

"Here's Emily's number. If anything happens, you call her," Thompson said. His tone softened, almost like he was trying to reassure himself as much as Daryl. "She's expecting to hear from you if we can't reach her."

Daryl took the scrap of paper and glanced briefly at the number scrawled on it before slipping it into his pocket. "Where is she?"

Thompson gestured down the hall. "She's in one of the holding rooms. Erin's with her now. Nobody else knows about our little agreement. And about her mother's body, if she asks... Well, they are putting everyone on mass graves now, if even. Not something she should see."

Daryl nodded, trying to swap that image away from his mind. He was already moving to the hallway when Thompson's voice stopped him, "Dixon."

The Sheriff stood up and extended his hand. For a moment, Daryl hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered it. But after a beat, he reached out and shook it. Hell, it might've been the first time Daryl ever shook a cop's hand—the first time he ever respected one, that much was certain. He knew exactly what Merle would've to say to him if he saw that.

"Thank you for this," Thompson said. "I mean it."

"Ain't doin' it for you."

He scoffed. "I know."

Thompson held his gaze for a moment longer before speaking again, more serious. "If they get close to you, don't hesitate to put them down. And it has to be the head, you hear? The brain. They bite you, you die, then you come back, and it ain't you anymore. They're dead. Not people. Don't make that mistake."

Daryl nodded, turning to leave.

"And Dixon," Thompson called again, stopping him in his tracks. Daryl glanced back over his shoulder, his expression wary. The Sheriff's face was grim and his voice was weighted. "There's word about a refugee camp in Atlanta. If it gets ugly... don't wait too long. Don't let it be too late."

The way he said it lingered, hanging in the air like a warning and a plea all at once. Those words had him wondering, for a moment, if the man even believed Emily would make it.

The thought gnawed at him as he turned away, the words following him out the door.

Chapter Text

Daryl found Adeline where Thompson said she'd be, sitting silently on a chair in the corner of the room, legs hanging, chair too high for her feet to reach the floor. Erin was there with her, standing by the window, looking out through the sheets, but she turned to him when he entered.

"Adeline," he called, "let's go."

The girl barely reacted at the sound of his voice—nothing but a slight twitch of her head to his direction. She was still wrapped in the blanket they'd given her, even though it wasn't cold, and her new clothes—a dark blue shirt and sweatpants a size too big—hung loose on her small frame. Mostly clean, but her hair was still matted with her mother's blood.

His movements were cautious when he approached her. "Look," he began, like one talks to a skittish horse. "You gonna stay with me and Merle for a few days. Then yer Aunt Emily's gonna come get ya."

At that last part, she turned her head sharply and her eyes locked onto his. For the first time there was something other than blankness in her gaze, flashing with intensity, impossible to read.

He didn't know how to react. Hell, if he had any words left to say, they were knocked right out of his throat. But her eyes wavered, like she'd lost the fight, flickering to some point in the room then back at the floor. He could see her hands tightening around the bandages on her palms.

From his peripheral, he caught Erin shaking her head to herself, like she wanted to say something but thought better of it. Well, how the hell should he have said it, anyway? Best just get it over with. He turned back to Adeline, ignoring the woman. "Can ya walk?"

Her only reaction was to grip the seat and try. Pain made everything slow and crooked, breathing uneven as she tried shifting her weight. Without thinking, he extended a hand and she took it like she had been waiting for it, grip firmer than it had any right to be. With his help, she managed to hop off the chair and lean heavily on him for balance. He steadied her and waited until she was sure on her feet before letting go. "You good?"

Without as much as a glance, Adeline pulled the blanket tighter around herself and moved to the exit door, small and uneven steps. The only sound in the room was her ragged breathing.

He didn't follow, not right away; he didn't understand why she seemed so closed off all of the sudden—hell, but how could he? It wasn't like he was good at that sort of thing. He shook his head to himself and his feet moved to follow her.

"Wait," Erin called out.

"What?" he asked and there was a clear edge to his tone he didn't have the time to regret; he wasn't interested in getting a lecture about how to talk to that girl, not now.

"Look," she began, sighing as her hands reached the pockets on her cargo pants. "I've given her some ibuprofen. Couldn't do much more without a doctor's prescription," she said, holding out three small pill bottles. "You can give 'er another dose in six to eight hours if she's still in pain."

He looked down at one of the bottles. Antibiotics, he noticed, eyes narrowing at the woman.

"Thompson took 'em from Evidence," Erin explained. "She'll need 'em, too."

He didn't say anything—Thompson was still managing to surprise him and not that many people did.

"There's one for nausea," Erin continued. "That and the ibuprofen should knock 'er right out." She sighed again, rubbing a hand over her face. "She already threw up once. Considerin' her ribs, well... wasn't pretty."

He tried to hide his reaction, but he couldn't help glancing at Adeline, lost inside her head in the corner of the room. He knew the kind of hell something as dumb as sneezing could be with busted ribs, and he was a full-grown man—Adeline was just a little girl.

"Let 'er sleep," she added, catching his attention back, "but ya need to wake her up every couple hours. Just enough to make sure she responds. If she won't wake up, is confused, or starts actin' strange, then you take 'er to a hospital, whether you like it or not."

Slipping the bottles into his pocket, he nodded. "Thanks," he said, moving toward Adeline before the woman could say anything else.

"Just..." Erin called out as he opened the door. "Take care a' her."

His steps faltered as he glanced back at her, nudging Adeline out by her shoulder.

His only answer was a curt nod.

Outside, the air was cool and the parking lot was almost empty except for his truck and a couple of other cars. His shoulders stiffened, eyes instinctively scanning at his surroundings, because something about being here so out in the open in the middle of the night didn't settle on him right. For the first time, he could agree with folks on the radio; it wasn't safe to be outside now. Then he looked at Adeline beside him and thought that there wasn't anything safe anymore unless you made it.

The pickup truck was too far the way that girl was hurt, but still she kept walking and her steps were slow and hesitant. The blanket wrapped around her made her look even smaller somehow, oversized clothes swallowing her frame whole. The kid was trying, but it was clear every movement cost her more effort than she wanted to admit.

"Hey," he called, but she didn't respond, gaze fixed on the ground in front of her. "Hey," he repeated, a little louder, but she kept moving like she hadn't heard him.
When her steps faltered and her balance wavered, his patience wore thin. "Adeline," he said more firmly, holding her arm to make her stop walking. She didn't look at him and her eyes were guarded, flickering with something he couldn't quite place.

Is she fucking mad at me?

"Yer gonna fall over if ya keep pushin' like this," he said. "C'mon."

When she swayed slightly, Daryl didn't give her the chance to argue; he bent down, sliding one arm under her legs and the other around her back, lifting her into his arms in one smooth motion. She stiffened for a moment, hands clutching the blanket. "I'm fine," she murmured.

"Yeah, I can see that," Daryl replied dryly, adjusting her weight to make it easier to carry. She didn't protest again. Instead, she rested her head lightly against his chest and her grip on the blanket loosened just a bit. Her eyes stayed down, avoiding his face, but he caught the way her body relaxed as he carried her to the truck.

When they reached the passenger side, he opened the door slowly, making sure not to jostle her too much. He set her down carefully on the seat and tucked the blanket around her to keep her warm. Trying to be careful proved itself useless—Adeline still flinched when he shut the door to the driver's side. Her eyes were fixed on her lap, like her mind was miles away.

"That aunt a' yours, Emily," he began in a cautious voice, not wanting to see that look in her eyes again, "you know 'er?"

"Not really," she replied and they fell into silence again. His eyes remained fixed on her for a moment longer, pondering until he decided not to. The awake of the engine filled their silence and the dark town stretched out before them.

The road was a fine storyteller and it told him about a boy who'd watched the remains of what once had been his mother's being carried out of a house on fire; that boy was a man now and than man still remembered how he'd felt half-dead inside.

And the road made sure to remind him of Emily and her silence; the sharpness of her mind that had always set her aside from the rest of them. Leaving Georgia behind took strength, and the road took the man miles away, to a different sort of question: did she leave her ghosts in the graveyard where they belonged or they were following her still? The man still carried his, as children of broken homes tend to do, and this truth was as certain as the next: ghosts have a tendency to shape-shift.

The Dixon's cabin had never been a place for for children, but as they drove through the empty streets of that ghostly town, the road also reminded him of something else: Lillian's blood soaking her clothes and the desperate cry of someone who didn't want to be saved.

One question lingered in his mind, unbidden:

Can Emily keep her safe?

༻⁕༺

The ride passed in near silence and the rumble of the truck's engine was the only sound between them.

Every few minutes, Adeline would doze off, body slumping slightly against the door, only to jolt awake moments later, breaths uneven. Either it had been because of the bumps of the truck or something else, it kept happening—her slipping under, then snapping back—until, eventually, she gave up on trying.

Every now and then, he would glance at her; her head was resting against the window now, but her eyes were downcast. He remembered how Jason once told him she was the kind who kept the windows down, soaking in every detail of the landscape, no matter what it was. She liked the woods better, though, he said, loved being surrounded by the hills. Jason had even talked about putting her on the back of his Harley someday, swearing she'd love it and go wild for the freedom of it. Daryl was there that day, just for the beginning, and it didn't surprise him much when that turned out to be true.

When the scenery outside turned from town to woods, he looked over again, half-expecting her to stir or glance out at the trees. But she stayed the same, head down, wrapped up in herself, and he thought that it would take some time before she went back to what she used to be. If that's even possible, another thought spoke louder, unwelcome, and he sighed, running a hand through his face. No use there was in thinking about how she would be or not, he told the road and its memories; it was something for her aunt to worry about, not him.

Road became dirt and dirt became home; engine turned to a thick silence full of road thoughts of past, present, and future, until he broke it and exited the vehicle. "C'mon," he grunted, bending down to pick Adeline up. This time she didn't resist and looped her arms around his neck as he carried her to the house.

His eyes scanned for Merle's bike and it was nowhere to be seen. He pushed down that cold feeling in his gut; his brother could handle himself. Merle would show up sooner or later, Daryl just hoped it'd be later. Question would be asked and he wasn't ready to answer them.

Inside, the place was the same as it'd ever been—dim, cluttered, and stinking of old smoke and cheap beer. The couch sat in the middle, busted and sagging, coffee table covered in junk, and Merle's crap everywhere. The kitchen wasn't much better—dishes in the sink and empty bottles on the counter. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, and neither much fit for a kid.

He carried her straight to his room, nudging the door open with his foot before setting her down. The space was simple—an unmade bed shoved in one corner, a small dresser, and a window with curtains that hadn't been washed in years. Not much, but still better than the couch.

"You'll stay here tonight," he said simply.

Adeline didn't say anything; she stood by the door, blanket still wrapped around her, staring like she was seeing a ghost.

Daryl frowned. "You good?"

Nothing. He had no idea if it was avoidance or if there was actually something wrong, but his patience wore thin quickly. He sighed. "Need help gettin' to—"

She didn't wait for him to finish and moved toward the bed on her own, slowly and stiffly. He watched as she reached the edge, tossed the blanket up, and tried to pull herself up. It wasn't even one of those fancy tall beds, but with her ribs busted up, it might as well have been a damn mountain. She braced against the mattress, jaw clenched, trying to hoist herself up without using her side too much.

He exhaled through his nose. He got it—hell, he understood better than most. That need to prove you could do it yourself, that you didn't need anyone. But right now, it wasn't pride, it was just stupid.

"Hold on," he muttered, stepping forward. Before she could argue, he placed a hand under her arm, lifting just enough to take the strain off her ribs. She tensed, but didn't fight him as he helped her get settled on the mattress.

He let out a sharp breath. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides and he grabbed the blanket to yank it over her. "There. That's better," he grumbled, mostly to himself.

Eyes red and teary, she clutched the blanket tightly, staring straight ahead. Whether from pain or something else, it was clear she was trying hard not to cry.

He sighed once again. Space was what she wanted now—to grieve on her own terms. There was nothing that cut deep like that first night after, that first moment left alone with nothing but thoughts. Before, she had her mama to help her through shit like that, now there was him and that wasn't saying much.

"I'll be in the livin' room," he said finally, voice clipped. "You need somethin', just... holler."

Still no reaction. He lingered a second longer, waiting. When nothing came, he turned and left, pulling the door halfway shut behind him.

The house felt quieter than usual. Still. Like everything inside it had settled into some heavy, unmoving weight. He made his way down the hall, each step feeling heavier than the last, until he was back in the living room. The couch was as uncomfortable as he remembered, but exhaustion dragged him down anyway. He laid back and his eyes shut for a moment. Maybe he could get an hour or two before the sun came up. But it didn't happen.

His body ached, but his mind wouldn't quiet; thoughts circled until they all came back to Adeline. Was she asleep? He doubted it—probably crying herself empty while he pretended not to notice. If she'd wanted him there, she'd have said so, because sure, he was known for being open with people, wasn't he? He snorted at the thought and scrubbed a hand down his face, skin crawling with restlessness and need for activity. Hunting, perhaps, despite the dark—sharp eyes and even sharper hearing. But walking out and letting her wake alone in the house would be a good way to fail her all over again.

The porch, then; a compromise. Still close enough to hear if she needed anything. And the woods had a way of quieting his mind way better than staring at that cracked-ass ceiling.

The night air was cool against his skin. Staring out into the darkness, he leaned against the railing and grabbed his pack of cigarettes from his pockets. He lit one up, dragging slowly—anything not to think of Lilly right now, and the way she carried the scent of cigarettes and whiskey and flowers; her sad, wild green eyes; her blonde hair matted with blood; the pain she must've felt; what his brother had done to her and those kids...

And for a whole fucking minute, it worked—woods and the burn in his lungs and nothing else. Until he shoved the pack back in his pocket and felt that damned piece of paper.

Emily.

A rough, still-incredulous breath left his nose. Two or three days of driving non-stop was their prospective, depending how fast she wanted to get there, but that was before. A week, now? A month? An undefined period of two of him being the only responsible person for Adeline and that meant keeping that girl clean and fed, at the very least.

Real, proper food lacked in this house except for the occasional rabbit or squirrel or venison; that was first on his list. Her house was the second, whether she came with him or not. Those secondhand clothes and the too-big sneakers wouldn't last and she needed more than the half-used soap from the bathroom: shampoo, a mild wash kids could stand, a toothbrush, a comb, socks, a jacket, something that actually fit. He filed the list in his head despite his own ignorance and lack of experience and decided he'd pick up what he could from her closet and bathroom and let her sort the rest.

He wondered how it had come to this and when it all started falling apart, and almost laughed at himself—the dry kind that comes when your breath feels foreign in your lungs and your hands don't feel like yours hands. Somehow he'd ended up making grocery lists and running errands for a kid because she was entirely dependent on him.

Not for much longer, though. Sooner than later things would go back to how they used to be.

That thought sat wrong. Left a weight in his chest. It pissed him off more than it should. He blew out hard, flicked his cigarette to the dirt, ground it under his boot, and had another between his lips before he'd even noticed. For the first time, his mind was set on after and he hate it just as much. When that woman did get there, what then? If the roads were as jammed as people claimed, getting out of Georgia might be just as bad, if not worse, as getting in.

He thought about Atlanta and that refugee camp—big city, more hands, more supplies—the kind of line you'd expect from a deputy who'd just placed a kid in a drug dealer's house and lifted evidence to make sure she stayed medicated; that told Daryl enough about the state of things. Maybe it was half-talk, maybe not. Either way, it sounded better than sitting here waiting for one of those sickos to find them—or running back to fucking California.

Sleep wasn't going to come easy that night, he concluded, and dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. A cup of whiskey would have to do it, or maybe the whole damn bottle. He was turning to head back inside when he heard the distant growl of an engine.

Shoulders stiffened as the sound grew louder. He didn't have to see it to know who it was; the low, familiar rumble of a motorcycle engine meant only one thing. The bike came into view, headlights briefly slicing through the shadows before it rolled to a stop beside the shed near the back door. His brother cut the engine and climbed off the bike, swaggering up the porch steps like he owned the damn place, a half-smirk already plastered on his face.

"Well, well, look who's back already," was his brother's greeting. "What happened, 'lil brother? Lilly finally got tired of your sad puppy eyes, huh? Or what, Mason came home, caught ya two playin' house, and kicked your sorry ass out?"

Merle laughed at his own joke and Daryl's jaw tightened, teeth grinding together as he fought to keep his temper in check. "She's dead."

His brother's smirk evaporated as he stopped mid-step. For a moment, his only reaction was to stare and the silence between them stretched until Daryl turned and stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him.

"The hell happened?" Merle's voice followed him, holding the door before it shut. He took a deep breath before answering, trying to clear the picture flashing in mind.

All of that blood.

"One a' those sickos got to her."

Merle let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn. Ain't no easy way to go." He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "What 'bout Mason? He back already?"

Daryl's jaw tightened and his words came out rough and clipped, "He was there. Killed the damn sicko. Then he bolted. Left the kid there."

"Shit." Merle's expression shifted, something unreadable crossing his face. "Shit." He huffed out something like a bitter laugh. "I'll tell ya, didn't think the bastard had it in him. Always knew he was a selfish prick, but that's a whole new level."

Something in Merle's reaction sat wrong, but Daryl let it pass; Mason was a live wire you handled with tongs. Merle never said his name and maybe that was why he seemed to carry it better than Daryl ever had.

Or maybe because they'd never seen that subject the same way.

Merle left. Mason stayed. And when their old man came with a belt on his fist, it was Mason who stood between them, even when it cost him, taking the hit that should've been shared. Until, one day, he left too.

And Daryl understood, though he never said it out loud. Mason had always been different from the rest of them. Better. Maybe not perfect, but who the he was to say anything? He'd done right by Lilly. Gave her a life, a family. A reason to leave all of that shit behind.

And for Daryl, that had always been a good reason to stay away.

Until now.

For the first time, he said the words, "He hurt them."

Merle looked at him, brows furrowed. "The hell you mean?"

"I mean those kids had scars all over 'em 'cause a' him."

"Ya sure about that?"

Daryl's glare could've cut steel. "You think I'd make that shit up?"

"Fuck," Merle muttered, his voice quieter this time, that same odd look in his eyes.

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "You knew about any of this?"

Merle didn't answer right away. Instead, he crossed to the counter, yanked open a cabinet, and fished out a bottle of whiskey. He poured a generous amount into a chipped glass, scowl deepening. "How the hell was I supposed to know?" He finally shot back. "Bastard dumped me long before he dumped you."

Daryl kept his eyes on his brother for a moment longer; he didn't like that reaction and Merle noticed. "What? You givin' me that look for?" He took a slow sip of whiskey before setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. "You think I'd keep somethin' like that from ya? If I knew, I'd have said it. Ain't like I ever been one to keep shit to myself."

Daryl's face didn't give an inch. Merle barked a laugh—sharp, humorless, all edge. "The hell, man. You really think I'd sit on somethin' like that?" He leaned in, jabbing a finger. "If I had, don't you think I'd've rubbed it in his smug-ass face a long time ago? Hell, I'd pay good money to watch him squirm."

He knew that brother, at least. Merle could be an asshole—often—but not that kind. If Daryl was seeing it otherwise, it was because his head wasn't straight.

"Just shut the fuck up," he said, done with the subject.

Merle smirked. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

He grabbed the bottle and walked over, setting it down in front of Daryl before pouring himself another drink.

"Hope that girl don't go nuts like her mama after that," Merle added casually. Daryl's jaw clenched, fingers curling into fists at his sides, but Merle wasn't done. "What the hell they even gonna do with her, huh?" he asked, swirling the whiskey in his glass like he didn't care much either way. "Throw her in some orphanage or somethin'?"

He sighed and his eyes went to the halfway shut door down the hall. Merle was going to find out sooner or later, no point in dragging that out.

"She's here," Daryl said, voice tight.

Merle froze mid-motion. He turned to Daryl slowly, his face a mix of disbelief and irritation. "What?"

"She's gonna stay here for a few days."

Merle blinked, then scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "What the hell were you thinkin' bringin' her here? What the fuck are we supposed to do with a kid?"

"Lilly's sister's comin' from LA to get her."

"That's all the way across the goddamn country, lil' brother!" Merle bellowed. "You think that bitch is gonna make it here alive?"

"Keep your voice down, dammit," Daryl hissed, glancing toward the hallway. "She's right there in the bedroom."

"Keep my voice down, my ass!" Merle snapped. "This shit's spreadin' everywhere. It's only a matter of time before these freaks drag the whole damn country to hell, and you bring me a damn kid who can't even wipe her own ass! How old is she, anyway? Seven?"

"She's ten," he bit out, his frustration barely contained.

"Ten?" his brother barked a laugh, shaking his head like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "That don't make a damn difference. What're you plannin' to do with her, huh? You ain't exactly parent material, brother."

"It's just for a few days, dammit."

"No way in hell you believe that shit," Merle said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something colder and more cutting. "You really think that girl is gonna race across the country in the middle of this shit for a kid she don't even know?" He scoffed. "Thought I taught ta better than that, lil' brother. You're just another dumb bastard."

"And what would you have done, huh?" Daryl shot back, voice rising to match his as he shoved Merle's hand away. "Left her sittin' there, waitin' for one a' those freaks to come rip her apart? That what you'd have done? She's your brother's kid, Merle. She's your blood."

Merle didn't respond immediately. His jaw went tight and his gaze went hard, like those words had finally gotten to him. Finally, he stepped back, shaking his head in frustration.

"She's your problem now, ya hear me?" he said. "I don't want nothin' to do with it. And if that kid gets on my nerves, you'll both regret it."

Merle turned and started down the hall, muttering under his breath. Just as Daryl thought he'd finally let it go, Merle stopped dead in his tracks and spun back around.

"And don't think for one damn second that you're takin' my room, ya hear me?" he snapped, pointing a finger at Daryl.

"Wasn't plannin' to," Daryl shot back, tone completely flat as he grabbed the whiskey bottle off the counter.

Merle stomped down the hall, muttering to himself before disappearing into his room and slamming the door shut behind him. Daryl let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face. The house felt heavier than before. If Adeline was sleeping then, she sure as hell wasn't now. He dropped onto the couch, the whiskey bottle in hand. Took a swig, let the burn settle in his chest.

Just a few damn days. That's all.

But even as he told himself that, he knew better. Nothing ever worked out that simple.

Chapter Text

As Daryl left and his footsteps thinned into distance, Adeline's body betrayed her—sudden and violent; the way a river breaks through a dam. Her ribs cinched, her breath snagged in her throat, and for a moment, she couldn't see. Pain came sharp and unyielding, wrapping her like iron gone red, running fire through her limbs until everything else fell away.

Adeline was certain she would die.

Every sob sent another shockwave of pain through her ribs, making her entire body tense and curl inward. Lullabies and dreams, her efforts to regain some sort of control. No one tells you how absolute the body is, or about the extremes the mind endures to preserve itself and find the narrowest strips of comfort. Soon, Adeline was somewhere else and it was green and foreign, white-flaming red and closer. There was an angel-like voice and dilated pupils and pure evil. But she wasn't alone anymore and there was a moment when she wished to stay—reality was brutal and she was good at pretending.

But when the dream; the nightmare; the worst of pain ebbed, when her body finally stopped wracking with sobs, she became aware of the voices: muffled at first—sharp, heated sounds leaking in—then clearer, and louder, and louder.

The subject was clear enough before she could sort the first sentence. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to will it away; there is no need to hear what the mind has already set into stone. A broken, strange piece and one not worth keeping; that was Adeline and Daryl was simply the last one to witness it.

Psychotic, something whispered and there was nothing left to whisper back. What did that make of her? Did that change anything? Was this—finally—her ending?

They were so unbearably loud, these men. Filled with rage and something like guilt. Adeline pressed her hands against her ears and curled tighter against herself and even that hurt.

At some point, the voices stopped.

At another, exhaustion won.

Adeline must've fallen asleep.

༻⁕༺

Adeline woke up with the first rays of sunlight and for a long time, she didn't move. She wasn't used to waking up to sunlight and it felt good. Gentle. The song of the birds was pleasant and the breeze was fresh and carried the scent of pine trees.

Her mind was slow to catch up and her first concrete thought was that she hadn't had any nightmares; and that Jason's room didn't smell like cigarettes; and that she wasn't in Jason's room; and that her body hurt.

And then it settled, and it was heavy, and it was wrong, and it was the truth:

Her mother was dead.

Jay was dead.

Her father was gone.

Her mother was dead.

Her mother was dead.

Her mother was dead.

༻⁕༺

Adeline was tracing the half-moon marks on her palms, finger leaving streaks of fresh blood behind. She'd given up on sleeping some time ago.

Her brain had been merciful before, but not again. Three times exhaustion had taken her and three times it'd ripped her right back out, breathless, body contorting in pain.

The images swirling in her mind were ruthless—agonizing.

She was back on the stairs again.

Adeline never left the stairs.

She wanted to leave; she wanted so much to leave.

She wanted to go home.

Adeline never wanted to go back to that house again.

She wanted to be in Jay's room.

She wanted to see his face.

She wanted to hold Foxy in her chest.

Adeline wanted her father to look her in the eye just one more time.

Telling her that he didn't hate her; that she wasn't too far gone.

Adeline wanted her mother.

She wanted to see her green, sad eyes.

Adeline wanted to cry, but knew she shouldn't. Frustration soon gave way to anger and anger gave way to something else, something beyond body and beyond mind. Before she could acknowledge it, in pure desperation, she tore the bandages from her palms and nails pressed into that tender broken skin, carving down until the pain was sharp and real, painting the white sheets in crimson red.

Blood was all there was.

༻⁕༺

Adeline didn't know how much time had passed; she could only see the sun crawling higher and higher through the window, marking time she couldn't feel.

Cold, she felt cold.

At some point, footsteps approached her door, heavy and purposeful, but hesitant—it wasn't her mother's footsteps; it wasn't her mother lost in the maze of her own mind, looking for a son she would never see again; it wasn't her mother entering her room and holding her tightly in her arms.

He didn't enter then and she heard them again a few hours later, lingering outside, but still, he didn't step inside. The footsteps came again, but this last time, they were followed by the sharp creak of the door being pushed open. "You awake?" Adeline didn't move and neither did he step any closer. "You gotta eat somethin'. Gotta take yer meds."

Her eyes remained focused on her palms; on the fresh, half-moon cuts forming beneath her nails, bright red against pale skin. She thought, briefly, that she should probably wipe the blood away or even wrap them up again. She should hide it, shouldn't she? There'd been a reason to it once. But she didn't move. The scar on her wrist was visible now, bare against the dim morning light, but she didn't bother with that either.

The door creaked wider and she heard the familiar thud of his boots against the floorboards. The smell followed immediately after and her stomach churned violently.

Adeline was back in her body again and oh, she didn't want to! Leave! Leave and never come back!, she wished to scream, Leave that creature alone inside her head, where she belongs! She is made for darkness, can't you see? But her voice was weak and foreign and nails found skin again; blood dripped from her fists.

"Ain't gonna sit here all day waitin' on ya."

His boots stopped beside the bed, a plate landed on the nightstand with a dull clatter, and Adeline was quick to hid her hands inside the blanket.

"Ain't askin', kid," he said roughly. "You eat, or you don't. But you ain't gettin' the meds on an empty stomach."

Rage surged fast. Her nails bit into her palms even deeper and blood welled, fresh and warm; her other hand braced against the mattress as she readied to pushed herself up.

Why? Why did he care so much when he was so ready to give her away? As her father had? Adeline wanted him to hurt; Daryl would hate her too and not a bone in her body cared.

But she stopped herself, suddenly left with no strength.

Because she did care, didn't she?

Her body spoke louder or perhaps her mind gave up on fighting. She was deeply familiar with the consequences of her actions; she knew what happened when there was nothing left but hatred and knew the pain would simply be too much.

Stupid—and mortifyingly so. Enough to forget she needed to eat. But this wasn't her house; she didn't have one anymore. No liberty to roam, now. To eat on her own. Drink on her own. Exist on her own. Now, she was entirely dependent on him and how she hated that!

The thought of food alone made her stomach churn and surely she didn't want to throw up again. But again, she knew she needed to eat. So she closed her fists around the blanket—a poor attempt to wipe away the blood—and sat up. It was embarrassing, the way she moved, slow and stiff, ribs screaming at her, but she bit down on her lip to keep the sound in. Getting up—moving her head—only made her feel dizzy and sick again.

Daryl extended the plate and she took it without a word. The eggs looked worse up close; greasy and yellow, clumped together in uneven curds, and the scent was overwhelming. She held the dark-fabric blanket with both hands again, wiping away the blood pooling in her palms. Ungrateful bitch, he would call her had he been here and he would've been right.

So Adeline forced the first bite. Then another. Then another. Her stomach protested immediately, but she didn't complain. She still chewed too slowly and the eggs were rubbery against her tongue; every swallow felt like it was forcing its way down. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the plate, trying to ground herself.

Ain't that bad, right?, Daryl asked himself. He wasn't much in the kitchen, but there was only so much one could screw up with scrambled eggs. He sighed, not able to watch it any longer, and muttered, "I'll get the meds," and left the room.

The moment the door clicked shut behind him, she lowered the plate onto the nightstand and took a breath, enough to settle herself. Just a little more, she told herself, swallowing hard. She took another bite and that was her mistake.

Her stomach clenched, a sharp wave of nausea rolling over her like a crashing tide, and she dropped the fork.

No. No. No.

She forced herself still, jaw clenched, fists tightening in the blankets. If she didn't move, if she breathed through it...

Another wave. The bed lurched beneath her, the air too thick and too heavy, and she shoved the plate aside, kicking the blankets off and forcing herself upright. The pain in her ribs flared white-hot, stealing her breath, but she couldn't stop. Her legs barely held her as she pushed toward the door and her vision tunneled as her lungs fought against the nausea. The walls blurred around her, hands catching against the doorframe as she stumbled into the hall. She had no idea where the bathroom was; it would have to be a wild guess, but she didn't make it far anyway.

"Adeline?" his voice echoed from somewhere inside the house. The floor tilted and the pressure in her stomach was unbearable. She barely had time to register the footsteps rushing toward her before her knees buckled and then everything was too much and Daryl caught her before she hit the floor.

Shaking and fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, she fought against the inevitable; Daryl barely had time to haul her into the bathroom before she lurched forward, retching violently into the toilet. She gasped for air between the heaves and her body shuddered as if it were trying to turn itself inside out.

"Shit," Daryl muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. The girl gasped, another dry heave wracking her body. Her ribs; fuck, her ribs were probably screaming. "Just breathe, kid," he told her, but he knew it was useless.

Her fingers curled into the porcelain, gripping it in a poor attempt to ground herself, but her entire body was burning; shaking and breaking. Her vision blurred at the edges, black creeping in—she was going to die and she was sure of it.

And the world went dark.

༻⁕༺

"Shit."

Daryl tightened his grip on her shoulders and gave her the smallest shake. "Adeline." Her head lolled slightly against his arm, face damp with sweat; she was still burning up. Then, she stirred, left a sharp, hitching breath, and her body tensed before she choked on a sob. A sharp exhale left his nose in relief or frustration or probably both.

"Dammit," he breathed, pressing the heel of his palm against his forehead. Her breath stuttered as another wave of nausea hit and her body forced her forward, but he could see there was nothing left except bile and dry heaves, each one probably tearing through her ribs like knives. She sagged against the toilet and let her forehead rest against her arm. Her damp, tangled hair was falling forward and with his free hand he adjusted it away from her face.

"Alright," he whispered. "Just breathe. It's done."

It hurt so, so much.

Daryl's hands were firm on her shoulders, keeping her upright—they moved away from her and she instantly curled inward as another wave of pain arrived. A sob ripped from her throat before she could hold it in; and then another and another one after that. She tried to stop—she really did—but the more she fought it, the worse it got. Her chest tightened and her ribs screamed in agony with every shuddered breath; the more she cried, the worse it hurt, and the worse it hurt, the harder it was to stop.

And when she felt like finally crumbling to the floor, his arm was back on her shoulders again and something cold touched the back of her neck. She flinched instinctively, whole body tensing, but the touch was steady and not forceful: a damp cloth, cool against her skin. She barely registered how she ended up leaning against him, but she was, enough to take the edge off the trembling.

But she couldn't stop crying—she bit her lip hard, tried to will herself to obey, but the sobs kept pushing through and the pain only made everything worse.

"You gotta stop that," she heard his voice. "Ain't doin' your ribs any favor."

She clenched her jaw. She knew he was right and knew she had to stop. But her body wasn't listening—it never listened.

"Come 'ere," he said finally, shifting his grip. He slid one arm beneath her legs, the other around her back, lifting her carefully. She barely reacted, too lost in whatever hell her body was putting her through. He carried her back to the bedroom, moving slowly, making sure not to jostle her too much.

After lowering her onto the mattress, he moved carefully, adjusting the pillow beneath her head, and pulled the blanket up just enough. She was still crying, not loudly like before, but these quiet, gasping little sounds, like she was still trying—still fighting—to keep it in.

And that was somehow worse.

"Just breathe, Addie," he murmured, voice low and rough in a way that almost sounded like pleading. "Just breathe."

Adeline tried to breathe because she knew breathing was supposed to help, but it wasn't only her ribs anymore; her entire abdomen was sending waves of pain, making her body recoil without her command.

What if it doesn't stop?, her own treacherous mind screamed. What if she couldn't make it stop? What if her ribs were breaking inside her, splintering further with every movement, and this was it—this was how it would feel the rest of her days? She didn't want to feel this anymore; she didn't want to feel anything anymore.

And then something pressed against her forehead so gently it felt like a dream: his hand. She looked up, becoming aware of his presence again: Daryl was crouched in front of her and there was a mirror to her own desperation across his face.

Without thinking properly, she held his other hand.

Daryl didn't move; he didn't say anything for a long moment and then, softly and softer than she thought he was capable of, "It's alright. Ain't goin' nowhere."

Daryl isn't going anywhere, she told herself. The pain is going to stop, she told herself again and again and again, nodding so he would know she believed in him too. Daryl isn't going anywhere.

He knelt by the bed, letting her hold onto him. Her eyes fluttered shut and her grip on his wrist loosened a fraction. And slowly, little by little, the waves of pain eased; the shuddering in her ribs faded; the burning ache in her throat dulled; and for the first time in a long time, her body didn't feel like it was at war with itself.

They stayed like this for a long moment until the weight of exhaustion on her body became something heavy instead of suffocating. She was lighter now, as if maybe, this time, she could sleep—actually sleep—and nothing was going to hurt her.

And Adeline forgot she hated him.

And she forgot he hated her too.

Daryl shifted and his voice sliced the quiet, "You need yer meds."

Adeline felt him move, wrist slip from her fingers as he stood on his feet. She blinked, sluggish and disoriented, suddenly aware of the cool emptiness where his hand had been. But she took the medicine when he gave it to her, barely processing the act. When he stepped back, something gripped her chest, small and tight, and her voice barely made it past her lips, "Don't go."

Daryl's eyes flicked to hers and he didn't hesitate, "I won't."

She reached for his hand again, just to make sure, holding it tightly. Daryl exhaled through his nose before lowering himself back down to the floor. He stayed there, back against the bed, arm resting where she could still reach it. She didn't let go. And when she was sure he wasn't going anywhere, she let her eyes slip shut. Sleep pulled at her, softer this time, quieter.

And she let it take her.

Chapter Text

Only when Daryl was sure that Adeline was asleep did he ease back from the bed, careful not to jostle her; careful not to make his distance known. His hips and knees barked from sitting in the same spot too long.

He had already spoken to Emily. She was as sweet as a cornered boar on the phone, but by the end, they were able to reach out to something like an agreement. He'd learned that there was a husband—Victor, she told him. They had thing to put to order, she said, but were expecting to hit the road first thing the next day. She said things weren't doing great in California. It hit worse there. Too many people.

He almost told her about Atlanta and couldn't say why he didn't. Emily hadn't asked to speak to Adeline. She hadn't asked about her sister. She hadn't asked about Jason. The line went quiet for a few seconds too long, and then it clicked dead.

Even as a little girl, Emily used to be cold. A distant little thing; a guardian-shadow of her older sister until she'd grown up to be everything the other wasn't. Deliberately, perhaps, a coping mechanism. He had always respected her for it and maybe at another time, he wouldn't have held that distance against her, but she was coming all the way from LA to pick up a kid who just lost her entire damn family and she couldn't spare five fucking minutes to talk to her? He'd spent a good long while beyond himself about that until he was reminded—again—that he wasn't any fucking better; Jason must've thought the same about him at some point—he never asked about them either.

Still, Emily was the best thing he could do for Adeline, and now at least he knew she was coming. And still that knowledge didn't ease him the way it was supposed to.

Now, there was one more thing he needed to do. One more thing before this was over. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he couldn't just stay in that house, still, doing nothing. Guilt tugged at him as he stepped out of the door, but it wasn't as if he were doing something for himself. It was for her.

Outside, Merle was skinning his kill and Daryl told him to keep an eye on her—a few hours, just that. His brother grumbled, threw out a few curses, but in the end, he agreed. Daryl grabbed his crossbow before heading out and checked the glove compartment for his .45—distrusting the world was how he'd survived this long.

Pulling up to her house hit harder than expected. A day before this one, Lilly was beside him; weeks before that, Jason. His chest still thundered with that same note of forgive me, forgive me, please, forgive me, and deep in his gut, something like anticipation for the possibilities ahead. Because he had imagined seeing that black Silverado parked in the driveway, for more times than he cared to admit.

What he would do if Mason was still looking for her said everything about the kind of man Daryl was and with each hour that passed, another inch of his own character revealed itself—and along with it, another equally unsettling question.

His fingers flexed at his sides and he pushed the thought aside, but something else gnawed at the back of his mind, something that made his muscles tense before he could place why.

The street was too quiet; he'd driven through that neighborhood enough times to know its rhythm and this clearly wasn't it. Even in the late hours there was always something: porch lights glowing; the distant hum of an engine passing by; kids' bikes scattered across driveways; a dog barking in the distance. Now, there was nothing but that sort of stillness that pressed against the skin, unnatural and heavy. No cars moving and no kids playing in their yards; he was alone looking at empty streets and locked doors like the whole damn place was waiting for something.

Daryl shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders back as he scanned the houses. That tension coiled deeper, low in his gut. He thought back to the radio, the news—he'd been paying attention now. But it was always the same lines, over and over. The same warnings about the sick, how to avoid them. They talked about the bites and the fever and show some footage that never really showed much and that was about it. There was never anything specific. No real updates. No clear information. Nothing but empty words repeated in loops, filling the silence but never answering the questions. And he hadn't heard a single word about that refugee camp yet.

Scanning the neighborhood one last time, Daryl stepped onto the front porch. He'd seen enough and nothing good would come from staying out here, so exposed. The door gave under his hand, unlocked, revealing an eerily still house; he felt like stepping inside a horror film. Blood was smeared on the hardwood floors and soaked into the carpet, and there were dark streaks where a body had been dragged. Furniture was knocked over and some things were shattered.

So far, he'd made one smart decision about Adeline and that was not bringing her to that house; hard enough on him and he couldn't imagine what that sight would do to her.

Determined to not get any more involved, Daryl forced himself up the stairs. In and out; that was the plan. He went straight to the flash of pink coming from an open door down the hallway—a girl's room. Not too messy. A little too much color. Way too many trinkets. Too good a load of books. He didn't stop to look and didn't stop to think.

In and out.

By the wardrobe, he grabbed a handful of clothes and stuffed them into a black garbage bag. He yanked the blanket and pillow from her unmade bed. He even made a stop by her window, picking up a half-read yellow-covered book from the floor among some cushions, barely thinking about it. Then he turned, shutting the door behind him with a final motion.

He was almost back at the stairs—almost out of that house—when his eyes caught the other door and his steps faltered.

Jason's bedroom.

In and out. Don't get involved.

Faint tracks of blood were coming in and out from the master's bedroom to his—Adeline had raced to his room at some point. Jason's phone had his number, he realized, the moment Adeline made the call he never answered.

In and out. Don't get involved.

Gripping the bag in his hand a little tighter, Daryl swallowed hard. His body was screaming at him to move, to get what he came for and get out—no use in giving way to emotion now because it wouldn't do any good.

Jason was gone and Daryl had barely known him because most of the time they could've had was spent pretending the kid didn't even exist. And now, there he was, standing in his house, gathering what was left of him when it was already too damn late for anything else.

But his feet had already carried him forward and his fingers brushed the doorframe before he even realized he was stepping inside.

Maybe he just wanted to understand.

Maybe he wanted to see what he missed.

Maybe he owed Jason that much.

His room was a damn mess—the kind that waits for someone to come back.

Clothes were stacked on a chair, sneakers kicked off near the door like he'd just tossed them aside without thinking. Books, notebooks, and loose papers cluttered the desk, some stacked, others scattered, like he had left in a hurry, planning to return.

But there were other things—things that showed a side of Jason he never really got the time to see.

Daryl knew he liked old Country music. Old Rock, too. Earl's radio had always been a fight. Jason used to battle him for it until he finally got his own. Always playing something.

But the vinyls were new information. Not a lot, but a few, carefully tucked into an old wooden crate by the bedside. Bob Dylan, Guns N' Roses, Johnny Cash. A couple of names he didn't recognize.

But there was no record player in sight. Maybe he was saving up for one. Maybe he was waiting—Daryl would never know.

The walls were crowded with posters. Harley-Davidson, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Atlanta Falcons, and a couple of others who took him by surprise. Dale Earnhardt, the old NASCAR legend, black No. 3 car roaring across the track. Another with James Hunt's name splashed across the top, a F1 car below it, red and white. Daryl never took Jason for a racing fan but it made sense. The kid knew more about cars than most grown men he'd met.

His eyes were caught on the US map pinned to the wall, standing on top of a wooden filing cabinet. Some routes were traced in red—US-129, the Tail of the Dragon, marked like a destination, not just a passing thought. Other places were pinned—Daytona, Sturgis, Bonneville.

Pictures were pinned on it too, some fading Polaroids. Jason with that blonde girl—Serena. A few of her alone, standing in front of a bike with the sun setting behind her. Jason with Adeline—some just the two of them, some all three together.

And one of his football team.

Jason stood dead center, one arm slung around his teammate and helmet tucked under the other. He looked happy, a kid who had his whole life ahead of him. He wanted to play for the Georgia Bulldogs; his way into college, he said, a shot at something bigger. Daryl never saw him play and never asked much about it either; Jason talked a lot—he'd just listen. He always figured it was something they did together, the four of them: Mason, Lilly, and Adeline, watching Jason play under those stadium lights, cheering from the stands, proud. Now, probably the furthest thing from the truth.

Maybe if he'd asked more, Jason would've invited him once.

Maybe if he'd talked more, he would've known.

Maybe if he'd been there, Jason would still be alive.

Now, he'd never play football again. Never go to college. Never ride across the country with Adeline on the back of his bike. Never marry that girl.

Jason Dixon was gone and there wasn't a damn thing Daryl could do about it.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides and nails bit into his palms. The room was suffocating—the walls, the posters, the pictures, mocking him, like Jason was still here, like this was still his space.

Like he was still supposed to come back.

Daryl's jaw clenched so hard it ached. His chest felt tight, like the air in the room wasn't enough, like the weight of everything was pressing in, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Jason was gone—they were all gone while Daryl stood there and watched them fade.

His breath faltered, sharp and ragged, and his legs didn't feel steady beneath him. Before he could stop them, his knees buckled and he caught himself against the bed, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His head dropped, shoulders shaking, and before he could hold it back, he let out a broken, shuddering breath.

But it wasn't his; that mourning, it wasn't his. He didn't have the right to grieve over people who never belonged to him; people he had let go because he did nothing. Not Jason, not Lilly, and not even Adeline, who was slipping through his fingers just like the rest of them; Adeline, who was hurting; Adeline, who he had no damn idea how to help.

This was her loss, not his. She was the one left behind. She was the one who still had the right to scream and to grieve. Not him.

But he couldn't stop feeling it. Every damn inch of it. The burn in his throat and the tightness in his chest—it was all still there. The only thing left of them and the only thing he deserved, because Daryl was too late for any of them and he hated it; hated himself for it; hated every damn second he wasted, every choice he never made, every goddamn thing he did and didn't do.

His breath sharpened and his vision blurred at the edges. His fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached. He shot back to his feet, rage swallowing the pain whole. His hand shot out, grabbing the chair by the desk; it scraped against the floor as he yanked it back, the legs catching for a second before he swung.

The crash was loud and wood splintered against the dresser, snapping apart as it hit the floor in broken pieces. The room went still except for his breathing, sharp and uneven. He wanted to break something else, smash everything in this damn room if it meant getting rid of that fucking feeling.

His eyes caught on something: a flash of auburn, tucked in the middle of those unmade blankets. He wiped away the wet in his eyes, still blurring his vision, and yanked the blanket aside.

And there it was: a small, worn-out stuffed fox.

Fingers brushed against the fabric as he reached for it. It was old—ten years old, to be precise—but not forgotten. Where it used to be white was no longer that white, the stitches at the seams were loose, and the once-soft fabric had worn thin in places.

It was the last damn thing he expected to see and the first thing that felt real in a long time.

It was Adeline's and the only reason he knew that was because he was the one who had given it to her. She was just a baby, only a few days old, red hair barely pecking from her head, too small to even hold it in her tiny hands. And yet, after all this time, after everything, she still had it.

The fox was in that bed because she'd been there, he realized. Alone and mourning, in the only place that still felt safe—the closest thing to having her brother back. Now, she had a stranger and a stranger's room and whatever sleep exhaustion had forced on her.

Daryl exhaled, running a hand down his face. He couldn't bring her back to this house, not now and maybe not ever. And the pillows and sheets still held faint stains of blood and she'd already seen enough of it to last a lifetime.

But that?

At least he could do that much.

He grabbed the stuffed fox, gripping it tighter than he meant to. His jaw clenched as he forced himself to move, stepping toward the door. But not before his eyes landed on that US map.

Not before pulling a picture free from where it had been stuck between the pins, folding it carefully into his pockets as he walked away. Maybe for the last time.

When Adeline woke up, she was alone. Her arms stretched out on the bed, searching for a hand that wasn't there. But she felt something else.

Her fingers brushed against something soft. Familiar. She reached for it, fingers curling around the worn fur, pulling it close against her chest. It smelled like home. And she knew.

She knew he had been the one to bring it to her.

But Daryl Dixon would never know.

He would never know how many times Jason imagined looking up into the stands, searching for a familiar face in the crowd.

He would never know how many times Jason stared at the screen of his phone, wondering.

Wondering if he should call.

Wondering if Daryl would come.

And now, neither of them would ever get the chance.

Chapter Text

The last time Adeline ever woke up in Daryl Dixon's room, she was alone.

It wasn't where she wanted to be and still she hadn't left; since the moment she had surfaced in the dark with Foxy curled against her pillow, there had been nothing else to do but close her eyes and let sleep take her again. Sleep, however, was a thin mercy. It let her fall and then, without warning, flung her back—up and out with a torn sound in her throat and blood on her hands.

Even when he burst into the room, she could still feel it; his voice was calling for her and rotten fingers were still tearing through her skin; firm hands were dragging her back to life and hot blood was still spilling down her throat.

The doubling of two worlds that would not agree on which one was real. She didn't leave the stairs in her head. That was where she lived now. Her father had left her there. Her father had come back for her. And then she saw his face and the logic of the world slid sideways again.

After she remembered how to breathe again, she thought about asking him to stay, if only for a little while—for long enough for the walls to feel less like they were closing in. But she saw the red in her hands and he saw it too. That night, he patched up her palms and she didn't fight him. He had seen them before, she knew that he did, but he didn't ask what they were. The nail marks were clear, but he didn't, and when he was done, he didn't stay. And she never found the words to ask him to.

Three more times she woke. Each time, her hands clung to his wrists, begging him not to leave her, begging him not to let her sleep again. Each time he sat on the floor, her fingers still wrapped around his, until sleep would finally pull her under again. And before the fear could settle, before she could slip too far into the silence, his face was always the first thing she saw.

But that morning, she was alone and for a fleeting second, there was warmth; the soft glow of morning light spilled across her face and her fingers curled around the familiar fur of her fox. For a moment, that was all there was and just as quickly, it was gone.

What remained was the thing that made her breath catch in her chest. The quiet, persistent truth whispering that some things could never be put back together. And it would've been easier to stay in that bed, to close her eyes and let herself fade until she was nowhere at all. For the first time, nothing in her rose to drag her forward; no voice argued for a future that had stopped wanting itself.

They were all gone.

The most important part of him, he gave the world through you.

Her mother's words lingered, persistent, screaming that there was something more, but their meaning escaped her; Jay could have been someone else if not for her, and no matter how hard she tried to bring him back—to keep him from slipping away—he was still lost.

Her brother would have to be carried forward by people who were still whole—by the ones who weren't to blame for why he had been so ruined. And it should be alright; it was only fair that she should let him.

But still, she couldn't find the stillness she was looking for as her heart drummed so heavily it crawled out of her chest—as the electricity pulsed inside of her at each painful breath. Her body ached as if trying to remind her she was still alive.

It was strange, that betrayal, the way restlessness lived inside her, even when she refused it. Hour after hour she held herself down against the urge to flee and the equal urge to disappear.

There was something about the light that filtered through these curtains that didn't let her rest. Too many memories pressed together into the hypnotic act of staring out a window while the day unfolded before you and you weren't part of it.

Something about it that reminded her of her mother.

There are terrors so deep they become part of you, woven into your existence like blood in your veins and air in your lungs. They move through you. She knew the slope a mind takes when it goes quiet, the ease with which darkness can pass for relief. Becoming something else never happens gently—it is violent and efficient; ruthless and it leaves a husk; quiet and some parts of you never return.

And what is left then is a mother who can't remember her son.

That's what it was, wasn't it? That restlessness. Ghosts. One she was terrified to follow and another she could not let go.

And how cruel of her, to still insist on keeping him to herself when part of her, crippled and strange, had already turned him into something less.

Tears came despite the burn along her ribs, and when they went, her legs moved and she had no choice but to follow wherever they led her. She followed them in slow and painful steps, stopping to count her breath back into her chest, down the hall and to the couch. There she let herself fold, the door propped open to a strip of porch and pale day she couldn't cross. She watched the tremor in her hands and performed the exhausting task of breathing.

At some point she slept upright and woke and slept again and woke again to the same view—past the doorway, past the porch rail, to the idea of beyond—and tried to measure what it would mean to stand up and keep walking until there was nothing behind her at all.

The shifting light was the one marker to the passage of time.

Adeline talked to her ghosts.

༻⁕༺

At some point, Daryl went back inside the house, quietly, and there he stayed.

He wasn't a man built for idleness, she noticed; a man in constant need for movement in his hands and honest activities to perform—her father used to be that same way.

And sure enough, Adeline could hear it—the faint clink of bolts and the soft rasp of metal being handled. At the kitchen table, he worked at his crossbow, checked over the bolts, and sharpened a blade—at all times doing something.

Each sound echoed in her skull, creating ripples, bouncing off the walls of her head. Yet, she still couldn't bring herself to leave; Adeline found herself able to linger in the quietness of her restlessness with him. Even though she would rather be alone more than anything else, leaving his presence was more difficult than it was meant to be.

But as Daryl had been silent, when Merle arrived in the middle of the afternoon, he did it like a storm. The rumble of his motorcycle carried through the trees long before she saw him, fast, swelling louder until it was right outside. The engine cut off abruptly, followed by the scrape of the kickstand and the heavy thud of his boots hitting the dirt.

Adeline's body reacted before she could thin: her shoulders drew inward, her back pressed deeper into the couch, and she pulled her legs down from where they had been tucked beneath her, the tip of her toes brushing the floor.

The door swung open hard enough to rattle on its hinges; Adeline flinched, ribs aching from the movement, and Merle stepped in, tension rolling off of him in waves. His movements were sharp, restless, like he had too much energy in his bones and nowhere to put it.

And then she saw the blood—shirt stained, splattered with it, fresh enough that it hadn't dried completely. His hands were still smeared with red and the air around him smelled like rust, making her stomach churn.

And then Merle saw her. He hesitated for a second and the flicker of something crossed his face—sharp, assessing, but not angry; almost as if he hadn't expected to see her there.

But whatever it was, it was gone just as fast as he looked away.

"The fuck happened?" Daryl's voice cut through and Merle didn't answer—he didn't even look at him. His footsteps were heavy, each one landing solidly as he made his way to the kitchen. The fridge door creaked open, glass bottles clinked together, and there was the sharp hiss of a beer being cracked open.

Daryl's voice came again, louder, "The fuck happened?" The sound of it made Adeline flinch.

"Give me a damn moment."

Daryl didn't reply and Merle grabbed another bottle from the fridge. Another long second and she heard the sound of it being thrown across the room. Glass shattered and she felt something curl, tighten, and shrink inside her. Boots hit the floor hard as Daryl moved, each step sending a shock through her skull. His voice came sharp and edged and the words echoed in her head, but she wasn't there anymore—she was somewhere else.

Now, everything was distant—the yelling, the sharp movements, and the two towering presences beside her. Her ribs ached as she shifted, pushing herself up from the couch. The ground tilted and floor felt too far and too close all at once; she wouldn't go back to that bedroom—to that filtered light through those curtains—so she kept moving, faster than she was supposed to, until she reached the porch. Her breath was uneven and her pulse thrummed too fast in her ears.

The air was thick and warm and suffocating; she barely noticed—she didn't stop to take in the trees or the sun bleeding through the branches; she didn't bother noticing the scent of pine in the air and the way the sky stretched overhead like it had nothing to do with what was happening inside that house. Her eyes darted across the porch, searching. She turned left to a wooden rocking bench and lowered herself into it, ribs protesting, but only a little. She shifted, adjusting, trying to find a way to sit that didn't make her body ache. She pressed her palms against her lap and focused on breathing.

In and out.

Their voices drummed inside her skull.

In and out.

Merle had seen them—the monsters.

In and out.

They were dead now.

In and out.

None of it made sense. Not until the voices lowered. Not until she heard a name.

Emily.

"—won't pick up the damn phone," Daryl said, his voice very low. "They were supposed to be on their way now."

What—they?

Adeline's fingers tightened as Merle muttered, "That damn sheriff used us to get rid of his shit and you fell for it like a damn fool."

His shit.

Her chest ached sharply more at the silence that followed than at that word itself—more deafening even than the crack of wood and air around her, more present than that inside of her: the one of blood and life, half-alive, dead-blood.

That silence stretched for long enough that it almost seemed deliberate, "If he cared so damn much," Merle could only continue, "he would've just kept the girl to himself. Probably halfway to Atlanta with 'is family while we sit on our asses waitin' for a damn ghost."

Her stomach twisted and something inside the house creaked—a shift of weight or maybe a footstep. Merle said something too low to distinguish and if Daryl answered back, she didn't hear it. Then, the sound of footsteps approaching came again, accompanied by Merle's voice:

"—town yesterday," he said. "Think it's any better today? Stores cleaned out, folks tearin' each other apart over scraps. Out there is worst. Them folks sayin' army's blockin' off roads now, ain't lettin' nobody in or out. Got checkpoints all over the damn state. Shootin' people down in the street now. Livin' ones. Not dead."

"Bullshit," Daryl spat.

"Maybe it is, maybe it ain't." Merle said. "Ain't nothin' too hard to believe at this point. Zack said 'is brother got dragged outta his car by some soldiers down Marietta. Said they was evacuating the area. Didn't even give 'im time to pack."

She barely processed the words. Something rose inside of her and told her exactly where that conversation was headed. Her eyes followed the line of the forest. She'd fantasized about it for most of the day with no strength to analyze it any more deeply. No time now. Could she go now? Would they follow? Would he?

"People are leavin', man," Merle went on. "Mac and his lady took off this morning, headin' south. Carter 'n' his folks packed up, said they got family in the Carolinas. Everyone's scatterin'."

"Not everyone," Daryl said simply and there was a flicker of hope.

"Everyone with brains is," Merle shot back. "The question is just where. Remember Barton? Ex-sarg? Got himself some radios, long-range shit. Told me Fort Benning's set up as a safe zone. Evacuation site. Soldiers roundin' up survivors, settin' up camps. And the best part?"

Silence and she was sure this one was intentional.

"Almost nobody knows. Folks runnin' to Atlanta like a pack of fuckin' lemmings, but Benning? It's quiet."

Daryl finally spoke, "Ain't goin' nowhere 'til I hear from her."

Merle let out a harsh laugh. "Ya gotta be fuckin' kidding' me. Y'think she's gonna waltz through a war zone? Past all them blockades? Past the goddamn dead?"

It was rhetorical, she believed, and sure enough, Daryl didn't answer it.

"I'm tellin' ya, man. We need to go now. Before shit gets worse. Before the army cleans house. They ain't blockin' roads for no reason. Ain't shootin' people just 'cause. You really think they're gonna let this spread? Keep waitin' 'round here, and we might wake up to fire rainin' down on us."

"Say we head there," Daryl replied, his voice lower than Merle's in a way that made it harder to hear, "take the kid with us. That woman gets here and she's gone. Last I checked, that's kidnapping."

"Ya didn't hear a damn word I said?" Merle scoffed. "Pretty soon, none a' that shit gonna matter anymore. Hell, if that bitch still alive, she'll probably thank us for savin' her the trouble."

The silence stretched, pressing against her chest until her heart was nearly crawling out of her ribcage, and Daryl finally spoke, "She's comin'."

Merle huffed a laugh. "What, 'cause she said so? People say a lotta things before the world turns to shit. Sure don't look like she's comin' right now."

"She's comin'," Daryl repeated and Merle let out a low whistle.

"Hell, look at you," he said, then laughed. "Ain't known the girl a week and already so damn desperate to get rid of her you'll believe in fairy tales."

She barely felt the breath leave her lungs. Her heart clenched tightly, as if she had been knocked straight in the chest. She waited, but Daryl's answer never came, and the sound of footsteps rose.

"The hell you goin'?" Daryl asked.

"None a' yer business."

The door swung open and she flinched before she could stop herself. She quickly wiped the tears away from her face, just before Merle stepped onto the porch and down the steps. Halfway to his bike, though, he stopped.

Then, surprisingly, he turned to her.

There it was that look in his eyes again, she noticed, but as opposed from before, it lingered. Different, she was certain, than all of those she had received ever since Jay. Perhaps, for her entire life.

Not an ounce of sorrow.

"I'll tell ya, girl," he said, "thought you'd rot away in that bed."

She hesitated for a moment, still surprised, but the words came out naturally, "Smells of cigarettes."

Merle snorted. "Daddy never smoked? I remember he used to."

"Not inside the house."

They teach you early the difference between a house and home. The semantics was as clear as the split between Serena's and hers. Between Jason's bedroom and her own bedroom. His held polaroids and trinkets and pencil ticks on doorframes charting inches and seasons; names painted in ink and drawings in thirty-six pencil colors sleeping forgotten in drawers; dreams marked on map of something far away; a little pink helmet freckled with butterflies.

Daryl's house was just a house. Whatever proof of life existed only in dust made of dead skin and pure oblivion; in the domestic that did not care for itself. Her house was just a house, too.

Merle let out a slow exhale. "Ain't that fancy."

Nails marking crescents on skin; she would forget at times. Whatever marks her father had left in that cabin was as faint as the one he'd left on those two men lives. And wasn't it its own kind of comfort? But they were brothers, too, and the fact of it slid back into its slot inside her like a beast flexing its claws.

"Ain't sittin' here much longer, kid," Merle broke the silence she'd built. "Sooner or later, we're all outta here."

She barely blinked. "Guess I'm stuck with you now."

"Ain't no 'guess' about it, sweetheart." Merle took a slow sip, then licked his lips. "Yer Uncle Daryl," he spilled the words in a mockery tone, "don't fancy that idea so much."

Something in her chest tightened. "He ain't the only one."

"World's a bitch, kid." Merle smirked, walking over to his bike. "But I figure ya know that by now."

༻⁕༺

Sometimes, Adeline struggled to understand the way Jay used to see the world—how he could find something so sad and so beautiful in the same breath. The way he looked at the people around them, too, was something she never quite grasped, as if blood had never actually mattered—an idea completely opposite to what their father always preached.

To Jay, dad was Mason, when their father couldn't hear it, and mom was Lillian, when Adeline was the one he thought wasn't listening. Adeline was Addie or Foxy at times—something softer, something his.

And Daryl had always been Daryl, and sometimes, closer to the end, Uncle Daryl.

Your Uncle Daryl is a helluva guy, Addie.

Jason had always spoke about him with a kind of certainty, a kind of admiration, in a way he never used to talk about anyone else. Daryl was something to him in a way beyond blood and Adeline had believed—one day—they could be like that too. Perhaps not anytime soon, of course, but after some time, who knew? Maybe once they found something that was theirs too, just like that Harley-Davidson.

But she was quick to notice, as she had many times before, that what belonged to Jason did not always belong to her. Their father was one, their mother, another. Their words, even though different, were destined to him, barely ever to her. Jay was the good son who made their father proud—he wasn't the one whose mother looked at him with sorrowful eyes.

Jason had memories of when their mother wasn't so sick and their father not so angry. He had Charleston, the ocean, and seashells collected in small hands. He had Serena, friends who loved him while he loved them back, and a town that would remember his name. He had the Harley-Davidson and the road.

And he had Daryl.

That was the first time she realized how truly alone she was—adrift, caught in a limbo with three people she was never meant to have. She thought of her father, who wasn't dead, but still, he was a ghost, wasn't he? She thought of Emily and the warm beaches of California—peaceful as a far off dream: the long ride home across the country, the ocean breeze, the soft sand between their toes, a perfect stranger, and a different sky.

And all of it would be over.

Adeline could start again as somebody new.

Maybe Emily would be different. Maybe she would want her.

But Emily was a ghost too.

Merle wanted her, wasn't that strange? But not Daryl—he confused her. Because food was still being set aside for her. He still made sure she took her pills. And there still hadn't been any consequences for the fact that she was so... broken, loud, unstable.

Except for the fact that it was the reason he wanted her to be gone, wasn't it? She knew it even before Merle said it. She had known it her whole life.

Daryl was different, but he'd never been hers, only memories of him—stories told by someone who was also gone. Jay was the family who should have been and the one who should have stayed—the one who could have made them stay. A ghost, but the only thing that had ever truly been hers—even now, when Adeline had no place in the world.

So, sometime during the end of the afternoon, when the sun had already disappeared behind those pines, and Daryl approached to retrieve her from her porch, she finally decided to call for him.

"Daryl?"

He stopped at the sound of her voice; she could feel his eyes on her, but she didn't look back. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I wanna go back to my house."

He hesitated, then asked, "What ya need from there?"

"I just have to."

After hours of pondering, that was the best she was able to come up with—words, ever doomed to be her enemies.

It was stupid and she was well aware of that fact, but it was only fair that she should find something to ground herself, too. She missed Jay's face. She missed his scent. She already missed so much of so many things.

But how could she explain to that man that she needed Jay's necklace around her wrist just so she would forget?

That she needed Jay's vest to feel like she could be brave?

That she needed Jay's camera to remember him and to dream of a life she might never be able to live?

Can you, please, see what I'm made of?

"Ya don't wanna see that," he said.

Her fingers curled into fists. "I've already seen it."

"What?"

"I was there," she said, lifting her chin. "I've seen it."

Something in him stilled, like he wasn't expecting that answer.

"It's different."

She turned her eyes to him for the first time. "How so?"

He didn't seem to know how to answer that, because the next thing to come out of his mouth was, "Ya can barely walk, kid."

Kid, sometimes. Addie, at others. But mostly, nothing at all.

"I'm better today," she stated. "I'll be better tomorrow. And the day after that? I'll be fine. Don't need to walk great to climb a few steps."

His jaw tightened. Apparently, he couldn't argue with that either. "Ya can ask yer aunt when she gets here."

That was the final straw. She felt something snap inside her, something sharp and jagged. "Bullshit."

His head turned sharply. "Excuse me?"

She clenched her fists. "You can't promise me she's coming," she said, even though he hadn't promised her anything. "You think you can, but you can't." Her voice was rising, her chest tight, that awful, burning thing crawling up her throat. "You're just a coward."

His expression darkened, but she didn't stop.

"You are afraid to go back there."

And there it was—the challenge

Adeline waited.

His head snapped toward her, eyes flashing with something sharp. "You think I'm the one who's scared here?" His voice came out rough, gravel grinding against stone. "You wake up cryin' the entire damn night, and you think it's gonna be any different there?"

Adeline's chest tightened and she held his gaze, something bitter curling inside her. "Not your problem," she spat. "Ain't askin' ya to deal with it."

Daryl's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, hands flexing at his sides, and Adeline instinctively pressed herself deeper into the bench. His breath came sharp through his nose.

"Ya think I asked to deal with that shit?" His voice was low, rougher, pressing against the space between them. "Think I wanna sit 'round watchin' ya tear yourself apart?"

Her nails bit deeper into the bandages in her palms. "Ya just don't get it!"

"Yeah?" he spat. "Then tell me somethin'—you even remember how I found ya?"

Adeline's stomach twisted. His voice thundered in her ears, but he didn't stop as bad weather can't be contained once it arrives at your direction.

"Ya were screamin'. Could barely breathe, could barely get a damn word out."

She was back at the stairs again.

She couldn't get enough air and her ribs were screaming at her.

She never left the stairs. 

"Didn't know where the hell you were. Didn't even fucking know who you were. That what ya wanna get back to?"

Adeline's breath caught and her fists clenched so tightly she could almost feel the nails tearing through the bandages.

And Daryl saw it. Goddammit, he saw it—the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she braced herself, the way her fingers twitched, like she was expecting him to burst. His jaw ticked. He went too damn far. She was just a kid and the first time she opened her mouth to actually talk to him he took it too fucking far.

His hands flexed then curled back into fists at his sides. A slow breath pushed through his nose and his voice was lower when he spoke again, "Ain't takin' you back there, kid."

Adeline forced herself to take a deep breath. "I'll just go there myself." Her voice was shaking and she couldn't look him in the eye anymore—she didn't want him to see the tears she was fighting to hold. "Then I'll stay and save ya the trouble."

Daryl ran a hand over his face, exhaling. "Just get inside."

Her throat burned. "No." She forced the words out. "You didn't wanna take me, but ya didn't wanna leave me. Ya don't want me here and ya don't wanna deal with me, so just leave me hell alone."

His jaw worked and he let out a breath, sharp. His eyes flicked away and his fists unclenched. "You done?"

She lifted her chin and her eyes locked on his even if they were brimming with tears. "You tell me," she told him, and waited. Waited for him to say something more. Waited for him to still fight back. But instead, without another word, he turned on his heel and his boots hit the porch hard, each step heavy. He reached for the screen door and yanked it open, but before he could step inside, he hesitated.

Without looking at her, he reached for the latch on the porch gate and flipped it shut. Leaving a half-confused half-crushed Adeline behind, he stepped inside and let the door slam shut behind him, rattling on its hinges.

༻⁕༺

Strange, the thoughts that could cross someone's mind at certain moments.

The sun had set, and the darkness was thick, and she was scared, and she was hurt, and she was fading.

And she would think about how, sometimes, even Jason had looked at her with unease—fear, she knew it to be. A silent truth he'd never dared to say out loud, but it'd been there, plainly, and it hurt. It wasn't when she was scared or sad or loud, but in her silence. In the way her eyes glinted in a way she could feel, in the way her hands closed into first and pain was just a distant nuisance.

It was in what she didn't quite know how to name—that which burned red and eviscerating.

She had found it again many times that night, while she asked herself the same questions without ever finding the answers, her mind looping in the same memories, over and over again.

And she would try to find where to put it—that rage.

On whom to put it.

But they say in space—in the eternal, nameless void—temperature reaches almost an absolute zero. And sometimes, she came to believe, when it is just cold enough—just empty enough—even fire can feel warm.

Maybe they were one and the same. Just as cruel. She and the man who despised her.

Adeline hated him as much as she hated her father.

That's what she told herself as the bandages lay by her side and blood stained her shirt. She hadn't meant to break the skin, but she never did, not until it was already done.

She didn't leave the porch until long after the dark swallowed the trees.

Maybe it was fear of the night.

Maybe she was just cold.

When she finally stepped inside, the lights were off and Daryl was already on the floor by the couch, stretched out on a thin camping mattress. His arms were crossed over his chest and his eyes were shut. Her footsteps were light against the floorboard as she walked past him, without a glance.

For what was perhaps too long, she hesitated at the door to his room. And when she finally stepped in, she nearly turned back.

She'd smelled dinner cooking earlier—the familiar scent of pasta, one of the few foods light enough not to make her nausea surge—but she hadn't expected anything to be left for her. Yet, there it was. A plate on the nightstand. And aside it, something else.

Hesitant, she stepped closer and picked it up. It was a photograph: Jason and his football team. He was smiling and Adeline could see it.

Her fingers traced the sharp edges of the frame, tears coiling in her eyes without meaning to. Adeline swallowed them hard and placed the photo back down, face up, where it had been.

On the pillow, Foxy sat waiting.

When Adeline was younger, a stray cat used to wander into their yard. A rough-looking thing she used to feed, missing a chunk of his ear. He never let anyone touch him, never stayed long, but sometimes, he left things behind. A dead mouse. A leaf. A piece of string. Small things, placed neatly by the door, and when he found his way in, by her bed.

That cat reminded her of someone, now.

People are full of contradictions, she thought.

To Adeline, he'd always been the wolf.

After taking a few bites of her plate, just so he wouldn't be mad, she left her room, Foxy in one hand, the picture in the other.

Daryl didn't open his eyes when she came back, but he shifted when she walked past him again—this time, toward the couch. She lowered herself onto the cushions, curling onto her side.

A moment passed before he spoke, "What are you doin', kid?"

She hesitated, voice quieter now. "I don't wanna go back there."

Daryl was silent. Then he huffed, shifting, and after a moment, she heard him moving—bare feet against the floor, then retreating somewhere deeper into the house.

For a moment, she thought he might not come back, but she heard his steps approaching her again. Then Adeline felt it—light, barely there. The weight of a blanket settling over her.

He didn't say anything else.

Neither did she.

Chapter Text

I'm a ghost in the garden

Scaring the crows

If it weren't for second chances, we'd all be alone

—Gregory Alan Isakov. Second Chances. 2013

༻⁕༺

Serena must have gone mad, that was clear for her now.

It was love, if anyone asked.

It was grief.

But despite what she kept telling herself, the fact—the raw and unfortunate truth—was: she was about to trespass on the property of the two biggest troublemakers in the county and kidnap their kid, with nothing but her good intentions and a stolen pickup truck.

Her hopes? That Jason was right about all of that—about that man. Her plan? A very simple one, actually. After all, no one would look at a sixteen-year-old, one-hundred-pound girl and think, Yeah, she's definitely here to steal my kid.

Right?

But as each mile drained the last drops of courage from her body, Serena thought of all of the circumstances that had brought her down that road.

At the age of sixteen years old, not once in her days did she imagine her fate to be the mourning of a dead lover. For a girl that had never met death and to whom life had been nothing but kind as a soft breath of spring, pain arrived as a rude awakening.

Not understanding was the worst. At the time, nobody really knew anything. She had to accept that the man she loved was taken from her by the cruel, indifferent hands of fate. She watched as her future crumbled in ruins while her heart was being carved out of her chest.

But Serena wasn't alone.

They said it took a village to raise a child, but mourning took one too. She had her family. She had her friends. People to cry with, to laugh with, to remember with.

His death came as something that brought people together as a community — Jason belonged to all of them. He would be remembered for his youth and for his courage.

And as they held candlelit vigils and spoke his name in hushed, reverent tones, they ignored the truth; Serena couldn't. His life had been a tragedy long before that night and the fault was theirs to take.

And it was hers, too.

But as Jason was gone and there was nothing left to act upon, there was one, still breathing air, even more deserving of their compassion. But they chose to mourn over the beauty that was lost rather than turn their attention to the living—wrecked, ugly, and tormented.

And so Adeline was left alone to suffer.

As grief had been the first, the next thing to steal the breath from her lungs was rage. And when tragedy struck again on her doorstep—when Serena heard all those horrible stories and watched as the same people who'd celebrated Jason stood silent while Adeline was handed over to two men who carried their own fair share of disturbing tales—her will had been what brought her back to life.

People said that her pain would pass, eventually. That she would learn to live with it. Serena hadn't gotten there yet. But purpose was a good remedy against grief, she learned. Something to keep her alive until she learned to stand on her own two feet again.

And so, she gave herself one.

One nobody else was willing to take.

Serena had understood her part, from the very beginning, even if it wasn't clear at first. It took her some time to see what Jason carried on his shoulders. She had seen the cracks past all of that simmering rage of his and felt the exhaustion in his touch long before she knew the reason why.

And her way of loving him back was carrying even a small piece of that burden—to be an escape when he needed her to be one. And with them, Serena had a purpose.

Even though it could be difficult sometimes, she would've spent the rest of her life gladly doing so.

She just never expected that to be true even after he was gone.

So when Serena pulled onto that dirt road and locked eyes with Daryl fucking Dixon, it was Jason's voice in her head that gave her courage.

And when he looked at her for a few seconds too long—like he already knew exactly her reasons to be there—it was seeing that little, red-haired girl, sitting alone on the front porch, that kept her going.

༻⁕༺

"Are they treatin' ya well?" Serena asked.

The late morning sunlight stretched long shadows across the yard, the trees surrourding the house as far as the eyes could see. It would've been a peaceful scene if not for the thick, stale scent of cigarettes and cheap liquor clinging to the air.

And, of course, for the ghosts hanging between them.

"It's fine," Adeline murmured.

She sat on the porch steps, Foxy pressed tight against her chest, and gaze locked on the dirt beneath her pink sneakers—the sight of her made Serena's chest ache. She looked as bad as anyone would expect. Pale. Dark smudges beneath her eyes. The bandages on her forehead and palms and the stiffness in the way she moved told a story Serena wasn't sure she was ready to hear.

"I wanted to come sooner," Serena admitted. "Took me a while to find out where ya were."

Adeline didn't respond.

"Ya gonna stay with them now?" Serena tried again.

Adeline exhaled softly, barely a huff. "My aunt was supposed to come. She stopped answering her phone."

Serena frowned; that, she didn't know. All her mother had been saying was how that Dixon guy came and took the girl and what a shame it was. But in truth, neither of the two understood why she had been handed over to him in the first place. He was, of course, closest of kin, but close was a very debatable word and adequate even more of one. Her father had a different opinion, though. He was there, wasn't he? he'd asked them, rhetorically. Better than alone in foster care or somethin'. Dad disapproved of Merle as much as the next guy, but apparently he held a higher regard for the younger brother; in his opinion, Adeline was, at least, safe with him. With the way things are headin', Daryl's a guy that can handle himself, he'd stated.

But Lillian's sister made a lot more sense. The Dixons were just temporary, then. Well, they would be, if it weren't for the catch: not answering the phone.

Serena shifted, glancing toward the other side of the yard, where Daryl stood near his truck, tinkering with something under the hood. At times, she could feel his gaze—the way he watched her with Adeline like a predator sizing up prey.

The rumors about that night still unsettled her. Three bodies had been found. Two of the elder couple neighboring Adeline's house and the other of Lillian Dixon. Each in a worse state than the last. Each confirmed to be... sick.

And Mason Dixon—gone with the wind.

Then there were the wilder rumors about Daryl—things too absurd to be true, yet persistent enough to linger in the back of her mind. Whatever the truth behind those stories, Serena knew one thing for certain—Daryl was a man not to be tested.

But she knew there was more to him. At least, she wanted to believe there was—so much so that she was willing to see for herself. She owed Jason that much. That was half the reason to be there.

But Adeline wasn't talking.

It'd never been that way between them. While silence had always been part of Jason's nature—a signal that told her when to give him space so he could return to himself—Adeline was different. Silence was, more often than not, something she needed to be rescued from.

And though there were aspects of Adeline Serena would never fully understand, there'd always been a place where she could reach her—a bridge she could cross to pull her back. But the magnitude of Adeline's losses had carved an even greater chasm between them and Serena was failing to find a way across it.

After Jason's death, when Serena went to see her, it had been similar—almost pure silence. But it wasn't nearly as terrifying as it was now: if before her eyes had been hollow—as if she wasn't entirely awake—now, they were painfully alive.

Adeline was fighting—fighting to keep her nightmares from catching up to her. And whatever words Serena managed to find died before ever reaching her lips.

And how could she even begin? How could she unravel years of damage embedded deep into that little girl's mind? That kind of wound left marks; Serena had seen them every single day in Jason.

But Adeline was different. Unlike him, she'd never once spoken about what went on behind closed doors when there was no one to witness it; the demons that haunted her were hers and hers alone, and most of the time, Serena wasn't even sure if Adeline knew how to name them.

So if they'd pulled her from one hell only to place her in another, would she even know how to ask to leave?

Would she even know she could?

Serena knew that Adeline didn't see the world the way they did, and knew if she said the wrong thing, even once, she could lose that little girl for good.

So she needed to be careful. Gentle. And let Jason be the thread to hold their fragile bridge together.

Steadying herself, Serena took a deep breath. "Do you think Jason would've liked it here?" she asked, a soft tone to her voice.

Adeline blinked, shifting slightly. "Maybe," she murmured. "He liked Daryl. A lot." She hesitated, then added, "He wouldn't like all the cigarettes, though."

Serena huffed a small breath through her nose. "He never could stand 'em."

Adeline didn't respond. Serena let the silence settle between them before she tried again, "Does he smoke a lot?"

A crease formed in her forehead. "Not as much as Merle," she answered.

"Does he drink a lot too?" Serena asked. "I think I smell beer." She scrunched up her nose to keep the moment light.

Adeline was quiet for a second, but said, "He doesn't drink." She picked at the hem of her sleeve. "Merle does. Daryl just keeps working on his truck all day. He just stops to bring food. And my meds."

"Yeah? What does he bring you to eat?"

"Mostly pasta." Her voice was tired. "It's not so bad. But I ate half a ham sandwich today and did not throw up."

Serena frowned for a second, but then she realized: the cut in her forehead—Adeline was probably concussed.

"Yer head fellin' better?"

Adeline let out a heavy huff and Serena could see that she was getting tired of her questions. "Don't get dizzy anymore."

Serena nodded slowly. "So Daryl is takin' care of you, then?"

After a moment of silence, all she got was a shrug. "I guess."

Serena's chest tightened. Maybe it was the urgency of it all—the fact that Adeline's patience was running thin, or the fact that Serena was getting more answers from what the girl wasn't saying rather than what she was—but the words slipped before she could stop them:

"So ya like 'im them?" she asked. "Yer Uncle Daryl? Ya like it here?"

The only response was Adeline's fists tightening in her lap.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A simple question, perhaps, but one with a not so simple answer. At least, not to that little girl.

But after a moment, Serena heard it, very low, "He helps me with my nightmares."

Serena blinked, caught off guard. "Really?"

Adeline nodded. "I wake up a lot," she explained. "He holds my hand until I sleep again."

Something warm settled in her chest and she remembered what Jason used to tell her: about how Adeline struggled with them at times; about how she'd rush to his bedroom in the middle of the night. As music used to be Jason's solution about most things, they used to sing to calm her down.

She'd always thought that was sweet of him. Sad, but sweet.

Not a word she ever thought she would use to describe Daryl Dixon.

"He does it all night long," Adeline continued, "even though..."

"'Even though' what, sweetie?"

Adeline hesitated, then dropped her gaze. "Well... I said some really, really bad things to him."

Serena smiled softly to herself. "I'm sure he didn't take 'em to heart."

Adeline's fingers twisted into the hem of her sleeve. "It's just..." Her voice barely above a whisper. "He doesn't want me."

Serena frowned, a deep, instinctual unease settling in her chest. That didn't sit right with her. Not one bit.

"He told ya that?"

Adeline let out a breath. "No, but..."

Her words faded into silence and Serena moved closer, gently brushing Adeline's hair away from her face.

"Hey," she murmured, voice softer now. "What makes ya think that, sweetie?"

Adeline didn't even look at her when she answered. "If he did... He wouldn't be giving me away to someone else."

"Oh, Addie..."

For the first time, Serena didn't know what to say. Her gaze flickered automatically toward Daryl: he wasn't looking at them, but his attention was always half-turned their way, whether he meant it to be or not.

Her search for answers became something more complex than she had initially though; now, everything felt bigger than her hands, more tangled than the black-and-white certainty she had clung to when she arrived.

And she couldn't stop thinking about Jason and what he would have wanted for his little sister; about how, in some twisted, heartbreaking way, things had turned out, just a little, like he had once hoped they would.

If Daryl knew would it make any difference at all?

That was the other half—half the reason to be there; an amendment, she dared say.

"Look, Addie," Serena said carefully, shifting on the porch step. "Ya mind if I go talk to your Uncle Daryl for a bit?"

For a moment, she thought the girl would not answer, which, in a way, would be its own kind of answer.

"No," she said then, softly. "He doesn't like talkin' to people, though."

"Yeah," Serena chuckled humorlessly, shaking her head. "I figured as much."

She stood up.

"Wish me luck, then."

Rolling her shoulders back, she took a deep breath and made her way across the yard, the weight of the conversation ahead already pressing against her ribs. Daryl was still working on something in the truck, his back toward her, but she knew he had heard her coming long before she got close.

"Excuse me, Mr. Dixon, can I talk to ya, please?"

Daryl didn't look up right away; he exhaled through his nose and wiped his hands against a rag, and his eyes flicked to her already looking as if he wanted that conversation to be over before it had even started.

"Abou' wha'?"

"It's about Adeline," she began, watching as his expression shifted to something more guarded. Serena shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unsure. "It's about Jason, actually, but I guess it's about Addie, too."

Daryl's jaw twitched, posture closing off. "That so?" His voice had a mockery tone to it and she tried to ignore it.

"Look," she began, taking a deep breath, "I know I'm a stranger to you, and you don't owe me anything, but I care a lot about Adeline and Jason..." she swallowed, throat suddenly tight. "Well, I know he would've wanted to make sure that—"

"That what this is, huh?" Daryl's voice cut through her words, low, laced with something ugly. "Ya here to check up on me? Make sure I ain't treatin' her like her old man did?"

That threw her off. "What—"

"Ya give yer lil' goddamn speeches lookin' like a damn bride, wait 'til everythin's already burned to the ground, then show up actin' like ya give a shit?"

"No, It's not like that at all, I—"

"Yeah? Then where the hell were ya before?" His tone wasn't loud, but it carried, cutting through the air like a crack of thunder before a storm. "She's fine. We're fine. Ya got no reason to be here."

"Look, no, I'm sorry, that's not why I—"

"Then go home. Ain't got time for this. She don't need nobody pokin' their nose in just 'cause they feel bad now."

Serena's fingers clenched at the hem of her jacket and her feet shifted back before she even registered the movement. The sharpness in his voice and the weight of his glare knocked the breath right out of her, and she was left too shaken to even speak anything. Her body was already moving—already resigning itself to defeat—when it happened.

His eyes flicked past her, toward the house, and everything about that man changed: the anger didn't vanish, not completely, but it fissured, just for a second; his shoulders, once locked tight, dropped slightly; his hands, still curled into fists, loosened just the smallest bit.

Serena stopped completely.

Dammit.

His anger wasn't completely aimless, was it?

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Serena did get there with her own prejudice and misconceptions; she had come with every intention of getting Adeline as far away from him as possible. Could she really blame a man—especially that man—for becoming defensive? Well, yes, she could, especially when that man had been a complete asshole.

But, for better or worse, not an entirely wrong asshole. And one that cared about those two kids more than words could ever say. It's for Jason, she reminded herself. It's for Adeline. And fuck, it was for him now too.

Serena turned on her heels, suppressing the fear and the shame deep in her stomach. And tried again.

"Look, mister," she began, letting her anger do the work for her, "ya can't just take all your shit out at me just 'cause I worry 'bout her. Ya know all of the shit that girl's been through? Get over it. Ya ain't the only one that cares about her. So just shut up and listen, okay?"

Daryl looked at her then—really looked at her—like he wasn't sure if she had actually just said that to him. He looked too stunned to fire back and Serena didn't waste the moment.

"Jason is the reason I'm having this conversation with you, not your thrilling personality, not 'cause I think you're great, but because he actually did. He thought the world of you, alright?"

Daryl didn't say a word.

Good.

"I thought he was just confused 'cause ya were the first man in 'is family to not treat 'im like shit. And I know, I know, ya didn't know 'bout Mason before, 'cause Jason told me ya didn't. I dunno if Addie's told ya, 'cause she doesn't talk 'bout it. Like, never. But—"

"Saw her scars," Daryl cut in through the flow of words and the shift was stark: the heat in his gaze dimmed, something sharp crumbling behind his eyes; whatever fire had been burning in him snuffed out in an instant, leaving only the embers behind.

Serena exhaled slowly—she had him. So she took a deep breath, steadied herself, and nodded.

And then she kept going.

"But I see it now." She swallowed. "Before Jason d—" The words caught, lodged in her throat, but she forced herself to push through. "Before he died, he was gonna ask for your help. He was gonna take Lillian 'n' Addie and come to you, 'cause he trusted ya." Her voice cracked and she felt the tears burning hot before they even fell. "Ya actually made 'im feel hope, prob'ly for the first time in 'is life, so I thank ya for that."

She turned her face away as some tears escaped and wiped at them with her sleeve.

And then she heard the words:

"He was wrong."

His voice was low, barely above a breath, but it hit like a hammer: heavy and final. He exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head; his jaw flexed, tightening so hard it looked like it might crack, and he tossed the wrench on his hands to the ground.

"He was a damn idiot if he believed that."

The words came out sharper, like he needed to say them aloud to make them true. His fingers twitched at his sides then curled into fists. His whole body went rigid and his breath turned into something sharp and unsteady.

"If ya ain't leavin', I am."

The words were clipped, laced with something close to contempt, but Serena wasn't sure if it was for her, for Jason, or for himself.

He turned on his heel, heavy steps heading straight for the house, like hell itself would break loose if he stayed another second longer.

"Hey—" she took a step forward, pulse spiking; he didn't stop so she moved without thinking properly, stepping directly into his path and planting herself in front of that towering, furious figure.

A stupid, reckless decision.

Yes, Serena is definitely mad.

Daryl halted and his eyes snapped to her, dark and dangerous—a warning. She swallowed; fear prickled up her spine, but she held her ground.

"I know he's gone," she spilled the words, voice barely above a whisper. "And it doesn't matter anymore." Her chest tightened, but she pushed through, even as her stomach churned. "But Addie is still here. She's still here, do you understand?"

Daryl's breath came harsh, nostrils flaring. His whole body coiled tight, like a wire about to snap, but he wasn't moving anymore. So Serena took a shaky breath, heartbeat hammering against her ribs.

"They would be glad she ended up with you in the middle of this, okay?" Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to keep going. "Jason, Lillian... They would be glad."

Something cracked and Serena saw it—the split in the anger, the sliver of hesitation, the flicker of something else. His gaze went past Serena to the one thing that still mattered: to those wide blue eyes, locked onto them.

Daryl stepped around Serena without another word, heading back for the truck. His shoulders were still drawn, his breathing still too sharp, but he was pulling it back. His boot collided sharply with the front tire; the impact rattled through the metal frame and Serena flinched by a degree.

Running a hand down his face, Daryl let out a slow, shuddering breath,

Stay away from my family.

And Daryl had; he'd let Mason push him out; let that bastard spit his bullshit about how he was too much of a lost cause to be around his kids. And Daryl believed because Mason was right; he'd figured whatever kind of man his brother had turned into could never be worse than Daryl already was.

Those children had been apart from him and Merle for a reason—his hands had never been good enough and he'd never had the grounds much less reason to argue.

Not until Jason showed up.

"Does she know?"

It took a second before she answered, "No, I don't think so."

No, of course she didn't; she was just a kid, caught up in the middle of a giant, fucking mess.

"It was... complicated," Serena continued. "I don't think they even talked about..."

Her voice hitched.

"...all of that."

Daryl didn't need her to spell it out; to this day, Merle still had no idea about what had gone down in their house while he was away—about the scars both he and Mason carried; the same scars that bastard had put on his own two children.

"She thinks you don't want her," Serena's voice called and his eyes turned to her immediately. "But I don't think that's true."

Serena turned on her heels and made her way back to the porch, bracing herself for the last thing she still needed to say.

Adeline was standing now, small hands curled at her sides and eyes fixed warily on her uncle. She hadn't moved from the steps, but the tension in her posture was clear. The moment Serena stopped in front of her, Adeline's gaze finally flickered to her.

"Is everything okay?" she asked in a small voice.

Serena exhaled and crouched down so they were at eye level. "It is," she said, offering a soft smile. "He just misses your brother a lot. He cares about you both, you know that? So, so much."

Adeline frowned, but said nothing.

"Addie," she started. "Ya remember Nana June and Grandpop?"

Adeline nodded, brow creasing.

"They live on a real nice farm, way up in Jefferson County," Serena went on, biting her lip. "My parents and I are gonna be stayin' with them for a while. Just 'til things settle."

Serena was leaving.

The day before, her father came home late, shirt smelling like gasoline and cold air, and told them it was done—her truck was gone. Having cash on hand had suddenly become a necessity; every dollar could mean the difference between making it and not. And they didn't need two trucks to reach West Virginia. Ammunition was a different story, though. She had watched her father prepare, the way his hands moved over his old shotgun and packed their bags not with clothes or comforts, but with bullets and knives—things that could keep them alive.

That kind of thinking—the conspiratorial, worst-case-scenario kind—had always been beneath him. But at that point, she was too scared to question anything.

Everyone was scared now.

When the first news about evacuations in the South came, most didn't pay attention. They lived in a small town, tucked into the mountains, too far from the rest of the world. Evacuation wasn't in their future. It wouldn't reach them as most things didn't. Things would work themselves out as they always did.

But when the rumors about the Atlanta Refugee Camp turned to be more than just rumors, people began to flee as animals before a storm.

Her father wasn't stupid. He picked up the patterns. Moving was always better than staying put. The people who decided to leave? Retired military, people with families, cops. People who had seen them. The ones who couldn't afford to take chances.

And it wasn't just the military threat—armed folks showing up to strip them out of their homes. Gasoline was already running low in most counties. Stores up town were nearly cleaned out, with no promise of restock. Roads were filling with people trying to get somewhere safer, somewhere better.

Atlanta was now a promise of food, water and safety, and her grandparents?

Too old and too sick to make the trip alone.

At the end, Serena was there to say goodbye.

"Hey," she nudged Adeline's arm. "Ain't sayin' goodbye forever. Just for now, okay?"

Adeline's eyes flickered back to her. "I don't want you to go."

Serena swallowed. "Addie..."

"No," she interrupted. "My aunt... Emily... left her home and now she's gone. What if..." her lips trembled, making her lose track of her words, "What if the same thing happens to you?"

Serena felt her throat tighten. "Oh, Addie," she breathed. "I got my dad with me, he's gonna take care of us, just like your Uncle Daryl is going to take care of you."

"You don't know that," Adeline said, slamming her foot against the step.

"Addie," she tried again. "Nana June and Grandpop are really old, okay? They need help getting somewhere safe. That's one of those times you have to be really, really brave in order to help someone else, you understand?"

Adeline didn't answer right away. Her lips pressed together, her gaze locked on the ground. Then, after a long pause, she took a slow breath, straightened her shoulders, and gave a small nod. Serena hesitated for only a second before reaching out, wrapping her arms around the girl, pulling her into a tight hug.

"I love you, Addie," she murmured against her hair, squeezing a little tighter, like she could somehow make up for all the ways the world had failed her. "You're so damn loved, alright? Don't ever forget that."

For a second, Adeline didn't move, stiff against her, but then her arms came up, clutching Serena back.

After a moment of neither of them wanting to let go, Serena finally pulled back, just enough to look at Adeline, brushing a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. Then, she stood up, letting out a breath and wiping quickly at her eyes before turning toward the truck.

She looked at Daryl, who was watching them with a look that could mean a million things. Serena hesitated for only a second before stepping away, heading toward her truck. She pulled open the door but turned back one last time.

"Take care of her, Daryl."

His eyes met hers, and for a moment, they stood there, two strangers who now shared a bond—as thin and odd as it was—forged by shared grief and an unspoken promise.

Serena didn't need a response. Either it was him or Lillian's sister at the end, she knew.

She slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and drove off. And she thought of how she had driven all the way here, ready to take Adeline with her, if only the girl had said so. She almost laughed.

May God help the poor soul—dead or alive—who would try to take Adeline Dixon away from him.

That thought brought her peace. And she thought of Jason.

Of all the people Adeline could've ended up with, Serena was starting to believe she'd actually found the one good man.

Chapter Text

"Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now.

We are never going to be here again."

—Homer, The Iliad.

༻⁕༺

The lot was quiet when they rolled in, end-of-day light lying flat across the gravel and the smell of hot metal tapering in the shade. It had been close to two weeks since Jason had shown his face here. Now he had a small passenger cinched to his waist, and when he cut the engine and kicked the stand, that same passenger slid off before he could say a word, little turquoise backpack dangling stubbornly from one shoulder like defiance made into fabric.

Daryl was leaned against the shop door with a cigarette burning low between his fingers. He squinted into the light when he spotted them. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. Jason lifted a hand anyway. "Didn't think you'd still be here."

"Shop's slow," Daryl said, flicking ash. "Earl bailed early. Back's actin' up again."

"Figures." Jason tugged his gloves free and tapped the tank with two fingers. "Heard somethin' by the clutch comin' off the gravel. Probably nothin'. Figured I'd check before I take her out."

Daryl pushed off the door, took the last drag like it was a period, and crouched to the engine. He didn't waste words and he didn't waste motion; his eyes moved over the case like memory.

Adeline had already drifted to the far side of the lot, helmet swinging from her hand, humming under her breath the way she did when excitement loosened whatever tight thing lived in her chest. For Jason, that alone was a win. First day of school, he'd braced for a mess—especially after Mason's speech on the porch, the kind that scraped skin—because their father never saw what was bright in Adeline, only the parts he'd helped turn ugly; and because of that she had learned to look at herself the way he did. Maybe the ride had evened the scales, or maybe nothing too bad had happened. Either way, he'd take it. In the halls she was the girl other kids called weird; it broke him that weird counted as a good day.

He kept her in the corner of his eye until he was sure she was fine, then looked back just in time to catch Daryl's glance flicking up.

"Didn't know you were tryin' out for a biker gang," his uncle said, chin tipping at the leather on Jason's back.

Jason glanced down, as if only now remembering he still had the vest on. "Serena got it," he said, sheepish around the edges. "Said if I'm gonna act like a dumbass, I might as well look the part."

She'd picked it out in a pawnshop two towns over, told the owner her boyfriend didn't need the patches, just the backbone; later, in her mother's kitchen, she'd stitched the seams back to true with a patience that was almost stubbornness. On the inside hem she'd sewn a sliver of blue ribbon only he knew was there. For luck, she'd said, pretending not to care whether he believed in that kind of thing or not.

Something close to a smile tugged at Daryl's mouth and vanished. Jason caught it anyway and crouched beside him. "Ain't bad," he said, tugging a seam. "Grows on you."

Daryl didn't answer. His eyes stayed a beat too long on the vest before he turned back to the clutch. "By the way," he muttered, still crouched, "got that thing you asked about."

"What thing?"

Daryl stood, crossed to the truck bed, and tossed a brown-paper bundle taped like afterthought. Jason peeled it open and went still. The derby cover. Not just any—the one. Crow etched dead center, wings cut in black and bright. He'd pointed it out weeks ago like a joke—too cool for my rust-bucket, huh—and when he told Serena about it, she'd said crows remember the faces of people who feed them; Jason had laughed and told her that was a myth—he repeated it to Adeline all the same.

"No way." He ran a thumb over the metal. "Thought this was long gone."

"Frank had it sittin' in a crate," Daryl said, a shrug that tried to make it small. "Told him you'd take it."

"Thanks."

Daryl answered with a grunt and went back to work. Jason shook his head, smiling despite himself, the etched feathers catching the light under his thumb.

The last piece.

"She's fine," Daryl said after a minute, wiping his hands on the rag that lived in his back pocket. "Sounded worse than it is. Cable likely just settled."

"Yeah. Just didn't wanna take her out with Addie on the back if somethin' was off."

Daryl grunted agreement and glanced toward the edge of the lot. Adeline stood with Sam, who'd crouched a little to her height, one hand braced on his knee, the other drawing shapes in the air while she nodded gravely like she was being entrusted with state secrets. She held the helmet up between them, fingertip tracing a butterfly sticker like she was explaining something important. Pink and bright, the helmet caught the fading light and a handful of uneven stickers clinging to the sides. Daryl squinted slightly at the sight. "Can't believe you found it."

Jason smirked, already knowing what he meant. "Didn't. Just got her a pink one off a catalog. She was happy anyway. Used stickers she had in some drawer, made it hers."

Daryl looked once more at the helmet, then away, like something had pricked he didn't want to press. After a breath Jason said, "You busy?"

"Right now?"

"Later. As in right-now later." He jerked his chin toward the bike. "We're takin' her out. Thought maybe you'd come. Ride with us. We could swing by your place and grab Merle's Triumph."

Daryl didn't answer at once, and the silence drew out just long enough that Jason knew; he waited anyway. Daryl looked at the Sportster, then at Adeline and Sam, then at the ground, and let the breath out through his nose. "Another time."

Jason smiled without quite reaching it. He patted the tank. "If you change your mind, we'll run east. Told her we'd see the horses at Harris's."

Daryl nodded once, eyes on the machine like it might speak for him. Jason tried to let the unease go. He knew what he had to do; he'd known for a while. There was still time—he believed that the way you believe sunrise is coming because it always has. Behind the belief, something thinner. He ignored it.

He turned to his sister. "C'mon, Fox." She waved goodbye to Sam and came back with the helmet already half on and smile too big for her face. Jason swung a leg over and waited. Before climbing up, Adeline turned to Daryl, hands shyly raised as she waved at him. "Bye-bye." She didn't wait for an answer. She took Jason's forearm for balance, settled her feet, and wrapped him tight at the waist.

Daryl scratched the back of his neck. "Bye, kid."

Jason couldn't hold his smile. One day, he thought. They still had time. All of them, they still had time.

"See ya around," he said and Daryl—ever quiet and unreadable—gave him that same look he always did when the past walked too close through the yard. And Jason wondered, not for the first time, what version of Lillian lived behind that look.  Hope is a dangerous engine, Jason reflected then. Give it fuel and it runs you where you didn't plan to go.

He turned the key and the engine came alive under them. "Ready, Foxy?" he shouted over the thrum; Adeline giggled and cinched tighter—the sound tucked itself under his ribs like luck.

They rolled onto the road and the Harley's voice settled low in his chest. If Adeline remembered anything years from now, let it be this—the wind, the hum, the feeling of being carried by something that worked because hands had made it so. Let it be horses in a pasture and not what came after. Tires found their line; the horizon widened its mouth.

No plans. No past picking at seams. No future yet. Just the road, and the warm weight of a small set of arms that believed in him without any proof at all.

Chapter Text

Of Blood and Hope

"I forget that we are mammal. But my mother's fingers rakes through my hair and feels like an ancient thing. We pass fruit and toss our voices around a table and there's a seat for everyone. We're not so far from tribe—making family out of a stranger,  a friend  out of nothing."

—TC Derst.

༻⁕༺

Main Characters

Summer Fontana as Adeline Dixon (S1E1 - S3E16)

"I am quiet, I bury no one, blood is drying beneath my nails. I do not know which me it belongs to."

—Julian Randall. On the Night I Consider Coming Out to My Parents.

"[...] My mother loves me and there is nothing more to say. I love my mother and there is nothing more to say. I pray and pray that I don't become like her someday, and there is nothing more to say."

—Ritika Jyala. The Flesh I Burned.

"I've been trying to go home my whole life."

—Chelsea Dingman, Psychogeography.

I hate you for what you did

And I miss you like a little kid

—Phoebe Bridgers, Motion Sickness, 2017.

"You robbed me of my life. I could have been human—I could have been alive, but you took my heart and you murdered me. You made me into this."

—Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls.

༻⁕༺

Norman Reedus as Daryl Dixon

"You are embarrassed about your blood, its redness, the way it is just coming out of you with no concern for anyone's feelings. You are [...] embarrassed to be alive."

—Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House.

"You are at war with yourself. Caught between what you truly are and what you're supposed to be."

—Rej Jaen.

"I don't think you understand how beautiful you make my world, just by existing in it."

—Nicole Torres.

༻⁕༺

Supporting Characters

Michael Rooker as Merle Dixon

Andrew Lincoln as Rick Grimes

Jon Bernthal as Shane Walsh

Sarah Wayne Callies as Lori Grimes

Chandler Riggs as Carl Grimes

Steven Yeun as Glenn Rhee

Laurie Holden as Andrea

Jeffrey DeMunn as Dale Horvath

IronE Singleton as T-Dog (Theodore Douglas)

Melissa McBride as Carol Peletier

Emily Kinney as Beth Greene

Scott Wilson as Hershel Greene

Lauren Cohan as Maggie Greene

Madison Lintz as Sophia Peletier

Emma Bell as Amy

Jeryl Prescott as Jacqui

David Morrissey as The Governor (Philip Blake)

Danai Gurira as Michonne

Chapter Text

The forest was still, but not silent. Wind sewed the pines together with a dry whisper, and someplace far off, a woodpecker kept time. The sound of rustling leaves caught his attention. Small and quick, he thought, and went still enough for his breath to fog once and flatten in the cold. He sank into a crouch, head tilted, listening the way a man listens to threads under strain.

A flick of auburn peeled out of the gray-and-white world and resolved into shape. The fox glided to a halt ten feet off, tail low like a brushstroke dragged clean, winter coat thick enough to make the woods look underdressed. Brown eyes met his, steady and unembarrassed, with the plain curiosity animals keep for things that don't yet read as threat. He brought the crossbow up slow, the string murmuring, lined for the neck because habit is a road you walk even when you mean to turn. The fox didn't flinch; it looked at him like something to be pondered.

No fear, he thought, and felt the thought snag on something he couldn't name.

A faint sound ghosted through the trees—far, thin, pitched to a frequency made for foxes and men who live alone. Ears pivoted; the animal looked past him, then back at him one last time. The look lingered, almost like a farewell, before the fox turned and disappeared into the undergrowth, movements as smooth as water.

Exhaling through his nose, Daryl lowered the crossbow. He was done for the day.

The trail back was familiar—worn by years of habit, never marked but always known. He moved quiet, let the cold press the heat out of him, let the hush do what the hush does. At the porch he hung the squirrels by their tails from the rail—the cold would keep them fine enough; the sky had the color and weight of snow, the kind that thinks about its entrance all afternoon. Inside, the house held the kind of quiet only the middle of nowhere can make. He set the crossbow by the window where his hand could find it without his eyes. Jacket off. Keys off the nail—same nail the old man used—and back out.

The '78 C-10 sat squatting under road dust and indifference—rust chewing the wheel and one taillight married to its duct tape. Door slammed with the hollow note he'd known since he was a kid. Engine coughed on the first try, caught on the second, settled into a smoker's rumble. Heater's best trick was keeping the glass from fogging. Good enough. He gripped the wheel too tight, thumb tapping the cracked vinyl while gravel gave way to two lanes and a thin idea of town.

He didn't like this kind of visit. Mason hadn't said much, just that the kid was there; a girl. Said it'd been too long. A month back now. Six years gone before that. Almost no thread between. Yeah, go on then, Merle had said, mean-soft, let him show off his perfect little brats he made with that girl a' yers. Daryl ignored it. The old man had ignored all of it longer than both of them put together.

Truth was, he didn't know what he was walking into. Didn't know how to act around kids, especially not his kids. Hell, Mason's. And Lilly—Lillian—was another country entirely.

At the light on the edge of town, the truck idled like it had a complaint. In the corner-store window a smear of rust-red winked out from behind a row of paper kites and winter hats. He looked once, looked again. Dumb idea, he told himself, even as he was putting the turn signal on.

You couldn't show up to meet a kid empty handed, right?

༻⁕༺

The blue house sat at the end of the street, tucked between bare-limbed trees and a fence that needed paint. Lived-in and tired around the edges, but solid. Still holding. Lights on inside. No car in the driveway.

He parked along the curb, engine still rumbling for a few seconds after he turned the key. He sat there for a moment, fingers drumming lightly against the wheel before reaching across the seat and grabbing the small paper bag.

The porch steps barely creaked beneath his boots. He knocked once then stepped back, adjusting his jacket against the cold. The door opened a few seconds later and his heart did a small, traitor kick.

Lillian—barefoot, flannel pants, sweater big enough to be mercy, blonde hair caught up with the sort of pins that give up before you do. She looked tired, sure, and the softness of youth was long gone, but still beautiful in a way that snuck up on you. Her face loosened when she saw him; green eyes lit like somebody turned a lamp down low. "Well, look who it is."

"Hey." Simple was safer.

She leaned against the doorframe. "C'mon in. It's cold out."

"Where's Mason?" Careful.

"Workin' late." The tired breath carried more than just the day. "Just started and they already got him pullin' doubles."

He hesitated on the threshold because some part of him had learned the geography of trouble the hard way, and she felt it. "He'll be home soon," she said quick, sliding the worry off the hook for him. "Just come meet your niece and nephew."

She gave him that small look—half-teasing, half-something-else—and stepped aside.

Warmth. Vanilla and butter the air hadn't quite let go. The kitchen threw a low, honey light that pooled rather than flooded. Not messy, not staged—lived. His own ill-fit in rooms like this loosened its grip for a second. This, some stubborn part said, could have been a life if you'd known how to keep one.

A boy was on his belly in front of the TV, chin propped on fists, watching a cartoon turned down to a private murmur. Lillian tipped her chin. "Jason," she sang it almost, "this is your Uncle Daryl."

The boy looked over, blinked like he'd been handed a fact without instructions. He sat up a little straighter and studied Daryl with quiet curiosity you can't teach.

"Hi," Daryl said.

"Hi," the boy echoed after a beat and they looked at each other like two dogs at a fence deciding whether to bark or wag.

"Cool truck," Jason said, trial balloon launched.

"Ain't mine."

Shrug. Back to the screen, but not all the way back.

"Anybody ever tell you you're great with kids?" Lillian said under her breath, smile cutting soft and he snorted. "C'mere," she said, gentler now, and tilted her head toward a bassinet tucked near the window like a small boat in harbor.

"She got a name yet?" he asked, voice dropping to the tone men use when they admit they're scared.

"Adeline."

He huffed. "What kinda fancy name is that?"

"Your brother said the same thing." A smile in the corner; somewhere distant in her, a page turning. He kept his eyes off her and onto the baby because that was the safer direction to fall.

"From that book?" he asked. "Her name."

She looked up, surprised the way you are when someone remembers details you threw away to keep from wanting too much. "You remembered." The smile widened and time did the thing where it forgets which way it flows.

He saw the hair first—fine, winter sunlight caught and kept—and said the obvious, because changing the subject is its own kind of courage, because of course he remembered; he remembered everything about her, stowed in pockets deep enough that it wouldn't ambush him unannounced. "She's a redhead."

"Yeah." Lillian gently brushed her fingers through the baby's hair. "Dunno where she got that. Think there's an aunt on my father's side."

"Well," he said, reaching into the crinkled bag, "then it's a hell of a coincidence." He set the fox on the table beside the crib. "Saw one in the woods. Stood there lookin' right at me. Figured she oughta have this."

"It's perfect," she said, soft as thread. "She'll love it."

The quiet that followed wasn't empty but full of all the things both of them had learned not to say.

"Wanna hold her?" Lillian offered, and laughed quietly when panic did a clean pass across his face. "I'm right here. Not gonna let you drop her."

She lifted the baby as if the world weighed less when she touched it and eased her into his arms. "Mind her head. There. See? You got it."

Adeline stirred, blinked, made a small, offended noise at the universe, and something in his chest unhooked and warmed. Pale-blue eyes—new, serious—fixed on him like he'd interrupted. Just like her mama, he thought, and the thought brought both warmth and ache.

Lillian watched him like she was recording proof. He was smiling—barely, which is how men like him do it—and rocking without meaning to. She had learned the hard way that some men soften only at the edges; the man in front of her had gone soft all through, undone by a person who fit inside his forearms with room to spare. You could have been a father, she thought, not as accusation but as fact. If I'd let you. If I'd been someone else. If the road to Charleston hadn't swallowed the map.

The room held them in a net of small sounds—the cartoon's murmur, furnace breath, Jason's quiet tracking of a hero across a bright field—and the past stepped up to the glass to watch: summers that didn't happen; promises ferried on the back of a bike that ran out of gas before the city limits; a motel Bible with a pressed lily she never learned to keep; the first time she called him Dar and he didn't pretend not to like it.

"You're a natural," she said, because this is all a person can say when past tugs at your feet.

"Right," he scoffed, but the word didn't carry teeth.

They both fell into that silence again, locked into each other's gazes, as if neither wanted to be the first to look away. In that held moment a different life breathed—one where pain took longer to find her, one where he had a job that didn't require learning hunger, one where Jason's voice carried a surname that meant something different and nobody minded, one where the fox ran and kept running and nobody raised a bow.

Strange, how her heart kept yanking backward even with the future sitting right in front of her; the past always knew how to catch up, shoving tomorrow farther out of reach from these hands already dripping with blood. Her choices would never cease to torment her; the weight all of the lives she had lost screaming at her, begging her to change everything—only to fall into the same abyss where everything she ever owned still lay, reeking of purebred tragedy.

Charleston had been a promise, now lost. Ahead lay only demons and uncertainty—a graveyard, for all the women she might have been. There was a bone buried in every corner of her life.

For the moment she had Daryl and the past; a sweet one. What harm in pretending she had chosen differently, if only for a breath that felt both fleeting and eternal? The life she had killed had taken something from him, too; she had trapped them both in a world neither had chosen.

Oh, how he should hate her now.

But Lillian was still pretending. There was no room for hatred in her fairy tale. Hatred belonged only to the past.

Or was it the future?

She took a small step toward him, thinking, thinking, thinking...

"I should get goin'," he said finally and the string of whatever had been holding between them let go without snapping.

"Right." She aimed her face away so the shine wouldn't fall. "Of course."

Daryl looked down at the baby like answers could grow in small hands. He felt a strange feeling in his chest and a lump forming in his throat, almost as if he didn't wanna let her go. He felt like he should say something—do something—but he didn't know how, so he said nothing. Lillian also had so many words she wanted to let out. She wanted to scream and cry. But they were nothing if not two broken children, who never learned to cry for help.

He smoothed a finger over the down of her hair, cleared his voice like that might clear the universe. "Goodbye, Adeline," he said, and eased her back to safe harbor. He lifted his eyes to the woman he had loved in a language nobody had taught him and gave her the only mercy he could manage, "Goodbye, Lilly," and left before the house could answer.

She let him because fairy tales are mostly about knowing when not to wake a spell. Outside, snow finally decided to begin. Inside, the fox sat where he'd left it, rust-red and ordinary, witness to a life that had just turned hard in a quiet way. Years later, when a girl with auburn hair would be called Foxy without remembering why, the toy would still be somewhere in the house like proof that once, for one steady minute, a man who had been taught to hunt chose not to.

Chapter Text

"Adeline," Daryl called out from behind her. "What'd I tell ya?"

She rolled her eyes. Don't go too deep into the woods.

Adeline knew that already—she wasn't stupid.

"Won't go far."

"What?"

"I said I won't go far," she repeated, louder.

After a moment, the sound of metal clanging against metal of him working on his pickup truck resumed.

"Just stay where I can see ya," he grumbled against the noise and Adeline rolled her eyes again.

Daryl had somehow grown even more restless and grumpy than he was before, imposing a whole new set of rules she was now supposed to follow. She imagined it had some connection with the fact that all telephone signals went down, and the television as well—that was the second day without any signal at all, and the third since Serene left.

And probably also had something to do with the lamentable fact—known now by both of the Dixon men—that Adeline couldn't handle staying inside the house for too long.

She deeply wished she could blame Merle for that, and he was, indeed, part of the reason. If it weren't for him, the porch would actually be fine—a peaceful place to be alone, sit, and read—but Merle, who was now spending significantly more time around the house, was far too loud, and the porch, not nearly far enough away.

However, to her misfortune, he wasn't the only one to blame.

The first time it happened, Adeline was found alone by the creek when it was already dark enough to stir some kind of panic. The water ran close to the house—close enough that, later, she would realize the porch still hung in sight like an old photograph framed by green of leaves and trunks and low boughs if she tilted her head the right way. But it wasn't until Daryl gently touched her shoulder, crouching beside her, that she understood just how far she had let herself slip away.

Not that she told him that.

Not that he didn't probably already know.

Still, there hadn't been any consequences. Daryl didn't yell, didn't scold, and didn't ask questions. Even when the worst things spilled from her mouth, even through the screaming and through the tears, Daryl waited. And when Adeline finally quieted down, he guided her back to the house, in silence, that same look in his eyes; the one he always had, every time he looked at her.

Unlike his brother, he never complained about how she was awake for most of the night, keeping the whole house up with her screams; he never said a word about finding her hiding in closets, under tables, curled into herself, rocking back and forth, trying to remember how to breathe again; he never mentioned the way she fought him off, screaming curses, every time he tried to pull her back. Even the times she snapped at him, simply to see him flinch, his only reaction was walking away from her, heavy steps and muffled curses. As if none of it actually... mattered.

Daryl was different.

Wasn't he?

Sometimes, Adeline would repeat those words to herself, again and again, as if they were a prayer. Her prayers were like a chorus, and just like every song, they didn't belong in her head but in her heart. And sometimes, they fought: at night, the voice in the back of her mind would whisper back, over and over, until it was all that remained.

He doesn't care about you.

Oh, but her father did. Not the same way he cared about his son, but he did, and enough to stop her every time she slipped too far. That was his duty as a father, he used to say; he loved her enough to go beyond, even if it made him regret later, and enough to apologize, at times.

But Daddy left you, silly girl, don't you remember?

Daryl didn't.

But he's about to, you stupid thing.

No, we won't.

But he wants to. And you know why.

He wanted to.

And Adeline knew why.

But then Daryl would hold her hand for most of the night—even if it stained his own with her blood—and all Adeline wanted to do was cry.

The only explanation that made sense to her was this:

Daryl had never seen the worst of it.

The endless pacing down the hallway, bare feet dragging, and whispers to nothingness—that was her mother's own chorus, and to Daryl, it was unknown. He was a stranger to the sound of pure laughter twisted into sobs behind the bathroom door, a stranger to the way she would howl like a wounded, tormented animal, and he wasn't there the nights she locked them outside because the house wasn't safe anymore.

Daryl had never witnessed what her father had, what Jay had, what Adeline had—
they didn't share the same fears.

And so, the only thing that changed was a silent but strict rule: she was no longer allowed to go anywhere alone.

Maybe he just had more important things to worry about than where that strange little thing had chosen to collapse.

"Daryl!"

Adeline flinched at the sudden voice. Halfway between Daryl and the creek, she turned toward the house, peering through the trees, and there he was:

Merle, standing on the porch, looking like he was about to punch someone.

"Get yer ass in here!" he bellowed.

Daryl, who had been leaning toward his truck, yelled back, "What?"

Merle's answer made her heart skip a beat, "Power's out!"

The feeling must've been mutual, because those words were enough to make Daryl move, even if it meant leaving Adeline behind. So he pushed off the truck and stalked toward the house, grumbling something under his breath. And she knew exactly what was coming: another argument, same as it had been for days.

That pattern had been set the moment the signals shut down and it had only gotten worse since.

They had discovered, by chance, when Daryl tried to start his truck, that some radio broadcasts were still running. The problem was, most stations were just recorded messages looping endlessly, repeating things they already knew or had already learned the hard way. Since they couldn't afford to waste the truck's battery, they spent most of that first morning digging through the house, searching for an old radio Daryl swore they still had. After finally dragging it out, they wasted another good portion of the day scavenging for batteries.

Pointless, it had turned out to be.

But even though the radio had offered nothing new, Merle kept searching, probably for something the man himself couldn't name, and she couldn't stand to hear it anymore—listening to those static voices, over and over, was like being trapped inside a horror film: if before she had been feeling as if they were at the edge of something final, now it felt like they had finally reached the end.

Eventually, Merle gave up, but the arguments, provocations, and annoyed glances aimed either at Daryl or even her, at times, became constant, as did the drinking—there was always a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Emily, and by extension, Adeline, were the main reasons behind Merle's hostility: with no way of knowing Emily's whereabouts, Merle insisted on leaving; Daryl wanted to stay put.

Neither knew for how long.

But while Merle, despite being loud, was rather predictable, Daryl wasn't. To be fair, neither was she. Still, she and Daryl had built some kind of silent routine, shaped mostly by the long hours they spent together outdoors. As long as they didn't talk too much, things worked well enough between them.

Yesterday, she had discovered a decent reading spot—the back of Daryl's truck. From there, she could watch the sky through the tangled branches overhead, the leaves stirring gently with the breeze. It sat precariously close to the edge of where she was allowed to wander, but Daryl hadn't objected—he'd settled himself on the porch nearby, busy gutting his game, sharpening bolts, or whatever else it was he did for most of the afternoon.

Adeline didn't care, not at all.

Today, though, with The Fellowship of the Ring finished and the truck now halfway pulled apart by its owner, she had to find something else to occupy her time.

She tried drawing in an old notebook with a dried-up pen Daryl had found for her, but gave up on it pretty quickly. Partly because she was terrible at it, but mostly because a blue ballpoint pen was a very poor substitute for her thirty-six-colored-pencils set. She thought about building mud castles next but that was, apparently, out of the question: he wasn't interested in washing her clothes and she barely had any to begin with, as he made sure to remind her—and it was less than he thought, actually, because short sleeves had been set aside a long time ago.

So she finally settled for a castle made of rocks and sticks. A frustrating project, it was. There were hardly any good rocks to begin with and the ones she did find either refused to balance or crumbled apart the second she added another to the pile. The extra challenge, though, was more engaging than she had expected. It kept her focused, gave her something to think about that wasn't suffocating. And when she managed to make a part of it stand the way she wanted, there was something strangely satisfying about it. It was even better than math—before math got boring, of course.

But her castle—her pathetic, misshapen heap of twigs and pebbles, threatening to collapse at any second—still needed more structure. Some kind of reinforcement. It would be much easier if she was allowed to use mud, but she would just have to make do. She was all out of new rocks, so another short trip, despite Daryl's complaints, became necessary.

Leaving the muffled sounds of the men behind, she followed the path down to the creek. Soon, their voices faded, replaced by the soft murmur of water slipping over stone. She had learned the best, flattest rocks always lay near the edge.

She crouched low at the bank, knees sinking into the damp earth without a second thought. Her leggings were already streaked with dirt and her shirt was half-ruined from carrying pebbles in it all day; Daryl would complain and she was sure of it.

For a moment, she simply stayed there, hands hovering above the ground, feeling the mud squish under her weight.

And suddenly, she felt so tired.

Instead of reaching for the rocks, she let herself fall back. She kicked off her pink sneakers, peeled away her socks, and hugged her knees to her chest. Resting her chin atop them, she dipped her bare feet into the creek, letting the cold water swirl around her toes.

Electricity still pulsed in her veins from the shouting back at the house.

Among the many things she had learned about them, one was that Merle was far more complicated than Daryl when it came to immediate emotions—shifting, often and without warning, from indifference to amusement and then to anger.

But Daryl was still a fine match for it.

Their anger was different than what she was used to. Violent and thunderous, yes, but still very straight. There were no half feelings, nor half words. Only pure, unfiltered emotion. And the worst of it had never spilled onto Adeline, not even once.

Some part of her wished they would just keep going, only if for a little longer; long enough for her to stay by the creek; long enough for her to keep listening to the water run as it brushed over the stones with the same kind of gentleness it did her feet.

Then maybe she would get up. Follow the stream, simply to see what lay beyond: mountains sinking into hidden valleys of soft greens, hardened gravel, and crystal-clear water. Snow would melt into spring and the river would trail down into the sea—purifying tides of salt and shared history. Something too ancient and too full of forgetting. And then, so would Adeline.

And there would be no one to wait for and no one to hope for.

Would Daryl follow?

Or would he just let her go?

She caught herself thinking of Earl, who had come by to visit. Just like Serena, he was leaving. He said he wished Daryl would join, but he was not alone—Sam and his mom were with him, all taking their chances at Atlanta. It's not far, he'd told the two men. Worth a shot. And before he left, he came over to talk to her.

He said he was sorry for what had happened to her; he said he missed her sandwiches; he said he hoped he would see her again; then he said, Take care a' yer Uncle Daryl for me, and walked away.

It made her feel strange for a while. How normal it felt. How not painful. Adeline
was a girl who made sandwiches—she didn't feel like that anymore.

With bandages stained in blood and dirt wrapped around her palms, she didn't feel like her hands could craft anything that wasn't tragical.

She placed her hands in the creek. The cold bit at her skin and stung at the broken parts.

But it was a different kind of pain.

Her ears captured a sound. A shift. A rustling. Deeper in the trees. She glanced toward the source and saw nothing relevant. A bird or a squirrel, she thought, ordinary nuisance. But enough to make her move, sneakers in hands.

The soft crunch of leaves beneath her bare feet wasn't enough to quiet the new edge of anxiety and her eyes darted through the endless maze of forest, panic rising in anticipation as memory dragged her forward.

But her heart managed to ease out when Merle's voice grew louder again, and she spotted her castle.

"...checked the damn fuse box, dumbass! It's out. Everything's out. Might wanna use that one brain cell ya got left and think why."

She smirked a little to herself as she knelt, already picturing Daryl's scowl.

"I said we shouldn't be sittin' around waitin' for shit to go bad," Merle snapped, probably in reply to something Daryl had said and she didn't hear. "And look where we are."

Her jaw clenched. Daryl said something back but she wasn't able to distinguish it.

"The generator ain't worth shit if we ain't got gas for...," Merle shot back and it was the last she was able to hear clearly as his voice faded to distance.

She glanced at them, watching as they made their way to the shed in the back of the house, until they disappeared from her sight. She ignored them and thought if she should just leave her castle the way it was or if she should dismantle it instead. The leaves behind her rustled, but she didn't pay any mind this time.

When she heard it again, though, it was already too late.

A low, guttural groan.

The sound crawled up her spine, freezing the blood in her veins. Her limbs moved slowly, as if she were trapped underwater, body disconnected from mind. And then she saw it.

The man.

The monster.

Worse than any she had seen before, something pulled straight from her nightmares. Her heart slammed against her ribs and nausea surged up her throat. For a moment, she was sure she would throw up and all she could see was Jason: dull blonde curls; green eyes, clouded and wrong; skin peeling in strips like sunburn and mouth wide open.

She blinked, hard, desperate to make it stop, but it changed and now, it was her mother—rotten, quiet, empty—half-blonde, half-red hair stuck to her face, mouth bloodied and partially gone. Those same green eyes, wide, locked on hers. And her face collapsed:

All red. All bone. All blood.

The world tilted and her movements were stuck between thought and muscle—she couldn't breathe. A shape stumbled out from within the forest and with that one, two others, shuffling and dragging, bodies smeared in blood and meat. Their limbs hanged at impossible angles and their teeth bared in silence. There was no need to count them—the woods were spilling open.

Still, the numbness held. She dug her heels into the dirt, forcing herself backward. Her hands clawed at the ground, nails breaking against roots and stone. Her mouth opened, but the sound barely made it past her lips, "Daryl."

Nothing but a whisper. Swallowed by the air. Useless.

It lunged forward.

Her mother.

Jason.

No, the monster.

Rotten finger grasped for her leg and fear slammed into her all at once, adrenaline jolting her back into her body, instincts screaming louder than the terror in her throat.

"Daryl!" The scream finally came. "Daryl!"

Her foot lashed out blindly, smashing into the dead man's face with a wet, sickening crunch. Bone cracked and flesh tore.

"Daryl!"

Her voice cracked and the scream broke into something closer to a sob. She choked on a gasp and her free foot slammed against its wrist, again and again, prying herself free. She was up, legs burning and lungs screaming for air. But she barely managed a step before something slammed into her side.

Strong fingers clamped around her sleeve, yanking her off balance. A strangled cry tore from her throat as she stumbled, the weight of the creature dragging her down and pulling her closer. It was a woman, skin sloughing off in damp patches, teeth gnashing wildly, eyes milky and hungry. Her grip was like iron, breath rancid against Adeline's face. She clawed at her arm, trying to wrench herself free, but it only tightened its hold, dragging her towards it.

"Daryl!"

Her voice came in choked sobs, barely recognizable. The first dead man regained its footing, shuffling toward her. Then, from the corner of her eye, a blur of movement.

Daryl.

His hunting knife plunged into the woman's skull and it crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut. The release sent Adeline stumbling backward, nearly toppling to the ground.

"Get inside, now!" Daryl barked, already pivoting, scanning for the next. Something flew toward them; he caught the crossbow mid-air and yanked back the string in one fluid motion. His stance shifted, body moving faster than her mind could catch up.

Another dead stumbled forward; a thwip of air and a bolt sank deep into his forehead. Her ears rang with the gunfire that followed, the sound rattling through her bones.

Move.

She had to move.

Something snarled and it was close. Air shifted by her hair and a hand grabbed her arm, unyielding. A scream tore from her throat as she was yanked backward, shoved to the ground. Knees hit dirt and a body moved in front of hers—it was shielding her.

Merle.

His gun cracked not a second later and the dead that had been reaching for her hit the ground at his feet. Ahead, Daryl was already reloading, fingers moving fast, pulling another bolt into place. The two brothers moved like a single force, working in unspoken synchrony. Merle's gun fired once again, sending another dead to the ground, and by the time the last of the monsters dragged himself forward, mouth snapping at the empty air, Daryl's fingers flexed around the crossbow.

The monster dropped and the woods went still—even the birds had gone quiet. The only sound left was Adeline's breathing, short and uneven bursts. She held the side of her body on instinct, ribs burning with every inhale, sharp against her lungs. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack her chest open. And Daryl was already in front of her, grabbing her by the arms and hauling her to her feet; his face was twisted in fury.

"You bit?" he barked, hands skimming over her arms and legs. "Adeline." She didn't answer and his voice grew louder. "Are you bit?"

Her breath hitched. "No."

"Dammit." Daryl let go of her with a sharp exhale, raking a hand through his hair. "When I tell ya to run, you run. Ya hear me?"

Her eyes were fixed on the ground and whole frame trembled. Daryl's boot swung out and connected hard with the side of body lay sprawled at their feet. "Fuck!"

She flinched, breath hitched in her throat, and wrapped her arms herself as if she could fold into nothing—disappear from that unbridled rage.

"You see that?" Merle's voice cut through the air, still winded from the fight. "You fuckin' see that? They ain't just crawlin' 'round no more. They come in gangs now. A whole goddamn herd."

"Shut up."

"What did I tell you, huh?" He stepped closer, jabbing a finger at Daryl's chest. Adeline stumbled back, more afraid of the two men than of the corpses around them. "What did I fucking tell you?"

"Shut the fuck up."

"Power's out, gas is out, and we're sittin' here waitin' on some lady who ain't even comin'." Merle gestured toward the empty road. "You think she got held up in traffic? She's gone, lil' brother. Dead or smart enough to get the hell out."

She pressed her hands over her ears, eyes locked on the dirt.

"You wanna dump the kid so bad, you damn near got her killed waitin' on some ghost. You think that makes you better than the rest of us? That you're doin' right by her?" Merle scoffed. "Nah. You brought her here, you own it. 'Cause like it or not, brother, you're stuck with her now."

Adeline waited for Daryl's response.

And waited for too long.

Tears coiled up in her eyes and her throat was burning up, holding back the ache in her chest. Her lungs were fighting for a breath that never came. The smell of rot filled up her nostrils and she was back in her house again, the corpse that belonged to her neighbor beside her, her mother bleeding in her hands, and her father walking away from her for one last time.

A sound snapped through the air. Before her brain could register it, a weight yanked her backward; Daryl was already in front of her and Merle was beside him, gun lifted, aiming past the trees.

A low rumble cut through the dead air. Not growling. Not dead people.

Engines.

A flash of red crested the hill.

The tires crunched against the dirt road, slowing, coming to a stop just a few yards away. Daryl's arm shot out, shoving Adeline back behind him, his stance shifting as the driver's side door cracked open.

And Adeline knew exactly who she was.

Because her mother was standing right in front of her.

Chapter Text

Willa Fitzgerald as Emily Wilson

Sung Kang as  Victor Hwang

"Do you think she needs help?" Emily asked her husband.

There was that voice again.

She was nervous, pacing, watching the house like it held the answers to something he couldn't name, in a worried expression Daryl knew too damn well. She even tilted her head the same way.

It was like staring at a goddamn ghost.

The words came before he could stop them, "She ain't gonna want ya there now."

Adeline—who knew rage the way she knew her name; Adeline—whom he could read like the lines in his palms; Adeline—who didn't call him Uncle Daryl anymore.

Emily's eyes turned to him instantly. Green. Alive. Full of hate.

"Oh, so now you know what's best for her?" she snapped, huffing, and Daryl barely flinched. The same too-sharp fangs; the same dimples. Hell, he wished she would just stop looking at him.

"Hey there, darlin'," Merle cut in with a smirk. "It's us that's been takin' care of that girl while you were takin' your sweet time gettin' here." He took a step forward. "What took y'all so long, anyway?"

"Spare me," Emily fired back. "You taking care of her—"

"It was the National Guard."

The man—Victor—stepped in, trying to smooth over something he clearly didn't understand.

"They were locking down neighborhoods," he explained. His accent had that clipped, fast edge—Boston, maybe. Not California. "We had to run. Took us hours just to get out of the city, and when we finally got somewhere with a phone... there was no signal. Nothing."

His shirt was the kind you don't buy in this county—fine weave, sitting just right on the shoulders—and the sleek Audi out front matched it: polished edges and city-boy shine. His hair was long in a way that looked deliberate, like he thought it might make him seem younger, or freer. But it didn't match the rest of him. He had years on Emily, closer to Merle's age than hers. Boots too clean. Voice too even. Victor talked like a man whose life arrived folded—college, money, indoor hands—and Daryl could smell that from a mile out.

He didn't trust people like that. Never had.

And that was the man who was supposed to raise her now.

"That bad, huh," Merle said, shooting Daryl a look that screamed told you so. Daryl ignored it. He'd never denied the truth buried in Merle's stories; he simply didn't have the energy to argue, especially when he knew the real reason Merle kept bringing them up was to push them to move.

But Daryl couldn't. He could never deny her a family.

"Have ya seen them?" Merle asked Victor. "The dead?"

"No," he answered. "Not up close, at least. We saw things... burned cars, blood on the roads... But not them. Things are quiet now. Most of our trouble was with traffic jams, but it got better around Oklahoma."

"Where you headin' now?" Daryl asked and Merle's eyes turned to him with a hint of suspicion. It was Victor who answered him:

"Atlanta," he said. "We've been hearing the broadcasts since Macon. You heard about it?"

Merle forced his gaze from Daryl to Victor. "Yeah. We heard."

"And you two?" Victor asked, eyes flicking between the brothers. "I don't suppose you'll be sticking around after..." He nodded toward the six corpses on the ground "...that."

Daryl hadn't thought about them. Maybe they would burn them. Maybe leave them to rot along with everything else. Some part of him was starting to think they would never come back here, one way or another.

"It's Fort Benning for us," Merle cut in, clipped and cold.

"Why Fort Benning?"

"Got our reasons," Merle said back, tone flat. "What can I say, don't like followin' the crowd."

Victor nodded, like he understood that was the end of the conversation. Learns quick, this one, Daryl thought. But in truth, they had no more reason to think that Atlanta was a better place than they had about Fort Benning. She would be safe in the city.

Wouldn't she?

Daryl glanced at the two—the trip hadn't been easy on them. Dark smudges under their eyes and faces drawn tight with exhaustion. One person wouldn't have made it alone. He knew what happened to the body after too much time behind the wheel, staring at the same stretch of road until it stopped meaning anything. They must've taken turns, driving through the night without rest. Victor didn't look like the fighter type, and Emily could be a little cold, but you couldn't say these two didn't care.

A family. A real one. That was what Adeline needed; what he couldn't bring himself to deny her. Daryl had nothing to offer her, nothing thing solid and nothing good. A two hour drive—that was what stood between her and a real chance.

The door creaked open again and all four of them turned at once.

Adeline stood in the doorway, barefoot on the wood—her pink sneakers, now in his hands, had been forgotten beside her little pebbled pile. Her red hair was still damp at the ends and she wasn't looking at any of them. Her small arms were wrapped tightly around a black trash bag nearly bigger than her whole body, stuffed with everything he had brought her from her house. It sagged heavily to one side, clearly too much for her to carry.

A girl made of glass and fury.

Burning sharper than any of the others, Adeline felt Daryl's gaze already on her. She wouldn't return it, refusing to look at the same face that had looked at her then, seconds before nudging her shoulder, ready to guide her back to their... to his house.

As if it were already decided.

As if it were so easy to let her go.

Adeline hadn't looked at him then, when her hand shoved his away. And she wouldn't now. Still, she caught the slight movement of his boots, more reflex than intention—as if he might go to her. Her eyes snapped toward him as her own steps faltered, but only for a heartbeat. He stopped instantly and Adeline kept walking.

Her feet ached from walking barefoot on the leaf-littered floor, pebbles digging into her toes. But it didn't hurt as much as the sting—nor the one in her neck. She had scrubbed the blood away until the skin turned red. It wouldn't scar; she knew that. Adeline already had scars like that on her shoulders and on her scapula, and it took more strength than she possessed to leave marks like those behind. Not that it had mattered then. By the time she had noticed the water shifting its shade, her thoughts were no longer her own.

They still weren't.

It's still there, the voice echoed in her head. You're not clean yet.

The voice, it sounded just like hers. The face was just the same, too. Even the way she moved. Those green eyes were looking straight at Adeline now.

Her steps faltered again. Her heart was an erratic piece of muscle, arms shaking around the trash bag. She wanted to run; she wanted to drop everything and run as far as she could. Hide. Disappear. Scream until her lungs give out. She didn't want to hear that voice again; she didn't want to see that face.

Blood, it smelled of blood; blood and rot. The eyes were different, though—the shape, not the color. And they were soft. Her mother's eyes had never been soft. She wasn't her mother.

She wasn't her mother.

Adeline forced one step. Then another. And another—she couldn't let them see. She couldn't let them know who she truly was.

Broken, broken, broken.

She ignored the voice. She ignored the silence. She ignored the smell. And when she reached the car, and that man—Victor, his name is Victor—took the bag from her hands and stuffed it into the trunk, she ignored him too. But when Daryl approached, her pink sneakers in hand, he was a little harder to ignore.

Victor opened the back door for her and it should have been her salvation. But Adeline found herself unable to move. Her body always had a way of betraying her—her scars were the lines filling the pages of that same old story.

Why did Adeline want to run into his arms, when she hated him, as much as she hated her father?

Why were her hands looking for his callous ones?

Blood was sliding down her fists again. She had left the bandages behind and those dirt-stained clothes too, still reeking of dead people's blood. Because Daryl would have to look at them, even when she was long gone. He would look at them and he would be forced to remember.

Something hot burned in her veins, loud and wild and clear, the same way it had burned just moments ago. It told her exactly what to do.

Maybe the world would end.

Maybe Adeline would be lost on some nameless road, as they once believed Emily had been.

Or maybe she would grow up, far away in California, and forget she ever knew him.

And the last image burned into his memory would be a girl who couldn't stand to meet his eyes.

A girl who denied him a goodbye.

She snatched the sneakers from his hand and without as much as a glance, she entered the car.

The door slammed shut beside her.

Daryl didn't move—he didn't breathe, not really. Adeline was invisible to him through the dark window. Nothing but a shadow now.

What I am doing?

"Most gas stations we passed were dry," Victor added, voice distant in Daryl's ears, like it was coming from underwater. "We barely made it here with what we had. You won't find much fuel between here and anywhere."

"Good to know," Merle muttered.

Victor nodded again and no one said anything else. Every piece of information worth sharing had already been laid on the table—Adeline's antibiotics and her sleeping patterns. The last part had slipped out through one of Merle's offhand jokes, nothing that Daryl was planning on mentioning. Would she sleep better now? He hoped she would.

After a few seconds in silence, Victor moved around the red SUV, opening the passenger door for Emily. She hesitated for a second, long enough to glance back at Daryl. The look she gave him wasn't angry anymore. Not exactly. Something else.

Daryl didn't meet it and Victor shut the door once Emily was in, then circled the hood, opened the door and:

"Thank you," he said, looking at Daryl.

Not thank you for taking care of her, not thank you for waiting for us.

Just thank you.

"Yeah, yeah, you're welcome," Merle answered, his tone pure sarcasm. "Just livin' to serve."

Victor glanced at Daryl once again before climbing into the driver's seat. The engine grumbled to life and with it, a sudden rush of urgency gripped Daryl's chest, stealing his breath and driving his feet forward before he even realized.

What the hell am I doing?

He could run forward and stop them. Jump into the front seat and make them turn around. He could convince Merle to forget Fort Benning and follow them to Atlanta.

If it weren't for the damn alternator issue.

The one that bought them more time. A delay he hadn't wanted but didn't fight hard enough. A choice that turned around and bit him in the back.

But even if that hadn't been it... for what?

That was it.

It was done.

His part was done; she was safe now. She had a good family. All they had to do was drive for two more goddamn hours and she would be alright. His part was done. So Daryl stood still and watched as the car rolled down the road, feeling something tremendously heavy in his chest.

But life would keep going, wouldn't it?

Lilly's daughter was safe and Jason's sister had a family to care for her—that was how he paid the debt he owed them.

But who the hell was he fooling? He would never forget about the little girl with the pink helmet and him? He wasn't going to lie to himself about that either.

Maybe he was the last thread tying her to the life she knew. Maybe somewhere between that night at the memorial and now, he became the hands she looked for in the dark.

And Daryl knew—Adeline would never forgive him.

What am I doing?

༻⁕༺

No death was a finer match to a man such as Earl Treadwell than the one waiting for him on the inside of an old rust-bitten Ford Bronco, forgotten in his shop for more years than he cared to count, just like he had been. But if the choice had been his, he would've picked a quieter end.

A lonelier one.

The windshield was cracked, spiderwebbed through the center like ice. His blood smeared the steering wheel. Left arm useless. Right hand trembling. Shotgun empty. If it had been the other way around—if the gun still had something to give—maybe he would have ended it right then and there.

But Earl had never been the kind of man to waste a bullet.

Outside, the dead slammed against the hood. Guttural moans. Nails clawing at paint. The girl's blood was still on his shirt—the little red shoe still on the floor. He didn't look at it. He didn't need to.

Whatever hours he had left, they would be spent with that image burned into his mind—her small body crumpled on the ground.

And always, always, that other girl—the redhead—haunting the corners of his thoughts.

It wasn't easy to forget something so small and so furious.

The boy—Earl would never forget about him either. The kind that lingers with you, he was. Jason. Earl wasn't done mourning him yet. Those Dixons had a way of creating roots inside an old loner's heart.

After all those years by himself, they had reminded him there were still a few things worth living for and Earl found, at that moment, he wasn't ready to leave yet.

He still hoped to see Daryl finally turning into a man. He thought the boy would be the thing to give him meaning, but maybe he was just the start.

And that was all Earl had left now—a fool's hope.

He tried to bargain against his destiny, but for what? The certainty of his fate, however, wouldn't stop him from remembering.

Just a few more hours and they would've made it.

He should've told Sam to keep driving when they saw Atlanta smoking. But Martha had a soft heart and her boy was just like her. Still, they should've known better than to stop for strangers.

But the kid was scared—they had a little girl. And the mother was crying. What kind of man turns his back on that?

There were only a couple dozen cars on the highway when they arrived—just the stragglers, the late ones. Against the thousands upon thousands that had come and gone, they were lucky to have shown up late.

At least, that's what they thought.

But luck's a strange thing.

As it had turned out, they were better than most—they still had something to go back to. Most of those people didn't. Either by not having fuel, or a home, or even a town to get back to, they had been left to rot there. Some had witnessed the city fall, others only heard the tales—Napalm, they said.

Vietnam all over again.

Hank was one of those people—that was the father. Ellen was the mother. The girl was called Mary, a sweet name for a sweet thing with her pigtails tied in red ribbons.

They'd made friends quickly—two families thrown together by bad luck. And then someone had followed them. Or maybe the bastards were already there at the shop.

It didn't matter now.

Some people accepted the end of the world faster than others. Maybe that was their mistake—thinking they were still playing by the old rules.

Stupid. They were so stupid, making noise, arguing over food. And Hank was so nervous. And when the man stepped too close—just a bit too fast—he pulled the trigger without thinking twice.

Earl could still hear the gunshot, still see Ellen falling back, still hear Martha's scream.

Then the dead came.

It didn't matter how many bullets they had left. It just wasn't enough. There were just too many of them.

And it was fast. He still couldn't wrap his mind around that fact—how quick it all happened.

Now, the sun setting behind the one place he had ever called a home, he was the last man standing, surrounded by the dead—the ones walking and the ones that weren't—and a fresh bite on his arm.

He hoped Daryl would be far away now—the boy he loved as a son.

He prayed the girl was with him.

Yes, an end fitting for a man such as Earl.

Hold her close, Daryl, he prayed. The world is not the same as before.

Chapter Text

"Adeline."

Her mother was turning back to face her.

No.

It was Emily. It was her aunt.

She had the strange feeling that Emily had tried calling her before.

Unlike looking at a picture, every time Adeline looked at her, even though she had spent the last few days trying to remember her mother's face as it once was, something inside her twisted—shifting, mutating, settling.

And at the end, once her mind was done pulling at her strings, who could say what would remain? What used to be her, nothing but a grotesque, shapeless form.

"We're gonna have to stop at your house, alright?" Emily said once she noticed Adeline was listening. "We need to pick up a few things for the trip. Some clothes, or whatever else you might need, okay?"

It didn't seem real—Adeline was with them now.

It didn't seem real how terrifying it felt.

My house. My house. My house.

Her brain slowly pieced the words together into meaning, dragging her back to reality. Her heart, however, was having trouble deciding on what to feel.

When she first got in the car, she felt like crying. When it pulled away, she felt like screaming. Then, when she did none of those things, she felt herself shattering into enough tiny parts that she could feel it in her entire body.

Dying.

It was the feeling of dying—a part of herself slowly giving itself to destruction.

She knew how to name it as if it had been whispered into her ear, carved into her very being. It was an instinct, because all living things are born knowing how to dread it. And still, she felt it—the paralyzing certainty that there was a piece of her that would never truly belong to her again.

It was what pure anguish felt like. One day, Adeline would learn how to say it.

"You don't have to go in if you don't want to, alright?" Emily said again, more gently.

But no—Adeline wanted to. She didn't know why. Not exactly. But she did.

Jason.

Jason was the reason, wasn't it?

Suddenly, she felt sick.

There was a picture of him, but the picture was in the black trash bag in the trunk and Foxy was in there too.

Then came the urge to cry.

There was a moment when she wanted nothing more than to be back in Jason's room again. She remembered the feeling now—the hunger for safety. Her very first memory; the first feeling she ever learned how to name.

Adeline remembered the urge for it when Jason died. She remembered searching for a lullaby in the sound of footsteps in the dark.

She searched for it later, when those same footsteps followed her as a shadow and that shadow's name was Death.

And finally, she found it—in the shape of a stranger's hands. Only to have it taken from her again.

Or perhaps, it had never been hers.

Was that the reason for that painfully heavy weight in her chest?

She did not know. But Adeline was starting to believe that the search would never end. Our bodies are always looking for what will finally ground us in place, whatever that might be. No matter how wrong it might be in the process.

"I wanna go in," she said at last, voice so faint she thought it might vanish in the wind. Even after those words were said, she still felt confused, as if somebody else had said them.

But Emily had still heard them. There was a flicker in her eyes—something close to understanding. In that moment, she looked as far from Adeline's mother as anyone could ever be.

༻⁕༺

For as long as Adeline could remember, she had always hated the path that led to her house. Every curb, every turn, every familiar tree—each one a fuel for the little creature that lived inside of her, clawing at her heart. And always, without fail, Adeline would look toward the garage for her father's pickup truck—black as smoke, as imposing as the presence of its owner.

Now, even knowing with all her heart that she wouldn't find it, she still looked. And still, something ached when it wasn't there. Once, though she despised herself for it, all she would have felt was relief. How many times had she wished he would never come back? How many times had she wished the same for her mother?

A twisted thing, Adeline was. Oh, she couldn't deny it anymore, could she? Not when the evidence was scattered across her body. Not now, when she saw herself through the same eyes he used to see her.

The agonizing little creature from those bygone days was nothing compared to the pure panic she felt as Victor opened the door for her. How could an empty house be more terrifying than a crowded one?

When she unbuckled her seatbelt and stepped onto the grass, every movement felt as if it belonged to someone else's body, and herself nothing but a distant, unreliable spectator.

Her gaze didn't drift toward the little blue house, nor to the porch with its scent of wilted flowers—but to the patch of grass where she could still see the blood.

Dark.

Thick.

Alive.

His crimson footsteps still lingered as a specter, almost as vivid as the ones that visited her in dreams. And the urge to follow them remained, battling against the one to burn everything to the ground.

Drowning in her memories, her heart torn in past, present, and possibility, she let herself be guided to the door by an unfamiliar hand on her shoulder. She climbed the porch steps, and they reminded her—they were the first ones. Ahead lay a far greater staircase. Her heart ached in a way that almost stopped her from moving.

When Victor opened the door, all he could think was that bringing Adeline inside might have been a terrible mistake—while Emily knew that some steps, however painful, simply had to be taken. And Adeline believed—at least for now—that she could take them.

She should have realized it right there in the living room, but everything was still too unreal to fully comprehend.

And when her fingers flicked the switch and the lights didn't turn on, her mind didn't jump to the conclusion that it was because the world was somehow falling apart.

When her footsteps creaked across the wooden boards, her eyes skimming the quietly abandoned room, she was still walking through a distant, familiar dream.

It was still a life paused—not a forgotten one—waiting patiently to be resumed, and each step she took was an inch closer to everything she had left behind.

Until the floorboards turned darker beneath her.

In the fading light left in the room, a subtle gleam of red against the grain.

Her eyes stayed fixed on it, as if daring it to vanish.

It never did.

She took a step back, shoulder brushing against the wall, and in that touch, what was a house suddenly became a cage.

The silence in the room screamed. The shadows stretched beneath her. The scent in the air—dust and wood and something faintly sour—clung to her throat like smoke.

Adeline stumbled toward the stairs—she still remembered her purpose, holding on to whatever part of her that was still left standing.

So many steps—each one a mountain.

Each one telling a story written in blood.

The light didn't reach there—everything above, a void, waiting to swallow her whole. The house had gone too still, holding its breath, waiting for her to remember, draining the very air from her lungs.

The walls and the floor blurred into one, and every step became thunder in her ears. She felt herself moving, but her body wasn't responding to her. Her knees reached the floor and she was up on her feet again. Something fell beside her, shattering in tiny pieces, crushing beneath her shoes.

She was outside.

There was a voice calling for her—she didn't want to hear it. There was a place—one still unscathed, still safe, haven. She walked and walked and ran and ran, and the voice kept calling. She reached the door and jiggled the handle.

It never opened

She knocked and slammed and kicked, a desperate hope it would open out of mercy.

It never did.

A sob tore through her chest before she could swallow it down. Her legs gave way beneath her. She slid to the floor, curling into herself—knees to chest, arms tight around them, as if she could hold her whole body together by sheer will.

Adeline never would.

Broken.

Broken.

Broken.

༻⁕༺

"Honey," her husband called.

Honey.

Husband.

He wasn't her husband last week. And honey wasn't a word she had ever imagined coming out of his mouth again.

Emily would have to get used to them again—the endearments that had always slipped so easily from his lips. In a way they never quite did from hers.

He climbed the stairs to meet her, sitting beside her on the top step.

"Are you alright?" he asked, placing a gentle, steady hand on her knee.

The simple act was enough to quiet the anxiety gnawing at her ribs. Emily was still, utterly and completely, his.

"Uh-hum," she hummed, nodding faintly. But she saw it—the glint in his eyes as he caught her in her lie.

Pain.

She would have to get used to that too—letting him see her. Letting him in.

But some habits were harder to break than others.

"It'll pass..." Emily murmured, more to herself than to him, "...the guilt."

"You couldn't have known," he said, and there was such quiet conviction in his voice that, for a heartbeat, she almost believed him.

Almost.

But all she gave him was a tired, fleeting smile. There would be time for everything—to feel, to unravel, to regret. But not now.

"How is she?" Emily asked.

Victor exhaled slowly, his voice a soft drift. "Still there."

"Do we wait it out?" she asked. "Do I go talk to her? Do I..." Her voice trailed off, ending in a helpless breath.

Emily had no idea what she was doing. She hadn't, not since the moment the phone rang.

What drove her all the way there wasn't confidence in her ability to raise a child, because she was fairly certain she had none.

It was an instinct.

She couldn't let Adeline under his roof one more night. Not with him—the man who had failed to save her sister. It didn't matter what that Sherrif had told her.

It had been a conviction, though right now, even that didn't feel steady in her hands, not after what she had seen.

But if someone was to peel her open far enough, past all her moral high ground and survival reflexes, they would find it—the actual reason: guilt.

But Emily never liked digging that deep.

Not unless there was a drink in her hand.

Yes. Such mother material she was.

"Let me handle this," Victor said. "I think she'll take it better from me."

She looked at him sideways. "Why you?"

"I'm neutral here," he said. "I'm Switzerland."

She raised a skeptical eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm not you," he explained gently, "and I'm not him, either."

She still didn't quite follow.

"We have to admit it got a little... tense," he added. "I don't think she really wanted to leave."

Emily looked away. She had seen it too.

"And also..." he added with a quiet smile, "it's a little uncanny."

"What's uncanny?"

He gave her a look—arched brows, crooked smile.

Emily blinked. "Oh..."

"Let me do this," he asked, a soft smile. "I'm good with broken things."

Emily smiled.

Kintsugi, he used to say. That Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. Treating the damage as part of the story, rather than something to disguise.

Victor had never given up on her. No matter the damage he found, no matter how sharp the cracks.

If Emily didn't have a single motherly bone in her body, Victor was made entirely to be a father.

But she still needed to hear him say it.

"Do you think we've made a mistake?" she asked.

He turned to her as he stood, brows knitting. "What do you mean?"

The words faltered on her tongue. But Victor understood.

"No," he said. "No, we didn't. We'll make it work. One day."

༻⁕༺

It wasn't hard for Victor to find the key he was looking for—the one with the bright red Garage tag was a dead giveaway.

Outside, Adeline hadn't moved. She was sitting on the ground, back against the garage, her face tucked against her knees, arms locked tightly around them. When she heard him approach, her blue eyes snapped up.

"It's just me," he said in a soft way.

The panic was slowly replaced by something close to indifference as she looked away from him to some invisible spot on the road.

"May I?" he asked, holding up the key. She didn't answer, but didn't object either.

Victor unlocked the door and pushed it open with a creak. Then he crouched in front of her, offering his hand without pressure. Adeline didn't take it. She rose on her own with a wince he pretended not to notice. She still wouldn't look at him.

Without a word, she stepped inside.

Adeline went straight to the Harley. The canvas cover hung over it like a curtain, too heavy for her to lift easily. She looked around the space until she spotted the small step stool tucked in the corner.

She managed to drag it over without much trouble. It wobbled on its base as she climbed up, but she didn't let that stop her. With one hand braced the step for balance, she tried tugging the heavy canvas cover loose from the handlebars. Her arm wasn't long enough. Shifting her weight, she steadied herself with her knees instead and managed to loose the edge, tossing the folded portion over the top and letting it fall behind the seat. She climbed back down and pulled the rest of it off by the tail, letting the cover slump to the floor in a heap.

Adeline sat down on the cold concrete in a single, fluid motion, directly in front of the saddlebag, reaching inside for that angel-winged vest.

It still carried his scent. Clutching it to her chest, she allowed the tears to fall freely. Now, they were gentle, not rampaging as before, when they had drained the last drops of strength from her limbs. That was always what came after—the hollowing out.

But the thing about being this drained was that all she could feel was what remained: the pain.

And the longing.

Adeline couldn't remember ever feeling so small, and that unguarded thing inside her heart had learned to crave for one person and one person only.

But he wasn't there.

༻⁕༺

By the time the man finally spoke, the tears had quieted into faint sniffs.

"That's some bike," his voice drifted in from the doorway.

Adeline stiffened. Since the moment she walked in she had been able to feel his presence there—a shadow on the wall.

Silent, and far too close.

He wasn't welcome there. It wasn't his, that sanctuary.

It belonged to one living soul beside herself. Even after everything.

"Is that a Fat Boy?" he asked.

She glanced at him upon those strange words, completely clueless at first, until she realized: he was probably talking about a Harley model.

"It's an '86 Sportster," she corrected, her voice tired, eyes turning back to the Harley. "It was my brother's."

"He had good taste," he said, stepping closer. "And he didn't just ride it, he worked on it too. Those pipes aren't stock, and that handlebar's sitting a little higher than factory. Seat looks custom too... more compact."

She looked at him again, surprised. A little caught off guard. Curious, even.

"I had a bike once, too," he explained, leaning against the wall. "Different build. Sportier. Less soul."

Her heart leaped. "Really?"

"Yeah." He grinned. "But your Aunt Emily made me sell it. Said it was too loud. I guess I'm too old for it anyway."

Adeline frowned. Being old wasn't a good enough reason for not owning a bike, she thought.

"Merle has a bike and he's very old too," she stated.

Victor made a dramatic gasp. "Oh, ouch. I said old, not very old."

Adeline just rolled her eyes—not in a mean way, though.

"How old do you think I am, then?" he asked.

"Seventy-two," she said quietly, with not much energy left.

"Hey!" He placed a hand over his chest, mock-offended. "I'm not even fifty yet, okay?"

They fell into a quiet lull. Adeline was feeling tired, her cheek resting lightly against her knees.

"This vest," Victor said after an embarrassing silent moment, "was it your brother's too?"

She hesitated, then gave him a single slight nod.

"You wanted to pick up some of his things from his room? Is that why you wanted to come in?"

Adeline turned her face away and her stomach twisted with a tangle of feelings—fear and some form of expectation, but also a deep shame. Both for the way she had reacted back in her house, but also for the way his words made her feel... raw.

She had some notion that she was, very often, as easy to read as an open book—Daryl had also somehow realized, through her little outburst, that the reason she wanted to come back to her house was simply the desire to have a piece of Jay for herself.

But letting that man see it was different. And his gentleness towards it was beginning to overwhelm her.

It was too big of a contradiction.

"It's alright," Victor said gently. "I don't like stairs either. Too many steps."

"Old people usually don't like them," was the answer she knew how to give.

He smiled. "No, we don't."

Adeline frowned, just for a second—he was confusing her. She could feel his gaze linger on her for a moment longer before he spoke again, this time with careful softness.

"You know... I could go to his room and pick up a few things for you, if you want," he shrugged lightly. "I could use the exercise."

Her heart skipped. Adeline didn't know what to say to that.

"Would you like that?" he asked again, gently.

She hesitated for a second. Even though it cost her to admit she wasn't able to take those steps for herself, it was too good of an opportunity to miss.

She nodded, very faintly. But it was there.

Victor smiled.

༻⁕༺

A few long minutes later, when Victor returned to the garage, he was holding, victorious, a water-green backpack in his hands. Inside, everything she had shyly asked him for—and a few things she hadn't, but he had a feeling she would've wanted as well.

There was Jason's camera, tucked neatly inside its case, along with the charger. His leather cord necklace with the feather pendant. Her beaded cuff bracelet. A few photos she recognized from the cork map.

The photo Daryl had given used to be pinned on it, too. She felt it again, what had been chocking her since the moment she got into the car.

The longing for a hug.

The guilt.

She had so many pictures to remember Jay now, while Daryl had nothing.

It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter.

"When things get better," Victor said, sitting beside her on the floor, "we can come back here. We'll pack up anything else you want, keep it safe. Maybe even take it back to our place in L.A."

"We're not going to California, are we?" she asked, feeling torn.

"No," he replied. "Not for a while. For now, it's Atlanta."

She nodded slowly, picking up the leather cord from the pile she had assembled on the floor, trying to ignore that sting in her heart.

"Your Aunt Emily picked up some extra things for you. Some books, and a few others things she thought you'd like. We can show you later when we get there. You ready to go, sweetheart?"

Adeline didn't answer. She was too focused on the task at hand—trying to wrap Jay's necklace around her wrist.

Victor noticed the way her small fingers fumbled with it.

"Want some help?" he offered.

"Um?" she hummed.

"Here, let me show you."

He reached out and her hand flinched back instinctively at his touch.

"Oh—sorry," he murmured, immediately pulling back.

"Sorry," she whispered. Adeline glanced at him, feeling oddly ashamed.

"It's alright," he said with a half smile. "I know a knot. I can show you, if you want."

She hesitated. The pendant had always been a bit loose around her wrist—no matter how many times she tried, it never stayed. So, with her left hand, she handed it to him.

Victor didn't reach for her wrist. Instead, he demonstrated on his own arm, carefully explaining each movements as he went: he slid his hand through the loop, then wrapped the cord once around his wrist, leaving it loose enough to create a small gap. Then he threaded the pendant through the gap and tightened it—snug, but loose enough to slip a finger beneath.

Then he passed it back to her.

She mirrored the motion—clumsy, but carefully. She had to loop the leather several times around her wrist before tucking the pendant through the final cord. It sat almost perfectly—resting just above the pale marks on her wrist and forearm, hiding the worst of them from view.

It was just slightly uncomfortable, but then again, so was her bracelet.

"There you go," Victor said.

Adeline said nothing, eyes fixed on the bike as if nothing else existed. Once again, without the need of words, Victor understood.

"Well," he huffed, standing back on his feet. "We'll wait for you in the car."

Adeline didn't say anything, barely noticing as he left the garage and closed the door, feeling her heart being quietly torn apart inside of her.

It was the first time a goodbye had been granted to her. But she refused to take it—it still wasn't time. Not for that Harley-Davidson, too big to belong to her just yet. Not for her, that wingless little bird, still dreaming of chasing the crows.

The memories of freedom would come someday, but not now. If there was still anything she could hold still, to keep it from slipping away, it was this. She would hold back time, until the time was right.

The vest was still pressed to her chest. It would be her token—a promise, yet to be fulfilled.

Because it was never meant to be hers.

But it wasn't meant to be left behind either.

She stepped out of the garage and locked the door behind her, sealing away their most precious treasure. In her little water-green backpack, everything that had been her brother's.

She felt as if she would never set foot in her house again. And maybe it was supposed to hurt. But it didn't.

She walked away, past the porch and past the blood.

Adeline never looked back.

Chapter Text

The quieter the world became, the louder everything inside Adeline grew.

But even those deafening whispers couldn't compete with reality when it came calling.

A voice—a real one.

Not meant for her, not directly.

Still, she clung to it. It was a sound she had known since the womb. The instinct to seek it—to respond to it—was written into her. And Adeline not once had ever found the strength to resist it.

"Do you remember when we left?" the voice asked. "All the way to New Mexico we were lucky if we could move an inch, and now..."

"I know."

"...there's no one."

"I know."

And so the voice died again, as it did many times before.

How peculiar they were—that couple.

Awkward, one might even say.

Still a better word than terrifying—even if Adeline wasn't sure she had drifted far enough from that word to claim, with any real certainty, that she wasn't still afraid.

But scared, now, was simply the tip of the iceberg of tangled feelings and emotions she had been experiencing since the beginning of the ride.

Since the beginning of everything.

And while Adeline had found herself caught in thoughts that oscillated between unbearable and numb—distracted ones, almost dreamlike—staring out the window without really seeing anything, the two adults had spent the first part of the drive trying to fill the silence with... conversation.

A difficult task, the one to engage in light, easy talk in times like these. And maybe it was the quiet weight of the girl in the backseat, or maybe they still hadn't remembered how to talk to each other again, but their attempts were quick to die on their throats.

They were loud in other ways, though, at least from Adeline's perspective, desperately seeking something to make her forget. Whenever the road quieted, so did Victor, his eyes drifting to Emily in intervals too frequent to be casual. Emily didn't return them as often, only brief glances—soft ones—filled with a quiet tenderness that Adeline could see even from where she sat. His hand lingered always on her thigh, and hers responded with absentminded grace—fingers brushing, holding, forgetting to let go.

Silent touches. Gentle glances. Words that sounded uncomfortable in their mouths.

An innocent assembly of words Adeline would use in her attempt to comprehend the strange couple she was destined to spend the next years of her life with. She tried to find peace in the thought, but failed. Reality rarely offered comfort. She preferred to fix herself to dreams—whenever she could find it in her heart to do so.

Adeline forced her thoughts to drift to Atlanta and in the short stretch of time they were to build a new life there. But among the emptiness of the road, the suffocating feeling of isolation every time they passed something made of concrete only to find it deserted, and the scattered, abandoned cars they chose to ignore, it was best to keep that fragile thing called hope away from the evil, clawing hands of her poisoned mind.

So she used California as a refugee, instead—close enough to stir some kind of expectation, yet distant enough to feel unreal.

Distant enough so there was nothing to corrupt it.

And it was a pleasant reality, the one she had fixed for herself, once she began to imagine herself alone. It was peaceful, if she ever knew what that word meant. But only if she pictured herself older—older and different. Her breathing lighter, perhaps. She would pretend she wasn't so sad or so broken. She could be a girl with a motorcycle, maybe with a horse. A cowboy hat, even. But nothing she would ever cherish as much as she did her pink helmet. The one filled with butterflies.

Adeline wouldn't stay there long, though, not in California—the world was too big to settle. As big as the untamed heart she would sculpt for herself in dreams.

A still whole one.

But the faint sweetness her imagination offered slipped away once fuel stopped being a forgotten concern to turn into a very tangible one.

And so the tender glances turned to worried ones.

The casual touches became silent anchors.

And the tension of their words began to reach even Adeline's heart.

"We're almost out of gas," Emily commented once, glancing at the needle hovering just above the red. "Don't you think it's time to stop now? Maybe it's safer here."

"You really think so? If people heard about Atlanta, they probably came this way," Victor had replied, but in his voice, a hint of uncertainty. But as Emily said nothing for a moment, gaze fixed forward, he added:

"Look, I don't want to risk going through another Oklahoma for nothing, alright?" he said, gently—almost an apology. "It's better if we don't stop unless we absolutely have to. We'll be there soon."

His hand on her thigh. Emily holding it like a lifeline. And another long, unbearable hour of silence.

All eyes were now split between the gauge and the sky, which was shifting too quickly from the faintest shade of pink to the oppressive darkness of purple. If night rides had once been Adeline's favorite, now she was clinging to that descending Sun as if her own life was depending on it. It most certainly felt like it did. The smell of rot still clung to her skin, even if nothing but a twisted trick of her anxiety. Because Adeline had learned to fear the darkness almost as a second nature.

"Are we almost there?" Emily asked, looking at the gauge again.

"Any time now."

Adeline's eyes fixed on the road, noticing. Looking for any sign of the switch from trees to city. Her heart pounded heavily in expectation. No, it was fear, raw and undaunted—taking hold of her veins.

But Emily was the one to notice it first.

"You see that?" she said suddenly.

Victor hummed low in his throat. But outside the vehicle, nothing had changed—they were still surrounded by trees and pure silence. Still, she caught the way his eyes had shifted—no longer flicking toward Adeline in the rearview mirror, as he would every now and then, but fixed firmly on the road behind them. So she climbed onto her knees, peering out the back window.

It wasn't exactly a truck, not like the ones she was used to, at least, but there was no other word she could find for it. As it approached—faster than she would've considered safe—she noticed the green paint and the squared, rough frame. Military, she thought, something cold settling in her stomach. The vehicle closed the distance rapidly, headlights cutting through the dusk like knives. Then it swerved into the left lane, roaring past them as it finally overtook them, and the whole car shuddered as it did, like the truck was carrying a brief, rolling quake of its own.

Adeline caught a glimpse of the men
men in the back—the soldiers. Four in the bed of the truck, rifles strapped across their chests. Soon they were too far to make out anything clearly and all the remained in sight was the silhouette of the mounted gun at the rear, its long barrel aimed squarely in their direction like a warning.

"What do we do?" Emily asked, voice rising.

Victor didn't answer. The military truck kept going, but just a few minutes ahead, it slowed down, coming to a full stop and swerving into their path to block the road.

"Victor."

"I see it," he muttered. "Goddamnit."

Adeline's mind ran wild with the stories she had heard from Merle—soldiers shooting civilians, burning whole towns to the ground, not asking questions. She could still hear his voice, too casual for the horror in the words. Dust curled up around them as Victor slowed the car to a full stop, hanging in the air as the soldiers jumped down from the truck. One of them slung his rifle lazily over his shoulder. Another stretched and yawned like he had just woken from a nap.

Adeline couldn't see much of the front of the truck from where she sat behind Victor, but when two doors slammed shut, she was able to catch the sight from of the two men steping away from the cabin. The one in the passenger side had a cigarette on his month, aligning himself beside the others. The driver, after saying something she couldn't understand, kept walking, heading straight toward them.

His face was tense—thick brows drawn, dark eyes heavy and unblinking. Something in his expression bordered on fury, though it never fully surfaced. His haircut still resembled a military style, but it had grown uneven, curls beginning to reclaim their shape, same as the beard along his jaw, like it had been weeks since he last touched a razor.

Each step he took synched so perfectly with the pounding of Adeline's heart she could almost hear them from inside the car. He stopped just inches from Victor's door and by an unfortunate consequence, Adeline's. 2LT REYES, she read on the patch on his chest, black embroidery against olive green.

"Turn off the engine," he demanded. His voice was muffled, but even so, she could hear how deep it was. Victor hesitated for a few seconds before complying.

"Hands where we can see them," Reyes continued, tone even. "We're not here to hurt you. Just need to ask a few questions. Driver first. Out of the vehicle, nice and easy."

Victor opened the door. The engine rumbled one last time before going quiet and he stepped out, hands raised, each movement careful. Reyes turned to Emily next.

"Ma'am. Same for you. Step out slowly."

Emily swallowed hard, eyes almost a pled as she glanced at Adeline in the backseat one last time before stepping out.

"The girl too," Reyes said.

Adeline's heart skipped a beat, but before she could move, she heard Victor's voice:

"May I?"

The lieutenant gave a nod. The air cooled down as Victor opened her door, crouching a little before her, extending a hand.

"It's alright, sweetheart," he said. His voice sounded like it was trying to be reassuring, but there was a tremble to it that was impossible to miss. "C'mon."

Hoping she didn't look as scared as she felt, she unclenched her stiff fingers from the water-green backpack. The seatbelt rasped against her neck as she fumbled with the buckle. Her trembling hand found his and she stepped out, legs giving under her like jelly as he guided her forward, always keeping her slightly behind him. Beside them, Emily stood still, looking straight at Adeline—calm on the outside, but clearly more uneasy than Victor.

"Anyone bitten?" Reyes asked.

"No," Victor answered.

"Anyone armed?"

"No," Victor repeated.

Reyes lifted a hand and gestured toward one of the soldiers lingering by the truck—the passenger. A few unmoving seconds passed before the man finally leaned forward from the truck, crushing his cigarette under his boot. He walked toward them with the sluggish indifference of someone who had nowhere else to be.

Dark blonde hair and a darker growing beard. His face was sunburned raw and his vest hung open over a stained, sweat-darkened shirt. He was nothing like his neatly uniformed companion and more like someone coming straight out of war.

There was something wrong in his stillness, eyes too empty and unmoved by anything around him. Adeline had never seen someone so bored and yet so disturbing at the same time.

He went straight to Victor, patting him down roughly without so much as a warning. He moved on to Emily next: he didn't say a word as he ran his gloved hands down her arms, to her waist, her legs, and ankles, no gentler with her than he had been with Victor. Adeline noticed Emily's jaw tightening.

Then the man looked at her and Adeline stepped back instinctively.

"She's just a kid," Emily snapped and he took another step forward.

"That's enough," Reyes intervened.

The soldier turned to him slowly, as if he hadn't heard it right the first time, not looking as bored anymore.

"Sir?"

"I said that's enough. Leave the girl alone."

The soldier stared at the lieutenant, his disturbing eyes now slightly narrowing. The silence stretched among them and Adeline's chest tightening in response.

But, finally, he stepped back.

With a tilt of his chin toward the car, Reyes gave a silent order. The soldier—SGT. MILES, her eyes caught—moved without as much as a nod, that same seemingly deliberate slowness from before.

Adeline didn't turn to look and listened as doors opened, zippers unfastened, and possessions were moved around until the footsteps grew louder again.

"Almost missed it," Miles said, handing something to Reyes—a pistol. He turned it on his hands, assessing. His unfazed eyes flickered to Emily. He took a step. Then another. Adeline's feet moved back without her realizing, until her spine brushed the front of the car.

"It's a good one," he stated, voice low. "Has a nice grip if your hands are small. I'd say this counts as armed, don't you think?"

His gaze was aimed sharply at Emily. Adeline was as stiff as a statue and Victor was on the edge of doing something reckless. But Emily was calm, returning the gaze, sharp as steel, matching his own.

"Might not kill a man in Kevlar, but it'll do some damage, if you know where to aim," Miles added, his tone edging on mockery.

"It's alright," Reyes said. "I'm sure it's just for walkers. Isn't it, ma'am?"

Walkers?

His gaze lingered, waiting.

"Right," Emily replied, voice contained.

"You don't mind if I keep it for now, do you?" he asked, though it didn't sound really like a question, finally stepping back. He tucked the pistol into the back of his belt. His eyes flicked to Victor next. "Your names."

"Victor Hwang," Victor replied, voice tighter than Adeline had ever heard. "My wife, Emily," he gestured gently, "and our niece, Adeline."

He added after a pause, "Her parents didn't make it," he explained before the lieutenant could ask it himself. "We came from Los Angeles to pick her up. We were on our way to Atlanta. We heard there was a refugee camp."

A faint scoff echoed from behind him—Miles.

"Well, then I regret to inform you," Reyes said, undisturbed by the other man, "Atlanta fell. Two nights ago."

Fell?

"What?"

"It got overrun," Reyes explained. "They bombed it. There's nothing left but walkers now."

Adeline's heart slammed against her ribs. She looked up at Victor, whose chest was rising and falling too fast.

"What do you mean there's nothing left?" Emily's voice cracked.

"Fort Benning," Victor stepped in, his voice clipped, looking Reyes straight in the eye. "We heard about it. Has it been overrun too?"

Reyes looked away, jaw tightening. "Look, I'm not going to sugarcoat it for you. I don't know about Fort Benning. I don't know about anything outside of our own stretch of highway. We're flying blind here, same as you."

Daryl.

The name crossed her mind without warning.

It doesn't matter, she told herself. Right?

Adeline felt the sting behind her eyes again—tears she didn't choose, burning as sharply as acid. The names of the two poeple that had left her looped in her mind, echoing louder than any voice around her, feeding something deep in her chest. Something jagged. Something half-fear, half-hope.

It was growing without her permission, carving through her heart like a blade.

But as Adeline focused on her uncle, Emily's attention drifted to something else: his honesty. It wasn't a man holding on to any false pretense of control, except for the uniform he still wore. She wondered if that meant she could trust him.

Victor, upon those words, only realized what he had been fearing for miles now, with no heart to say it out loud: there was nothing left. Not an idea he could so easily accept, not with his wife and their ten-year-old niece under their care.

"There has to be something," he pressed. "Another checkpoint. Another camp. A—"

"We should just go," Miles interrupted, his voice sharp with impatience as he addressed Reyes. "It's getting dark."

The lieutenant didn't even glance at him. "Hold your position, Sargeant."

Miles kept his eyes on him for long enough for Adeline to feel it in her chest. But the sergeant simply shook his head to himself and stepped back again.

"We've got a setup about nine miles out—an airport," Reyes said. "Not much. Some tents, a few supplies, perimeter watch. If you need a place to stop for the night... it's what I can offer."

Miles scoffed loudly, marching toward Reyes. "We got enough mouths to feed as it is. What do you think Everett's gonna say about this?"

"They have a child," Reyes replied, finally meeting his eyes. His voice, for the first time, took on a sharper edge. His jaw was tight. Miles didn't respond. They locked eyes and for a moment, Adeline was sure they were locked in one of those silent arguments only grown-ups seemed to understand.

Then, at last, Reyes said, "I'll handle Everett."

His voice, that before had an even, controlled tone to it, was now low and clipped. Grim, even. But Miles simply shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and stepped back, this time leaning back to the truck, like he had finally given up.

"There are other civilians at the camp," Reyes told Victor. "Some kids too. Unless you're planning to spend the night on the road, you can come with us."

A pause followed.

"We don't want any trouble," Victor said.

"Trouble's exactly what you'll find if you stay this close to the city after dark. Just because they bombed it doesn't mean they're not still roaming."

Victor and Emily exchanged a long look. The woman's gaze flickered to Adeline, then back to him, and she gave a single, small nod.

"You can follow us," Reyes said. "Better try and keep up. Planning to be back by nightfall."

The lieutenant then, without a word, pulled Emily's gun from his belt and handed it to her. She didn't say anything either and Adeline felt something unnamed surging from this gesture.

Reyes turned back, hands raised in a gesture for the soldiers to return to the truck. Some obeyed immediately, while Miles lingered behind, locked in a short, tense exchange with the lieutenant.

Victor gently placed a hand on Adeline's shoulder, guiding her back toward their car. Once inside, after placing her pistol on the glove compartment, Emily checked the fuel gauge again. Her voice was tight when she spoke, "Do we even have enough fuel?"

Victor didn't answer right away. Then, "Guess we'll find out."

Adeline caught the way they looked at each other—silent and serious. That sort of look adults gave when they didn't want to talk in front of a child. But she said nothing, her fear too raw to find the words lost in her stomach. And even if she did, there would be no courage left to speak.

It was done.

Merle.

Daryl.

Dad.

Would she ever find them?

It doesn't matter, she reminded herself, repeating those words silently, almost as a prayer.

Adeline would never see them again, and it didn't matter.

Chapter Text

"That's the road to Fort Benning, isn't it?" Emily asked, eyes tracing the narrow strip of highway ahead.

The car rumbled steadily down the darkening road, the last light of day barely clinging to the horizon.

And her mind was refusing to quiet down.

"You still want to go there?" was her husband's answer.

"They gave us one night," she said, tired, rubbing her forehead.

"Maybe we can work something out, you know?" he offered, ever the optimist. "At least it's something. Fort Benning... not so much."

Emily tilted her head, skeptical. Her husband still carried a kind of hope she no longer recognized. Maybe she never did. That pistol had lived in her glovebox long before the first news reports ever hinted at what was coming.

"You don't know that," she said, keeping her tone as even as she could. "And... you know." She sighed. "They are headed there too."

Victor forced his eyes off the road to her. They carried a hint of surprise. "You're sure?"

Emily didn't answer immediately. She probably wasn't even thinking straight. The only thought crossing her mind was the six corpses around those two men and Adeline, safe and sound, behind him.

Two brothers built for survival—it comforted her in a strange way.

"If it's still standing," Emily said carefully, "do you think they might already be there?"

"I don't know," Victor sighed, shifting in his seat. "The hood was up, they were digging around the engine. Didn't look like a quick fix. My bet? They'll wait 'til morning."

"So they are still there?"

"Probably."

Emily glanced into the backseat. Adeline sat curled toward the window, small hands pressed tightly to her knees—as if trying to ground herself—face half-hidden by her hair.

The dusk had swallowed her whole.

All that rage in Adeline's eyes and that deafening silence coming from Daryl fucking Dixon, as if he were being pulled apart right in front of them—it all meant something. That little girl? She was already broken. In those blue, wild eyes, the shadow of her mother. The mother of her mother. Generations of ruin they had both inherited.

Emily would have given anything to know how to fix it—to not deepen the cracks even more.

Her husband was right. That camp was a certainty when nothing else seemed to be anymore. If even a place that was supposedly fortified had succumbed to the dead, what was there to say the same hadn't happened to a fort? To everything else?

And there was that feeling, deep in her chest, that she did not dare say out loud, that things were far worse than she had allowed herself to believe. Has the world indeed ended? All of that talk of apocalypse, and humanity doomsday, had turned out to be not so far from the truth? The emptiness they had witnessed for the past days, the lack of human presence, all the cars left forgotten on the side of the road, really meant what she thought it did?

There were so many questions, so many what if's swirling in her mind right now. But Emily had to wait. Not a conversation worth having in front of a child, especially after everything she had been through.

A moment alone with Victor—that was what she needed. And later, a serious, no-bullshit talk with that lieutenant, as soon as she could catch him without an audience. If anyone would have anything close to real answers, it would be someone from the U.S. military.

"How much longer until we get there?" Emily asked.

But as the words left her mouth, as if jinxed, the SUV lurched once, a dry cough rattling from under the hood. The engine stuttered again, a little louder, like something choking on its last breath.

"Shit," Victor muttered.

Emily's stomach dropped. "No, no, no," she said, almost pleading. "You've got to be kidding me."

Victor flicked the headlights once. Up ahead, the truck slowed, pulling over to the side of the road alongside them. Boots crunched against gravel and dirt. Shapes moved through the dark around them. A moment later, Reyes approached, one hand raised against the glare of the headlights.

"What happened?" he asked.

Victor lowered the window. "We're out of gas."

Reyes's eyes flicked to the vehicle. "That a Q7?"

Victor nodded.

"Diesel?"

"Gasoline only."

"Goddammit," Reyes growled. "Just leave it."

"Leave it? What—here?"

Before Reyes could say anything, a soft whistle from the trees drew their attention. "Two incoming," someone called out in a whisper-shout and Adeline's breath hitched. Her eyes snapped to follow the direction Reyes's face had turned—toward the deep, dark forest across the highway. She squinted, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the dusk, and there they were, two figures stumbling out of the trees—monsters.

"Oh my god," Emily gasped and her hands flied up to her mouth.

Before the their feet could even reach the asphalt, the forest erupted with the deep roar of heavy gunfire. Adeline cried out, hands shooting up to cover her ears; she felt like her head might burst open. Another shot followed and this one only numbed her. Heart hammering against her ribcage, slowly—cautiously—she peeled her hands away from her ears, half-expecting another blast, and dared a glance toward the tree line: two bodies lay sprawled on the grass; heads gone and blood spread in wide, ugly pools beneath them.

"Miles, what the hell?!" Reyes bellowed.

Fighting the spiraling urge to dig her nails into them, to not bleed all over Victor's car, Adeline pressed her hands hard against her knees. Nausea climbed up her throat and she forced it back down. The images swirled behind her eyes; images that would never really leave her.

Is this it? Is it always going to be like this?

"Adeline," her aunt called, twisting around in her seat, "are you alright?"

Her wide eyes snapped to Emily; it took her a second too long to respond—a quick, not-so-convincing nod. Emily frowned and her mouth opened to press further, but Reyes's voice sliced through:

"Dammit," he cursed, leaning into Victor's window, a damp curl sticking to his forehead. "That noise? Is only gonna bring more of 'em. You can stay out here chasing gas if you want, but I'll tell you right now: that's how people get killed."

Silence.

A long beat of indecision and locked gazes—then, surprisingly, "No."

It was Emily. Her hands were already on the door, stepping out in heavy, purposeful strides.

"You can't tell us to leave our car in the middle of fucking nowhere and take us to a place we don't even know if we're allowed to stay," she snapped at him and soldier around them raised their guns at the movement. Miles jumped down from the back of the truck, heading her way, and Reyes stepped in front of him, hand raised in a halting gesture. Victor was already halfway out of the car when the lieutenant barked:

"Lower your weapons!"

The soldiers obeyed almost instantly—except for Miles. He shot his lieutenant an incredulous Are you really gonna let her talk to you like that? kind of look. But he complied, lowering his rifle and stepping back—though never too far. Emily let out a slow breath.

"I don't see you having much of a choice here," Reyes said.

"But we do, don't we?" she replied, tone steady, crossing her arms. "We stay here and look for gas in the morning, just like you told us."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His hand dragged over his face for a second, like he was trying to scrape the exhaustion off it. "You're gonna risk your kid's life over a damn car?"

That told Emily everything she needed to know—but still, she waited.

"I'm not going to risk our only means of navigation for a shot in the dark," she retorted. "Not for one night."

That was it. Her hand was played. Another morning in court, she told herself. Only this time, the stakes were real blood.

"Yeah?" He let out a mock breath. "Then what do you expect me to do, huh?"

"We need reassurances."

Reyes let out a dry, humorless laugh. "What do you think this is, huh? You think you're doing us a favor? That this is some kind of negotiation?"

"You could've left us there. Could've driven off and let us walk right into a city of walkers—but you didn't. You were defying a superior's order to help us. So what's different now?"

Reyes let out a bitter huff, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "Forget it," he snapped, walking away. "You're on your own."

"You don't want our deaths on your conscience," she said, voice carrying, cutting through the night. "And you know it."

He stopped mid-step. Emily knew Adeline was listening to every word, but she kept her composure. Getting her somewhere safe, with food and shelter, mattered more than whatever her words might stir in her heart.

"You can't walk away knowing you left a ten-year-old to die," she said. "Because that's what is gonna happen if you leave us here."

There was a pause, heavy and electric. Reyes turned back toward her. His eyes were hard. Tired. "You seemed pretty comfortable with that outcome before."

"It's not about my choice here, lieutenant," she continued, her tone now even. "It's yours. You decide what happens to us now."

She walked toward him, one slow step at a time.

"You really gonna take us to a place with no car, just so we have to leave the next day?"

Her voice softened—carefully measured, almost pleading, but not quite. A calculated crack in her armor.

"You know that this is worse than leaving us out here."

"I'll drive you back here myself," he said. "With enough fuel to cross the state if that's what it takes."

"And then what?" Emily pushed. "Go to Fort Benning? A place we don't even know is still standing? What happens when we find ourselves in another city overrun by the dead?"

Reyes didn't answer right away; his gaze slid toward the treeline, jaw working under the weight of unspoken thoughts. "It's not my decision to make," he said finally. His voice was rough, bitter around the edges. "I'm not running a democracy out here. I can't promise what will happen next. One thing is offering shelter. Another is bringing more mouths we can't feed."

"We can pull our weight," she pressed. "We won't be in anybody's way."

He shook his head, muttering, "Christ..." under his breath, low enough she wasn't sure he even meant her to hear, and Emily stayed silent, letting the discomfort stretch between them. Reyes finally looked back at her, jaw tight.

"I'll see what I can do," he muttered. "You have my word."

"And if this... Everett... doesn't let us in?" she asked, keeping her tone steady, forcing him to say it aloud. "What then?"

Reyes held her gaze for a long moment.

"Transport. Fuel. Enough supplies for three days," he said. "After that, you're on your own."

Emily nodded, exhaling through her nose. "Thank you."

Her hands were still shaking.

"Five minutes to grab what you can," the lieutenant said, turning on his heel. He gestured in circles and the soldiers began moving into a perimeter formation around.

Miles lingered a second longer. He looked at her—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. Was that... admiration? Emily didn't stick long enough to find out.

"Stay here, sweetheart," Victor told Adeline and she watched him go after Emily.

As they fumbled through the trunk, with Reyes never straying far from their side, it was impossible to hear what anyone was saying and that only made everything worse. The longer Adeline sat alone in the car, the more her chest tightened. Her eyes kept flickering between the trees and the open road, expecting the dead to burst through at any moment. It didn't matter how many people were around them, how many guns they had, or that she was safe inside the car—Adeline was still terrified beyond measure.

Emily wasn't; a fierce, fearless woman, impossibly brave—braver than Adeline could ever imagine herself becoming. Her aunt was significantly smaller than all of those men, unarmed, and yet, she spoke. And she did it in a way that people listened.

Was it because Victor was by her side? Adeline doubted—he was unarmed too. Emily had carried that bravery inside her and no one had given it to her.

The minutes stretched until a point that there was no movement around her anymore. The trunk was shut down. A shadow approached her window and Adeline's breath hitched, body recoiling almost on instinct.

But it was just her aunt.

"C'mon, sweetheart," she called softly, opening the door for her and crouching to the girl's level.

Oh, she didn't want to go! Not at night. Not when they were all surrounded by woods and monsters they would never see coming. She looked away, hiding the panic she knew was plain across her face, and reached out for Foxy in the seat next to her. The stuffed toy was her lifeline as she counted each breath; in and out.

A weak, pathetic thing in the shape of a girl. Emily was watching her and Adeline swallowed down the tears burning to the back of her throat. Was that what Adeline saw in her face worry or pity?

You have five minutes to grab what you can.

Why couldn't she move her legs? Surround by the song of birds and laughter and that which was only Jason's, Adeline should have been safe. She longed for the comfort of finding home in arms that used to hold her and a voice that used to know her name.

And Daryl.

Oh, she needed Daryl!

The tears coiled up in her eyes and she knew he wouldn't be mad at her for crying. Her father was quite the opposite and his all-righteous rage was ever unpredictable and without measure.

But both of them had let her go.

She squeezed her fists until they trembled, nails kept away from the broken skin—Emily was still watching her and she was the last person who hadn't run away. But Adeline couldn't help but be loud sometimes; she could never help doing things she knew she would regret.

But it was just sometimes.

Not lately. Now, Adeline was ruins and sharp edges—something waiting to collapse.

"Do you want me to get your Uncle Victor, sweetie?" Emily asked, gently. "He can help you..."

Adeline's face twisted into something sharper and her aunt's words trailed off.

Uncle Victor.

Uncle Daryl—he wasn't that to her.

To her, he'd been simply Daryl. A silent sort of protest, it was, because he wasn't hers as she'd never been his. Adeline was nobody's.

So she hopped down from the car and rubbed her hands over her eyes; she  wouldn't cry—Adeline was nobody's.

But when Emily took her hand in hers and wrapped an arm around her to guide her to the truck, Adeline flinched, only for a second; something in her chest eased enough to ler her breath and then again.

Emily was all warmth.

Her mother's touch had aways been cold.

Victor was still loading the last bag into the rear and Adeline's eyes followed him as he crossed back to the SUV. He fumbled inside for a moment and with Reyes's help, guided the car to the side of the road, just before the tree line. Her gaze stayed fixed on him until he jogged back toward them.

On her way to the truck, Adeline stumbled on something, foot slipping and landing on something metallic; a small golden tube, glinting on the ground; a few inches away, another one. They must have dropped from that mounted gun, she thought, whatever they were called.

"Adeline," Victor called. He'd already climbed into the truck bed and was now reaching out for her hands. Before she could react, a pair of hands slipped under her arms, lifting her clean off the ground with ease; she swallowed a surprised yelp—it was Miles, moving in one fluid, effortless motion as he handed her over to Victor. He caught her, carefully, easing her onto the bench.

Pulling herself up with a soldier's quick assist, Emily was next, hands brushing the cold metal for balance. She sat right beside Adeline and with without hesitating for a second, almost naturally, she pulled her niece close, one arm wrapped firmly around her shoulders, tucking her into her side as the truck rumbled back to life.

As they started moving, Victor settled himself beside them too. Without a word, he stretched one arm behind both of them, hand landing lightly on Emily's shoulder—a grounding gesture—and Adeline found herself tucked tightly between the two of them, sheltered on both sides.

"It's gonna be alright," Victor whispered to both of them or maybe to himself, voice low and sure against the noise of the engine.

It was a lie—Adeline knew that.

But for a while, she let herself believe it.

༻⁕༺

The rest of the path passed by surprisingly fast.

The truck's suspension smoothed some of the bumps. Nothing like Victor's SUV, but still, tucked tightly between him and her aunt, shielded from the cool night breeze, Adeline's eyelids began to grow heavy. Her head tilted gently toward Emily's shoulder—unwilled and unresisted.

The soldiers mostly ignored them except for the occasional glances, a quick flicker of curiosity, awkwardly mirrored before being just as quickly diverted. The night had left little room for conversation.

In the back of the truck, a few military crates were stacked loosely. Adeline noticed them in the dim light, the metal boxes with faded markings, rattling slightly with the movement. Probably supplies—the reason they'd been out there in the first place. It didn't seem like a very large amount. We got enough mouths to feed as it is, the sergeant had said.

It felt strange, worrying about that. Not having food the next day had never been something they really had to think about. Their father did, growing up. Food is a privilege, he used to say, and Adeline had always tried her best to earn it.

But not always.

As the last flickers of sunlight disappeared behind the endless woods, the truck pulled through a break in the tree line and onto a wide, open stretch of cracked pavement where the air smelled like scorched rubber and dried oil. Adeline stirred slightly, blinking the sleep from her eyes. When Reyes said the word airport, she expected something huge, perhaps gleaming terminals or towering glass walls, like in the movies. What she saw was smaller and even wounded.

The truck rolled past what must have been the terminal building: low, one-story structure, partially destroyed on its east side, blackened and crumbled as if an explosion had ripped through it. She couldn't make out the faded letters above the entrance. Behind it, rising almost apologetically into the dark sky, stood the control tower, lonely and battered, but still upright.

And as they approached and the shape of the military encampment became clear, it was difficult to ignore the sweat in her palms and the cold settling in her stomach.

Off to the side, where there might have once been a parking lot, stood a maze of tents, carefully lined up inside the fenced perimeter. Some were small, enough for a handful of people, and others were larger. Patches of light spilled from some of them—bulbs strung up, somehow still working—while other areas flickered with the orange glow of barrels filled with burning scraps and shadows danced across the thin canvas walls.

Beyond the tents, she spotted two larger structure looming behind the lot and another one to the side—hangars, she guessed. Were there still planes in there? The thought felt strange now.

At the entrance, the checkpoint had been—hastily—fortified. The old entrance gate was gone; in its place stood barricades of abandoned cars and sandbags stacked high around the lot's front. Four soldiers stood armed, guarding the only way in. One of them raised a fist and the truck slowed to a crawl. The soldiers exchanged a few indistinguishable words with Reyes, one of them nodding and jogging back toward the cluster of tents. Adeline caught only bits and pieces, enough to know they were going to fetch Everett.

They were let in and as the truck rumbled through the opening, more soldiers turned to watch. Some were seated on crates and others stood around weapon racks half-assembled, smoking in tight groups. A few straightened at the sight of new arrivals in the back of the truck. Their eyes followed them as they rolled deeper into the camp until it came to a halt near the center of the lot.

Following the soldiers, Victor was the first to climb down, helping Emily first, then Adeline. The cold hit her harder once her feet were on the ground and the wind was more real and cutting now than it'd been between the two protective bodies. Emily immediately inched closer to her, keeping her arm around Adeline shoulders—a human barrier at her back.

It made her feel... less small, if that even made sense. In a matter of hours, they went from two complete strangers to... something closer. Aunt and niece. Once again, Adeline welcomed the touch.

Beside them, a second truck—identical to the one they had ridden in—was parked facing the exit. Instead of parking it beside it, one of the soldiers—one who'd ridden in the back with them—climbed behind the wheel, slammed the door shut, and drove their truck away from the lot.

She turned to follow it with her eyes, watching as it veered onto a narrow path beside the terminal, heading for a second barricaded gate tucked along the rear fence, leading out to the dark, empty runways beyond. Her eyes caught more soldiers waiting by that entrance, likely to help unload whatever supplies they had brought. Everything beyond was impossible to distinguish.

"Stay here," Reyes told them, standing a few feet in front of them. "And most importantly—stay quiet. I mean it."

Emily didn't respond, but she understood the message. Don't go all lawyer on their commander.

He wasn't the man for that.

Eyes also fixed ahead, Miles drifted closer to the lieutenant. "You sure you wanna do this?"

"Don't have a choice." He turned to the sergeant. "You're gonna help?"

Miles scoffed. "Not gonna be a part of it." And walked away.

The rest of the soldiers who'd arrived with them still lingered nearby, scattered. A few of the ones already at the camp began to gather, one by one, trying—and failing—to look discreet in their curiosity. Most of the eyes were fixed on them and Adeline was grateful for the broad presence of Victor standing in front of her — a shield.

Neither of them had to wait long.

"What the hell is going on here?"

A thunder-like voice to an equally imposing presence. And every soldier in hearing distance straightened instinctively, more rigid and now alert.

There was no need for anyone to tell her the name attached to that voice. Everett had emerged from between the tents and he wasn't fully uniformed. A loose jacket and standard-issue boots, but his belt hung low and his sleeves were pushed up roughly, exposing scarred forearms. His hair was cropped short, features sharp and severe under the patchy light.

Reyes stepped forward. "We picked them up near the 92," he explained. "They were heading toward the city."

Everett's eyes, pale and hard, scanned across them, lingering with particular scrutiny on Emily, then Victor, and finally, Adeline. "Still doesn't explain what I'm seeing here."

Reyes paused, his eyes scanning the crowd around him as if they had a weight to them. "We can make room," he said. "They can pull their weight."

Everett let out a humorless laugh. "That's what you told them? Promises you can't keep?" He took a step closer. "You are making decisions for the whole camp now, Lieutenant? That it?"

"They have nowhere else to go."

"You think I give a damn about a sob story?" Everett shot back. "We're not here to collect strays. We're here to survive. You think charity's gonna fill fifty-two empty stomachs? You think it'll build fences? Stop the dead from breaking through?"

He paused and the silence between them sharpened.

"And what about the kids we already got here, huh? Did you think about them when you decided to bring more mouths to feed?"

Reyes had nothing to say to it. Everett's eyes stayed locked on him and Emily's grip on Adeline tighened. Ahead, Victor's feet gestured a step forward and stopped himself, as if he'd thought better.

Was that it?

They wouldn't be allowed to stay?

I'll handle Everett.

His words felt like a joke now.

But, then, "One night, then," Reyes said, quieter now. "That's all I ask."

Everett opened his mouth—he never had the chance to answer. Another voice cut across the lot:

"What is going on here?"

The man approached at a steady pace and his presence pulled the gaze of every soldier nearby. The group near the crates stiffened; even those who had been smoking dropped their cigarettes to the ground.

"Did Reyes bring a litter of lost puppies for us?"

The biggest man Adeline had ever seen in her entire life—at least seven feet tall, she was sure, though Emily and Victor would've probably guessed a solid six-five. His arm was thicker than her entire head and every man around him seemed to shrink in his shadow. His eyes scanned over the three newcomers with deliberate slowness before finally turning back to the others, and his scar became clear under the light: thick and shapeless, going from his temple down to his cheek.

"I was just telling Lieutenant Reyes here," Everett said stiffly, "that he can take those three civilians he saw fit to drag back and march them straight back to where he found them."

He turned his sharp gaze to the big man.

"Maybe you'd like to join them."

"C'mon, cap." His voice was deep; casual and way too calm. "I'm sure there's something we can do about this."

He took a slow step closer and his shadow stretched long under the burning barrel light.

"Are we leaving civilians for dead now? Little kids?"

The big man was almost leaning toward his captain. Everett's expression didn't so much as twitch; he looked utterly unfazed, not the least bit intimidated.

"After everything we've lost in Atlanta?" he pressed. "After everything Johnson sacrificed?"

There was a pause as those words were being processed by every single person around them. But Everett must have felt something different, because his answer was, "Really, Monroe?" His voice was clipped. "For them?"

"We've already lost too much," Monroe said, giving an easy shrug. He stepped back slightly, enough to sweep his gaze over the gathered soldiers, and his voice rose to be heard more openly, "If we start picking and choosing who deserves to live, what's left of us won't be worth saving."

Everett's jaw clenched and his hands flexed at his sides, but Monroe went on. His tone shifted, directed more toward the men than to Everett himself, "It's the living against the dead now, boys. And I say we ain't leaving breathing souls behind. Not if we can help it."

He waited and no one said anything. Only then did his gaze swing back to the captain. "Wouldn't you agree?"

For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other; a game of push and pull, only it was their lives at stake.

Wasn't it?

Finally, Everett scoffed low under his breath and stepped back. "They are your problem now. They slip, they break any rule, the kid as much as gets on my nerves, they're out, you pay. They starve, that's on you."

Not in any way relieved by that outcome, Adeline's heart pounded painfully against her ribs. It sounded so much like what Merle had said about her on that first night. Of course, he hadn't meant all of it.

But that Everett didn't seem like the bluffing type.

And Adeline had a way of getting on people's nerves.

"We'll be fine," Monroe said easily, a slow smirk curving his mouth, as if the whole thing was nothing but a game to him.

Everett wasn't smiling. "By tomorrow, I want you to put them to work. They eat here, they sleep here, they earn it."

"Of course."

Without another glance at them, Everett turned and stalked off, barking a sharp command at a passing soldier before disappearing into the darker side of the camp. Most of the soldiers scattered the moment he left and Monroe tracked his steps until the last second. Only then did he turn his attention back to the small group he had somehow just inherited.

Adeline didn't even understand how. That strange conversation was way beyond her capabilities—her child capabilities. Maybe Emily and Victor had understood it better, she hoped. Only they hadn't; not exactly.

"Welcome to our little slice of heaven," Monroe said, voice starkly softer than before. "And don't worry about what our captain said—you'll be just fine. We'll take care of you now."

He smiled and wasn't exactly a smirk, but the scar on his cheek still twisted in a grotesque way.

"What's your name, folks?"

Victor did the introductions, as he did before, his voice with that same clipped tone.

"Now that's a sweet name," Monroe smiled at Adeline and sounded like he was trying to be nice; kind, even, or reassuring. It didn't work. When the girl said nothing, his gaze went back to the adults. "Tomorrow, we'll give you the full tour. Walk you through the rules, expectations, all that good stuff. Tonight's on the house. Reyes here'll get you settled and find you something to eat." He clapped the lieutenant roughly on the shoulder as he passed. "They can have Vickers' old tent. It's empty now. Should be comfy enough for a family."

Monroe was already on his way back toward the tents, but Reyes caught up to him in a few quick strides, grabbing his arm with a sharp, restrained grip.

"What the fuck was that about?" he demanded in a harsh whisper and Adeline thought that it probably wasn't meant for them to hear. She couldn't catch his answer, but whatever it was, it left a slow smirk spreading across his face and he finally walked away, one last glance at them.

Reyes returned to them with stiff, heavy steps, expression locked in something halfway between anger and calculation. Whatever Monroe had whispered to him still hung thick around his shoulders. As he led them through the camp, he didn't say anything else. Emily and Victor only exchanged a glance, none exactly sure of what had just unfolded. The woman's grip on Adeline's hand was tighter than ever and her palms all sweaty now.

The walk was short, but undeniably tense. Soldiers milled around the area, casting glances their way. Some were curious, some indifferent, and others were sharp enough to make Adeline press even closer to Emily's side.

Every now and then, a laugh would break out. Sometimes a rough bellow. The sounds carried a familiar ring—her father's card nights with his friends. Victor kept a step ahead, his hand grazing Emily's back every so often, guiding them through the dim paths between tents.

They reached one set off to the side, slightly away from the heavier foot traffic. Reyes stopped in front of it, pulling back the flap and gesturing for them to go inside.

The interior smelled faintly of canvas and dust. It was cramped, but clean, or at least, as clean as a military tent hastily set up in the middle of nowhere could be. A single cot was bolted into the ground on one side, a military-grade mattress atop it, thin and clearly worn. In the corner, a small battery lantern sat on a metal crate. Reyes turned it on. It flicked weakly, but cast enough light to see by.

"I recommend you save it," he said simply.

"Is there something we should be worried about?" Emily asked him, quietly.

Reyes's mouth twitched, "You're allowed to stay. Be grateful for that."

He didn't sound unkind, but he didn't sound particularly reassuring either.

"Yes, but—"

"You stay here," he cut in. "Don't wander. I'll bring some blankets and something to eat—everyone else has dined already. Breakfast is at six sharp. You don't wanna miss it."

He hesitated a moment and added, "If you want, we can talk more in the morning."

His eyes flicked to Adeline for a brief moment, something unreadable flashing through them, before landing back on Emily.

"There are portable toilets a ways down," he said. "But I recommend you don't go outside at night unless you absolutely have to."

Without waiting for a response, he stepped out of the tent and that awkward, unmoving silence settled, none of them sure of what to do next.

"She should take the bed," Victor said finally, nodding toward the cot. "We'll figure it out. Pile up the blankets when they get here. We'll manage."

Emily gave a small nod, brushing a hand through her hair, tired. She moved toward the corner of the tent where their bags had been dropped and started stacking them neatly against the wall. She pulled the smaller one aside—Adeline's.

The girl watched her out of the corner of her eye. Victor had said something to her earlier, about how Emily had set aside some of her belongings besides clothes. At the time, Adeline hadn't thought much about it, not even when they transferred her things from her trash bag into the suitcase. The only thing she had worried about then was Foxy and Jay's team picture—and the way her ribs burned.

The way everything hurt.

But now, as Emily unzipped the bag and began carefully pulling out folded clothes, Adeline's stomach twisted, only a little. She hadn't picked anything herself. She hadn't even seen what was packed. But she lacked the strength to speak now, or the will to move.

It seemed all three of them were sharing that same heavy exhaustion.

Adeline wasn't particularly eager to find out what had been brought—or what hadn't. Easier to pretend, for now. So she simply sat there, small and motionless, as Emily pulled out a pair of striped pajamas she immediately recognized: an old set, the colors faded but familiar. Emily folded it neatly and placed it to the side without a word.

Next, she opened the larger bag, digging through it and pulling out clothes for herself and her husband. There was nothing Emily wanted more at that moment than warm food in her stomach and a hot bath with a glass of wine in her hand. Not much she could do about the last bit, except to change into a clean set of clothes, no matter how strange it felt to have taken—stolen—her sister's things.

Her hands hesitated when she reached Victor's clothes.

It felt wrong—these shirts had belonged to Mason.

That fucking monster.

Everything that bastard had ever touched should be burned to ashes. Emily wanted to dig through every single corner of the earth to find him and take his life with her own hands.

But she took a deep breath. Then another. And kept folding.

With no task left in his hands, Victor sat down heavily beside Adeline on the cot and the frame creaked slightly under his weight. "You alright, kiddo?"

Adeline gave a small, quick nod—too quick to be convincing. He didn't press. He rested his forearms on his knees and stared at the ground, waiting.

After a few minutes of half-awkward, half-tired silence, the flap rustled as another soldier returned. He dropped off a small pile of scratchy, military-issue blankets, and three cans of soup, along with three bottles of water. There were enough blankets to make a makeshift bed on the floor and still cover themselves.

Reyes must have thought ahead, Emily realized.

There would be a lot of thinking she would need to find time for, but right now, all she needed was a few hours of real, decent sleep.

They ate in silence.

Though hunger gnawed at them—none of them having eaten properly all day—they barely touched the food. It was hard to feel hungry after everything. Victor was the first to finish. He stood and brushed off his hands. "I'll give you girls a minute," he said, stepping outside the tent.

Emily offered Adeline a small smile—tired, but genuine—and handed her the folded pajamas. The girl clutched them to her chest and turned away while she changed. When they were both dressed in something clean, Victor returned quietly, ducking back inside. They gave him the same courtesy—that was meant more for Adeline than anything else—stepping outside to let him change too.

Again, Emily thought about trying to say something to her niece. Again, she decided against it.

Inside, they all moved to their respective beds, no words needed. Adeline placed Foxy carefully beside her thin pillow and set her backpack on the floor within arm's reach. Emily pulled the rough blanket up over her shoulders. "If you need anything," she said softly, "you call us, alright? At any time."

Adeline nodded mutely — she didn't trust her voice to work right now.

The pillow smelled of after-shave; the blanket, of dust. A strange, not-so-comforting contrast. When the lantern was turned off, she curled up tighter around Foxy, feeling the weight of the day sink into her bones.

Everything was different. Everything had changed—in a matter of hours.

Days.

A week.

And deep down, a cold knot tightened in her stomach. She would close her eyes. And the nightmares would come.

The screams.

The blood.

And his hands wouldn't be there to hold hers.

Even though Adeline still hadn't decided if she wanted to stay and even if her mind drifted to the corners of the world where her ghosts—the living ones—now lurked, she made a decision.

She wouldn't sleep.

Not tonight.

Not any night.

Adeline wouldn't be the reason they got thrown out.

Chapter Text

"I believe we are one story away from loving people deeply."

— @youadanteddy

༻⁕༺

At 1 a.m. that night, Adeline woke up half the camp with her screams.

Despite her efforts, despite that childish and futile hope, and despite previous established patterns of a restless and crocked inner-clock, she fell asleep tormentedly quickly.

Quite honestly, she was a slow learner and that — that fighting — was ever her curse. She wasn't a stranger to what waited for her in the dark — sleeping was always a dreadful task and waking up never brought relief.

Emily was awake. If in a way, a quiet sort of comfort, in the other, it only stranded her in that cot; staying up to avoid sleep wasn't an option this time — questions would have been asked and how could Adeline ever answer them?

And so it came, stealth at first then all at once. The dream was familiar and it began with a lake. In its reflection, that still-upright skeleton of a house, now reduced to ashes. The dead came next, rotten, but not so far gone they were past recognition, and she knew she was bound to see them for the rest of her days. They would haunt her in every corner of the world.

The screams followed and there was no worse sound. Nothing tore through Emily quite like waking to those wretched cries. Any attempt at comfort was futile; every touch made Adeline flinch; Emily was hurting her and all there was left to do was watch, helpless, as that small body folded in on itself, completely undone by terrors she couldn't see, couldn't name, and couldn't stop.

Footsteps and shouts and confused voices cutting through the dark: that was when the soldiers came. Victor stood between them and the tent in his own helplessness. As to Emily, there was nothing left for her but to follow — stepping out was all she could do; her silence, the only thing left she had to offer.

They were concerned at first, of course they were. But in the end, there is nothing more unpredictable than that mixture of sleep-deprived men, frayed nerves, too many weapons, and not enough patience. History has that tendency of repeating itself and the end of the world was simply another variable — that was always going to be the course of things.

She woke up the whole damn row, one of them had muttered.

Is this gonna happen every fucking night?, another one asked.

Emily was starting to fear it might.

She's not even supposed to be here, someone said. I'm getting Everett.

But Monroe had gotten there first. He had that way of putting his men in order. His voice alone was enough. His presence — sharp, controlled, and electric. Emily had noticed it before. Everett didn't scare her half as much as Monroe did.

And maybe that was a good thing, wasn't it? That fear, turned in their favor. Against all those men. Against the rules. Against the cold eyes and sharp tongues. He was on their side now; their lives had intertwined — their captain had made it so.

"What's going on here?" he asked to no one in particular; overlapped voices responded and his answer was simple, "No one's calling anyone."

Monroe wasn't in uniform; a plain white shirt, damp with sweat around the collar, and faded cargo pants tucked loosely into unlaced boots — the scream had woken him up too.

But he was armed.

Always armed.

"She had a nightmare," Victor explained. "Please, don't call anyone. We'll handle it, I promise."

Monroe didn't say anything and Victor stepped aside as he ducked into the tent without a word. They all followed. Adeline flinched at the sound, eyes snapping up wide and frantic until they landed on him.

"You alright, sweetheart?" Monroe asked. His voice was soft, almost a whisper. It didn't match the man, not someone like him.

But Adeline didn't answer. She hid her face into her knees, as if trying to disappear completely.

"Must've been one hell of a nightmare, huh?" Monroe murmured, eyes flicking to Emily.

Then he noticed — the stiffness in her postures and the worry etched in her face. She wasn't hiding it; no attempt to mask the cracks. Let him see, she thought. Let them all see. Her weapon was her pain now, the way she reeked of desperation. A woman worried about her child — the feeling that had shaped humanity itself. A woman trying to be a mother. Failing.

"You can relax," he said. "Nobody's throwing anyone out because a little girl had a bad dream."

That did nothing to ease her.

"Does this happen often?"

Victor and Emily exchanged a glance. Monroe caught it.

"I just need to know," he explained. "She's not the only one here who wakes up screaming in the middle of the night. We might know how to help."

Emily's brow furrowed. It wasn't the question that unsettled her, but rather the weight behind it; they hadn't expected the world to fall apart before they could bring Adeline home the right way — there were supposed to be papers, procedures, a proper transition.

Of course, it didn't matter to them now. Adeline was with them. She was theirs, plain and simple. They wouldn't take her away just because Emily's name wasn't on a form, right? It was stupid to worry about it now and just as stupid to lie.

Emily shook her head, rubbing the back of her neck.

"We... we think so." She sighed. "We've only been with her... for a day."

All they really had to go on was Merle's cryptic warning. That bastard.

Y'all can say goodbye to sleep now, uh-huh. That ain't gonna happen with her around.

They never thought to ask what he meant. Everything that had ever come out of that man's mouth was trash — until it wasn't.

"But what does that mean?" she asked Monroe. "About her not being the only one. Can you do something about this?"

He nudged his chin toward Adeline. "May I?"

Emily frowned, uncertain, and Monroe stepped closer to the cot, crouching in front of her like she was some wounded animal. "Hey there, sweetheart," he said gently. "Rough night, huh?"

Again, she didn't answer. At the sound of his voice, she buried her face deeper into her knees, leaning away from him, hands pressed to her ears.

Emily took a step forward. "I think it's best if we leave her alone. She's barely come back to herself."

Monroe glanced up at her then right back at Adeline. But he didn't push. He rose to his feet with a tired sigh. "I want to take her to our medic. I think he might be able to help."

"A doctor?" Her tone was skeptical. "You mean drugging her so she'll sleep?"

Monroe exhaled slowly, about to respond, but Emily cut in before he could.

"Maybe we can move to the terminal," she offered quickly. "Or pitch our tent farther away—"

"No," Monroe said, lifting a hand. "The terminal's not fenced. East side is gone. It'll fall on your heads in your sleep." He looked at her for a moment, like he was uncertain of her reaction. "And look, if it's PTSD—"

"PTSD?" she echoed. "She's ten. You know that, right?"

"Look," he said again, wearier now. "If it keeps happening, it's gonna stir people up. Sooner or later, someone's taking it to Everett, and trust me, he won't handle it like I do."

Without another word, he moved toward the flap of the tent and peeled it back.

"Someone go and get Harlan," he called out. "We'll be in the medical tent."

"Wait." She stepped forward. "We can't just... move her. You saw her. You think she's gonna let anyone touch her?"

Monroe paused. With a sigh, he said, "Then come yourself. Talk to the doc. Explain the situation."

Emily bit her lips. That alternative didn't sound any better.

"Darlin', I can bring him here if that's what you want." Monroe's voice was low, but tightening at the edges. "But you need to decide. Now."

Fuck — she swallowed the word before it slipped out. Victor was crouched closer to Adeline now, one hand near but not quite touching. "Are you sure?" he asked, eyes flicking between her and Monroe.

She caught the meaning behind his glance — hesitation, worry, the instinct to keep her close — but by now, it was obvious whose hands were needed where. "You stay with her?" He nodded, jaw tight, and she turned back to Monroe. "I'll go."

He held the flap open for her. "After you."

The moment they stepped outside, the men nearby scattered; she didn't need to look to know they were watching — the glances weren't subtle — but they vanished the instant Monroe moved in front of her.

The camp had mostly quieted. Somewhere in the dark, a generator hummed. She had listened as the tents went still, one by one. Victor had fallen asleep quickly. She hadn't.

"You're doing the right thing, you know," Monroe said. His voice was smooth, practiced — the kind that didn't have to rise to be heard. Maybe she was. It didn't stop her from feeling like a monster, though. "She's young. These things don't just go away. Not without help. Most people don't realize that until it's too late."

She nodded, barely listening. There was no attempt to stretch the conversation from her part — it wasn't the time nor the place for that. But her silence didn't stop him; Monroe watched her for a moment and came to a stop. "Hey," he said softly, reaching out and brushing her arm. "You alright?"

His hand landed near her elbow. It wasn't forceful, but more of a suggestion. His touch wasn't rough, and his expression was... concerned — brow furrowed and mouth set in a near-frown — but still a strange kind of comfort, a large man gripping her arm in the middle of a half-lit road, under a string of flickering bulbs.

"I'm just... worried about her," she said finally, voice coming out thinner than she had expected.

"You don't have to be," he replied, giving her a half-smile. "You're not alone here. We take care of our own."

Her voice caught in her throat — Monroe's presence was simply too much. "Thanks," she managed to say.

His hand shifted, moving from her elbow to the space between her shoulders — a light pat that lingered into a subtle push, enough to guide her forward again — and she stiffened, instinctively, but kept walking.

By the time his hand dropped away, they were turning toward the quieter side of the camp, close to the outer fences. The tents thinned out here, and the shadows grew longer. Ahead stood the medical tent, slightly apart from the rest and larger than most of the others. Nearby, one almost as big. Two others, further away, closer to the buildings surrounding the parking lot.

"Just here," Monroe said. His hand returned, this time landing on her shoulder, another nudge, as if familiar already. He stepped ahead of her, lifting the flap. "Go ahead."

Inside, the air was cold and sterile. A faint smell of antiseptic clung to the fabric walls, mixed with the sharper scent of something metallic — old blood, maybe. Behind her, Monroe flipped the switch on a makeshift power strip taped to the wall and the overhead bulb flickered on. Rows of cots lined the interior, each one thin and tightly made, with green wool blankets folded at the foot.

Everything felt temporary. Improvised. As if the camp had been stitched together in a hurry and no one dared admit it might fall apart the same way.

She folded her arms across her chest, trying to shake off the cold or maybe just the feeling settling in her stomach. The silence stretched and she could feel Monroe watching her, not in a way she could easily define, but with intent.

Measuring.

Calculating.

Fair enough — she was doing just the same to him.

His presence was one that some men carried naturally — the kind that made people step aside; the kind that didn't need to ask for things twice. She had seen it before, in courtrooms and boardrooms. It wasn't a trait she admired, but it was one she recognized and even understood. To some men, this kind of power was given; to others, it was earned. Monroe struck her as both.

She was having a hard time trusting him and an even harder one feeling comfortable in his presence. A smart move, not to trust any of them, even Reyes. For all his cautious decency, he was distant — hesitant and harder to read in ways Monroe wasn't.

And one question still loomed: why had they helped them? With Reyes, she had her theories and ones she could lean on. With Monroe, every reason slipped through her fingers. Why did he succeed when the other didn't? Was it the speech? Or something else entirely?

The silence between them hung until the doctor stepped inside the tent, and if not for the stubble on his jaw, Emily might've mistaken him for a high schooler.

Harlan had a lean build and sharp, almost precise features — a stark contrast to the hardened soldiers she had seen around the camp. The wire-rimmed glasses gave him an academic look, more like a grad student than a field medic.

But there was a spark in his eyes that suggested otherwise.

He gave Monroe a subtle nod. Not quite a salute, but something close enough. Respect, but not deference.

"Lieutenant," Monroe greeted.

"What's the issue?" Harlan asked, eyes shifting to Emily. His voice was calm, but carried that edge of fatigue that didn't bother masking itself.

"The screams. Her kid," Monre explained, gesturing to Emily. "Had a nightmare."

"She lost her entire family in the last few days," she added. "It's been... a lot."

Harlan blinked behind his glasses. "Right. Well... I'm not a psychiatrist."

Emily said nothing at first. The words took a second to land. She let out a slow breath through her nose.

Of course, what was she even thinking?

"She's not even here," he added, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "Hard to assess someone I haven't seen."

Monroe stepped forward. "That's why I brought her," he said like it was obvious, motioning toward Emily. "She knows the kid. You don't need to diagnose her, Doc. Just give us something. Anything that'll help."

"I'm not in the habit of medicating kids I've never met, Monroe," he said. His tone was edging on annoyed, as if talking to a stubborn teenager, not a man three times his size.

"That girl keeps everyone up a second night in a row, someone's gonna make it Everett's problem," Monroe retorted, "and I don't want to see what he does with it."

"She's suffering," Emily interjected, "alright? It's not like we're gonna find a psychiatrist growing out of a bush. You're all we've got now."

Harlan rubbed his forehead with two fingers, exhaling. "Alright," he said. "But you know anything that comes out of here needs to be—"

"It's handled," Monroe cut in. "Just do what I said."

They stood in that silent standoff again. But the weight of Monroe's expectation filled the room like smoke, and either Harlan was too tired to argue again or too used to this dance to fight it tonight. He tucked the concern away and turned back to Emily, exhaling harshly through his nose. "I'll need a few details, if that's alright."

She nodded, rubbing the side of her neck. "What do you need?"

"How old is she?" he asked, already pulling a clipboard from beneath the desk. "You're the new family, right? The ones that arrived earlier?"

"Yes. She's ten."

"Any diagnosed conditions? Preexisting?"

Emily hesitated. "Not that I know of."

The doctor frowned. "Any signs of anxiety before this? Night terrors, difficulty sleeping, compulsions, disassociation?"

"I... I don't know," she admitted, hating how uncertain she sounded. "She's my niece. I hadn't seen her in years until... today."

She took a breath, steading herself. "I think it started after her mother. She saw the whole thing. She... turned, right in front of her. I've seen her have a full-blown breakout. And sometimes she zones out, like she forgets where she is. And from what I know, she hasn't slept well in a long time."

Harlan nodded. "Any history of anxiety or depression in the family?"

Emily exhaled slowly. "Her mother, my sister, was bipolar. Type one. She was diagnosed at seventeen, but she showed symptoms much earlier. And our mother... She had schizophrenia." She paused. "As for her father's side... I don't know. But there was a lot of alcohol and drug abuse. If that counts."

Harlan gave a small, thoughtful nod. "Has she shown any signs of mania? Paranoia, hallucinations, erratic moods?"

"Like I said, I don't know."

He pressed his lips together. "Bipolar disorder in children is... complicated. Might be years before anything shows."

"I know."

He paused for a beat, studying her. Then, more decisively, "Alright. I'll give her something to help her sleep, then. Just a tiny dose of clonazepam. It'll take the edge off. Might be all she needs to actually rest tonight"

"She's just a tiny little thing, Doc," Monroe said, voice flat, unreadable. Emily's brows furrowed. She didn't like the way he said it. Or maybe she was the one getting paranoid now.

"Was thinking more like cough syrup, not... benzos."

Harlan didn't flinch. "Cough syrup's not gonna cut it. Sleep deprivation's brutal. Makes everything worse."

Emily nodded, turning back to face him, but her face was still tight and Harlan noticed.

"I'll throw in a low-dose SSRI too," he said. "It's what they usually give for PTSD. Won't kick in right away — takes a few weeks — but the side effects can show up sooner. If anything feels weird, come straight to me, or Travis, the other doctor."

"What kind of side effects are you talking about?"

"Nothing dramatic, most likely. Bit of drowsiness, maybe some nausea, headaches. A little irritability. Usually fades after the first week or two. This one should help her sleep too, so give it to her at night."

He crouched to pull open a metal case, rummaging through labeled blister packs and small bottles until he found what he was looking for.

"This is the SSRI," he said, handing her a small cardboard box. "Enough for a month. Three-month course is the usual. We'll see how she does and adjust from there."

Then he held up a tiny amber bottle. "And this is the clonazepam. Liquid form, just a few drops under the tongue. Sublingual works faster and is easier to control. It's only for when she needs help sleeping. Don't give it during the day unless she's having a severe episode."

Her sister had spent years chasing a pill that worked. Something that didn't make her dizzy or angry or numb. Something that didn't trigger her mania. Something that didn't strand her to a bed. Something that stuck longer than a few months.

There had been Lithium. Then Seroquel. Then Lamictal. And others with names Emily could barely pronounce — carbamazepine, aripiprazole, divalproex. Mood stabilizers, antipsychotics, sleeping pills, vitamins. Each one a new promise. Each one another failure. Those were always someone else's decisions: their father's; the doctors'; the state's.

Now it was hers.

She looked down at the bottles in her hand; so small and so ordinary, and still, somehow, heavier than anything she had ever carried.

Was it even her choice to make?

༻⁕༺

When the tears finally burned out and the silence turned suffocating, Adeline opened her eyes. She was alone with Victor in the tent. He was watching her — concern plain — and there was a tenderness in his gaze. Breathing felt foreign and she had always preferred the outside.

Almost always.

Somehow Victor understood. Maybe it was the erratic lift of her chest, the panic glassing her eyes, the fists she'd made of her hands, body strung tight as wire. Without a word, he scooped her up and without resistance, she let him.

No one stopped them as he carried her past the tents to a pocket of open field where the runway cut a clean line between the terminal and the hangar. From there you couldn't see the road — or the monsters.

He set her down on one of the wooden crates, stacked over others on a patch of grass, and draped his jacket around her bare arms. She was still shaking then.

But it was starting to fade.

With Victor, her thoughts had this tendency to stay... quiet. They didn't ricochet the way they did with Daryl — back to her father, to all the wrong turns that built the life she had now. They didn't weight themselves the way they did with Emily, every breath heavy with her mother's shadow.

Maybe that was why she had dreamed of the house again. The smell of smoke. The heat clinging to her skin. Even now she could still feel it. A thousand times over she would've chosen the dead, the stairs, the blood — anything but the buried memories of that night and the way everything changed after that. She still remembered how her father had wrapped his arm around her shoulders, letting her cry, loud and wild and messy, without a single word of shame.

Was he looking at the same sky now?

Was he thinking of her?

Was there ever a reality where things could have been any different?

One where, upon the sight of his terrified, wounded daughter, at the realization she was all he had left in the world, he would have held her against his chest, just like he used to? Would he have whispered that everything would be alright, that Adeline would never have to be alone again?

It was the sweetest dream, this version where blame loosened its grip, where she didn't have to hate him — for Jason, for her mother, and even for herself.

So why not pretend now? Now, when a blanket of stars stretched above her, in a way she had never seen before? Now, under this endless dome of silver lights, when the void inside her folded into something wider, in a way that almost made her feel whole?

Why not savor the nostalgia? Oh, that sweet melancholia, turning her pain into something almost beautiful. Tragedy was poetry and rot was ancient gilded ruins and there was no one here to spoil it because her father would never see her again, and neither would Daryl.

Would they?

"It's pretty, huh?" Victor said in a whisper, voice full of something that felt close to awe; she hadn't noticed him climbing onto the crates until he was already beside her. "There's no light pollution anymore. That's why the stars look the way they were always meant to."

She nodded — she knew that already.

"Only once have I seen a sky like this before. Montana. I was out there for work, back when I still had the firm. Did consulting for architecture offices. Presentations, client meetings, budget talks... sounded fancier than it really was. Mostly just me in a suit rambling about concrete." He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "One night I'm driving back to the hotel after a late meeting. Was supposed to meet a client for drinks. Rental breaks down in the middle of nowhere — no cell signal, no houses, nothing. Just roads and mountains. I was pissed. Yelling at the car like that was gonna do something."

She glanced up, curious in that way she always was with him — she couldn't picture that man angry if she tried.

"And then I looked up," he said, eyes drifting skyward, "and it stopped me cold. I'd never seen anything like it. The sky was so clear, so loud with stars, it felt like time slowed down. I gave up. I climbed into the back of the truck and just... stared." He was quiet for a moment. "A rancher found me a few hours later. Drove me into town. Nicest guy I'd ever met. For a second I thought about quitting everything and staying. Just like that. Starting over under those stars."

"Why didn't you?" She couldn't understand why someone would ever choose anything else.

Victor smiled. "Boston's home," he said simply, with a shrug.

"But you did leave Boston," she pressed.

He laughed softly. "I did, yeah. One look at your aunt, and I knew I'd follow her anywhere she went. She was the most fascinating thing I'd ever seen. Still is."

She tilted her head. "More even than the stars?"

That got a real laugh out of him. "Yes. Even more than the stars."

She watched him speak that night and what would linger with her year after year and blood after blood was his truth. Her father had never looked at her mother the way Victor looked at Emily and when Adeline reached for the memory she found only grief.

But in the reaching, she also found something else.

In her reaching, she remembered how Jay used to look at Serena like sunlight he could hold.

In her reaching, she heard again the old tune that spilled out of Long's kitchen while they danced, saw their smiles crease them young, joy folding their faces back into childhood, and heard the mandarin he'd learn to speak just for her.  

In her reaching, what made her whole wasn't the infinite but sometimes even wider — more precious even that the stars

"Maybe we can go to Montana, then," she said, a little shy. "After this."

Victor smiled. "You know what? That's one hell of an idea, Addie." He chuckled. "We'll get ourselves a little ranch. Some cows. Some sheep. A horse, maybe?"

"We can name him Bagel," she said, and the words tasted a little like hope.

Which one's your favorite? he'd asked that day.

The creamy one, she'd said — mane like straw, pink muzzle dusted with feed, the sun turning his coat the color of bread. The horse had nosed her sleeve and breathed warm hay into her wrist.

He looks like a bagel, don't he? Jason had laughed. Fine name for a horse.

It mattered then. Bagel was theirs and he was real for the length of an afternoon — sugar on a flat palm, a velvet mouth, the dark marble of an eye considering her like she might be worth knowing. Jason said they'd come back. She believed him.

Now the name felt like a raft — small, silly, still floating.

It could matter again, someday.

"Bagel," Victor echoed, laughing as he did once. "I like that."

They sat with it for a while, silent, the warmth of that small dream clinging to them like the jacket around her shoulders. The tent took them back. Emily sat in front of her and spoke in the kindest of voices about sleep and ease, about nightmares loosening their hold, about time doing its quiet work.

She was gentle, as if the only thing that mattered was that Adeline would be all right, as if it made no difference that she felt like a mess. The gentleness hurt. She tried to hide the heat burning in her chest and failed; there it was, the proof she dreaded: something in her was broken, maybe beyond repair.

But didn't say no; how could she, with so much at stake? With Jay's voice in the back of her mind insisting on how much it mattered, how different things could be?

One drop, then another, sweet and coaxing and numbing. Her pulse answered to the call — bum, bum, bum... bum... bum... — easing as the knot in her chest loosened like a rope finally unhitched. Her eyelids fluttered and the jacket still held its warmth; Emily's quiet humming threaded the air, a tune she didn't know and recognized all the same. Adeline let herself go. The dark came and didn't take her; it held her.

And Adeline slept.

Chapter Text

The morning began with Adeline's heart nearly clawing out of her chest. Her breath caught halfway through her throat. Where am I?, was her very first thought; the second was the warmth of a presence, the gentle hand threading softly through her hair. She recoiled from it on instinct.

"It's okay, sweetie," Emily whispered. "You're okay."

Her eyes darted through the room — no, not a room, a tent — and caught the green of the canvas walls and the faint light seeping through the flap. Morning, was the obvious thought. Barely.

Sitting on the ground, Victor was lacing his boots. He looked at her with those eyes, wrinkled at the edges. Years of sun and smiles and worry-knotted care. She welcomed the thought, years of joy leaving behind traces on your body, the map that told of his kindness.

Victor was all kindness.

Adeline never understood that.

"Come on, sweetie," Emily murmured again, still crouching in front of her. Her eyes were red and swollen and dark beneath. "It's breakfast time."

Her body rose on command, heavy and slow in a way that felt dreamlike. Her head swayed and her thoughts lagged, reaching her a few seconds too late, and in took her a moment to realize, why she was feeling that way: it was the medicine — those sweet-tasting drops beneath her tongue; it was airport and wind that brittles your bones; it was the ruined mess that was her life.

Folded clothes were handed to her: jeans and a short sleeved shirt. Her eyes went to her wrist. The leather cord was still there and it took her dulled mind a few seconds to make the connection. It was supposed to make her feel calm, the fact it was still there, but it was weird, wasn't it? She had slept with it and she rarely did.

Victor left the room without a word and her eyes, still struggling to adjust to the light, failed to follow him, drifting to the ground instead. Her feet slid into the pink sneakers, the ones Daryl had picked out for her, once; they were so, so dirty now and that thought reminded her of death.

Her movements were slow and with limbs moving like they didn't belong to her, she changed into the new set. Soon, she was ready to leave and her voice couldn't make it past her mouth, but Emily noticed her stillness and a bottle was handed to her: sunscreen; her sunscreen from her bathroom.

It carried that scent, of every single morning of her life, except for winter, because Jay said it was stupid to wear sunscreen in winter. He never wore it but Adeline did, because of her freckles and the way the skin around her eyes and nose and cheeks turned red. Serena used to say it was cute; Jason used to say it meant Adeline would cry, but it was a lie — it didn't even hurt that much.

"Ready?" Emily called, voice still soft, lost in a whisper, and her clothes were different now: a soft-blue button-up and a light beige jacket thrown over it. Memory didn't flash so much as screamed at the sight of this living echo of Lillian Dixon — not the eyes, though, never the eyes, ever so different.

Emily's hand touched her shoulder, gently steering her outside; Adeline's body tensed, shoulders stiffening, but her feet still moved against her will. It was wrong — every step felt wrong; her mind, still trapped in that bed.

And Emily wasn't supposed to be wearing her mother's clothes.

Without thinking properly about the logistic of things, her hands found Foxy. Tucking it under her arm, face pressing into the worn fur, its scent clung to her: home and memories and so many of them — enough to pretend to forget that the blue shirt would never carry her mother's scent again.

Outside, her eyes stung in the faint morning light. The sky was caught in that quiet shift between night and day and the sun was barely peeking out from behind the tents. Victor waited by the flap, arms crossed against the early chill, and his shoulders eased when he saw them. He reached for his wife and their fingers laced without a word.

"I think it's farther in," he said. "I saw some of them heading that way."

If her aunt was wearing her mother's clothes, it could only mean Victor was wearing his: a black henley a bit too loose across the shoulders and dark jeans rolled once at the hem to fit.

Fists, nails, skin, blood — another sort of map.

And Daryl wasn't there to bring her back.

"C'mon, sweetie," Emily called softly and her free hand reached for the girl's shoulder; she shifted out of reach without thinking and too fast to feel embarrassed by it. She ignored the glance the couple exchanged, but her aunt kept watching her from the corner of her eye as they walked; she refused to meet it and kept her eyes on the asphalt instead, on the way her sneakers tilted unevenly across the road, never quite steady; she let her mind drift from that crescents on her hands to that annoying, unwelcome curiosity about a place she had already decided to hate.

They reached the end of the rows and the shift of the air current was the first thing her skin noticed; there, in the open space, it was colder than before, daggers against silk. Emily had a jacket folded in her arms and held it out without a word; she didn't take it and her aunt didn't insist.

The mess tent stood further away from the edge, larger than most of the others. From the outside, only the low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of laughter. The area around it was clear and more of the camp was visible now, but nothing particularly interesting in sight: a larger tent stood off to the side, flap closed and far away; near the fence, by the entrance, a few soldiers paced the perimeter, keeping watch; behind the fences, other buildings that faced the runaway surrounded them — two she was sure now to be the hangars, the other was just as big, but she didn't have the faintest idea of what it was.

A soldier stood at the flap. One hand raised and no words; he glanced over his shoulder, checked the room, then moved aside. "Go on," he said simply. Curious, she thought, but was too tired to wonder why.

Inside, not many soldiers remained, most had already eaten and cleared out, leaving behind a few scattered clusters at metal tables, but even those few turned to look and oh, she hated it, every last one of those glances. They didn't feel like curiosity but evaluation, something that made her feel exposed and small, weighed on a scale she couldn't see.

But amidst those eyes, she finally saw them: normal people in normal clothes.

Four adults and two boys, sat together in a corner of the tent, along with a couple of soldiers who sat slightly apart. All of them were staring too, except for the youngest one; younger than her, it seemed; the other, older, but not by much. Parents, the older pair, seated closely and almost protectively. The other two, though, she wasn't entirely sure that they were a couple: the woman looked about Emily's age and the man was much younger; same coloring they had — light brown hair and green eyes — which led her to believe that they were siblings.

They didn't do anything other than stare, then, slowly, went back to their conversation. And as Emily, Victor, and Adeline walked toward the serving table, everyone else did the same.

Apparently, even though Foxy was small enough to fit securely beneath her armpit, she couldn't be trusted with her own tray; Victor carried them both. She stood useless behind the two as they received their food, which was being handed out by a soldier who barely looked at them: a scoop of eggs, something vaguely resembling sausage, and a slice of dry bread. The portions were small, which was fine, because she wasn't really hungry.

They paused at the edge, in a way painfully reminiscent of standing in a school cafeteria, scanning the crowd of screaming kids for an empty seat. But Emily walked with a quiet certainty and it took Adeline only a few glances through the mass of heads to understand where they were headed.

Reyes.

Beside him, a louder group of soldiers burst into laughter at something crude; one of them slammed a fist on the table and the others howled in response. But at Reyes's table, the mood was quieter: the lieutenant, Miles, and three other men.

They sat down without waiting for permission, Adeline wedged between Emily and Victor. Reyes didn't speak right away and his silence stretched just long enough for her to feel unwelcome.

"Mornin'," he said, finally.

They answered — not Adeline.

"Heard about what happened last night. Is she alright?"

"She is," Emily replied. "Monroe helped us."

Something flickered in Reyes's eyes and he leaned back in his seat, casting a quick glance at Miles — who hadn't said a word — then at the other soldiers at the table, caught in their own quiet conversation. He leaned forward again, elbows resting on the metal. "Eat your food," he said simply. "After that, I'll show you around the camp. Go over the rules. Talk about where you can contribute."

Emily nodded and that was the end of that strange little conversation. Adeline was getting tired of those too, like there was a game being played around her and she was always too slow to catch up.

"You should eat something, sweetie," Emily said after too much silence. Adeline was absentmindedly poking at her eggs, dragging them around the tray with her fork but not eating. She opened her mouth to point out that Emily hadn't eaten much either, but Reyes beat her to it:

"It's best if you leave nothing on your tray. The others won't like to see food go to waste."

She let out a breath through her nose, maybe louder than she should have. She saw the way Emily shifted behind her; the quick glance she exchanged with her husband. "Just try, please," she told Adeline, a shadow of a smile on her lips.

How could Emily seem so fearless at times and so fragile at others, as she was last night? As she was now? Perhaps she was only terrified of the things she knew she couldn't control, Adeline thought. Her aunt could trust herself to stand still among armed men and pass on emotions through her words, but she had no control over Adeline's reaction or the way it might have consequences for all of them.

But Adeline didn't have control over it either. Not always. But she wasn't stupid. She knew they were scared just as she knew everyone else in that camp was scary. Even Reyes. Even Miles.

And, most of all, Monroe.

༻⁕༺

They got caught outside in the churn of soldiers breaking down the mess tent. It wasn't school: no loitering, no chatter. As soon as they were done eating, they left. No time for chatter. Everyone had jobs to do.

As soon as they stood up, the three adults were swept into the dullest kind of conversation: tent placement, chain of command, where to be and where never to be, schedules, and water. Their assignments had been handed out.

Victor was to help reinforce the fences, hauling supplies and materials. Being a college professor, he didn't have much else to offer except a solid pair of arms. From what Adeline understood, they were dismantling the fencing around the runway, too vast to properly secure, and repurposing it to reinforce the perimeter by the parking lot.

Emily was assigned to dishes and laundry.
Adeline was expected to help — she couldn't be left alone, apparently, and that upset her. Yesterday, maybe she would have preferred helping out Victor, carrying boxes and wire around —  he had a way of making things lighter, when Emily was quite the opposite — but today, she didn't feel like being around either of them. She didn't complain, though. There was nothing more irritating than a little girl refusing to help out.

Victor said goodbye when Reyes signaled to a group preparing to head out; he was to leave with them every morning, return for lunch, and go back out until just before nightfall. He noticed the way Adeline didn't say anything. The way her eyes averted his. A tight squeeze to Emily's hand. A last glance. And he walked away.

They continued on their path. Now cleared out of the presence of most soldiers, Emily took the opportunity to ask her own questions. She was curious about the civilians. Maybe more than curious. There was something harder in her eyes now; a flicker beneath the exhaustion. Maybe it was the way they had been refused entry at first, while others were already settled in.

"Night Atlanta got hit," Reyes said. "They were headed toward the city. We met in the middle."

She caught the phrasing. "You were leaving?"

"Redirecting." His mouth flattened. "It went bad fast. A lot didn't make it. We had more with us then." He ticked them off. "Travis is a surgeon. His wife's a nurse. They saved people that night. Riley and Emma—siblings. Riley's why we have light after dark."

"They're not a family?" Emily pressed.

He shook his head. "No. Just stuck together. They're good people. You can say hello if you want. Might help." A glance at Adeline. "Maybe for your girl, too. Time's thin, though."

Adeline's face instantly furrowed. She didn't want to be introduced to anyone, much less kids. Why did adults always think that just because they were the same age, they simply had to become friends?

"What about our car?" Emily asked.

Reyes slowed his steps. "What about it?"

She gave him a look. "We're just supposed to leave it there?"

Reyes exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "Everett won't approve it. We've got two trucks. One's schedule to go out on a run. The other's tied up hauling water. And fuel..." He shook his head. "We can't waste it."

Emily raised an eyebrow. "So we just forget about it? Let it rot on the side of the road? What happened to driving us back with enough fuel to cross the state?"

"That was different," Reyes said. "Even if we had the gas, the route's—"

His voice stopped mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something behind them. Adeline turned to look — Monroe, approaching with his usual quiet confidence, flanked by three soldiers already geared up.

"Mornin'," he said, flashing an easy smile, his gaze sweeping over Emily first before landing on Reyes. "We're heading out now. Atlanta. That signal we picked up. Figured I'd say goodbye to the new folks before we roll out." His smile tugged toward Emily.

Reyes straightened. "What signal?"

Monroe clicked his tongue in what seemed to be mock-surprise. "They didn't tell you? Now that's a shame."

Adeline's brow tightened — if Reyes knew the truck was heading out, how could he not know where it was going in the first place?

Then Monroe looked down, acknowledging her presence for the first time. "Sleep better last night, sweetheart?" he asked, reaching out like he might brush the hair from her face.

Adeline flinched, stepping away before he could touch her, shoulder pressing into Emily's side. Her aunt shifted, placing herself more firmly between them. "She did. Thanks."

Monroe gave a single nod. "Glad to hear it." He glanced back at Reyes. "You gave them assignments?"

"Who's going with you?" Reyes asked instead.

"My unit," Monroe replied simply. "If you've got a problem, take it to Everett." He didn't wait for an answer. "Assignments?"

Reyes's jaw tightened. "Kitchen rotations. Fence building."

"Good. Just wanted to check in before heading out," he said to Emily. "Make sure everything's smooth."

"It is," she replied, her arm still wrapped around Adeline.

Monroe offered a last tight smile then turned back to Reyes. "Come with us. I want eyes on the southeast checkpoint."

Reyes blinked. "I thought—"

"You," Monroe interrupted, raising a hand toward a soldier passing nearby. "Take her to the kitchen tent. Emily. She's helping today."

The soldier glanced at her, then gave a quick nod. "Yes, sir."

Reyes gave Emily a last look. "See you at lunch."

Monroe gave one final smile, then turned to leave, boots thudding against the ground and soldiers falling in line behind him.

Emily exhaled quietly. Adeline hadn't moved.

The soldier turned to them. "This way."

༻⁕༺

They worked mostly in silence.

A soldier had run through the basics—sort the trays here, forks and knives there, this bucket for wash, that one for rinse—and then wandered off like a few dozen greasy pans weren't worth a guard. Emily scrubbed with her sleeves rolled, wrists wet, the water already clouded to a lukewarm gray. Adeline stood beside her, drying metal trays with a rag that smelled faintly of vinegar.

Outside, the camp never held the same sound twice. Boots hurried past, heavy and then gone. Orders broke the air and frayed into laughter that didn't sound right. Once, the brittle shiver of glass. Once, a dull thud close by, followed by muffled cursing. Then quiet again, the kind that promised it wouldn't last.

"Back home I used to burn rice," Emily said, forcing a smile. "And now look at me, a military kitchen assistant."

Another attempt at a conversation. And again, Adeline didn't let her.

"You're mad about the clothes, aren't you?"

It wasn't an accusation. Her voice was soft, almost tentative, like she knew she was crossing into uncertain ground.

"I'm not mad," Adeline said, and felt the lie sit down inside her. Mad was a word but not the right size. Maybe it wasn't anger at all. She just didn't want to cry. Didn't want to snap. Didn't want to feel anything.

"The day we left to get you," Emily went on, rinsing, "they were sealing whole neighborhoods. He barely had time to run. If we'd stayed, we would've been trapped."

That made Adeline pause. Over the past week, she hadn't stopped to wonder why Emily had been so willing to come for her. That question had been buried beneath too many others — heavier ones — already tearing at her chest. The why had simply gotten lost.

With Daryl, it was easy to guess — Jason was his reason. Apart from blood, her brother was the only true tether he had with that fractured little family of hers. Emily had no such tie. No reason at all. And yet, she drove across the country for her. Through fire and wreckage and a dying world. For her.

Was she disappointed in this broken little thing she had come all this way to claim?

Adeline always thought she would.

Daryl was. Her father definitely was. Merle had never even pretended to care. And now Emily — well, Emily had no one left to pass her off to.

That was the part Adeline couldn't stop thinking about. And the answer? Now it was something she was terrified to hear.

"I'm sorry," Emily said, taking Adeline's silence as an answer. "We should've asked you."

But they wouldn't have had the chance, Adeline thought. She remembered exactly how she had been yesterday and so did Emily. Adeline was barely able to breathe, much less make choices.

Still, the words made her feel small. Like she was being unreasonable, a child sulking with her arms crossed.

"Can you forgive us?" Emily asked, carefully.

It wasn't really about forgiveness. But Adeline would — she always did. And right now, she would've traded anything just to stay quiet.

"Only if you promise I don't have to meet any kids," she said.

Emily laughed. A soft, tired sound, edging on nervous. Adeline glanced up, surprised; it was the first time she had heard it.

"Promise," Emily said. "I don't feel like meeting any moms either."

It had been so long since she had heard her own mother laugh that Adeline couldn't remember what it sounded like. Maybe that was something else she had lost or never really owned. But Emily's laugh, that one, was hers. The first thing that belonged entirely to her.

Her lousy attempt to kill the subject, however, failed; Emily wasn't done. She had that expression again, the one she wore when measuring her words carefully; the one that meant something important was coming.

"I'm sorry we haven't talked more," she said. "I know this can't be easy. You didn't have any choice."

That, Adeline wasn't expecting. Her gaze dropped to the tray in her hands.

"It doesn't matter."

"But it's okay if it does," Emily said softly. "You can talk to me. Or to Victor. He cares about you more than you think. It would mean a lot to him — to both of us — to hear it." She hesitated for only a moment. "I'm not here to replace your mother. But we're gonna take care of you. That much I can promise."

Again, nothing. Fists tight around the cloth. Adeline didn't want to talk about anything.

Emily let out a slow breath and for once, her shoulders seemed to relax. Like just saying it out loud had lifted something heavy off her back. She didn't press again. Instead, she offered the softest of smiles.

"Pass me the colander, please."

༻⁕༺

At lunch, the mess tent had mostly emptied — trays cleared and chairs pushed back in uneven rows. Their food was barely warm anymore, but neither of them seemed to care. Emily was eating slowly — perhaps more slowly than she was supposed to eat — and Adeline mirrored her. She noticed the way her aunt kept scanning the tent while she chewed, eyes drifting past the remaining soldiers.

Victor was nowhere in sight, but maybe the reason was something else. At a nearby table, Reyes sat among a few of his men. He was mostly quiet, but Adeline noticed the same occasional glances in their direction. See you at lunch, he'd said, but apparently, his men couldn't be around. The same way Emily had waited to be alone before her questions earlier, she was waiting now.

A flicker of movement caught their eye. The family from earlier — the one with the two boys — was heading toward their table, soft smiles in place. The woman spoke first:

"Hi, there. We didn't get the chance earlier. I'm Denise, this is my husband Travis. We just wanted to say, if you need anything... we've been here a little longer. Happy to help."

Adeline felt Emily tensing beside her; her gaze flicked up to behind Denise, and Adeline followed her gaze:

Reyes was standing; he carried his tray toward the designated bin, nodding at something a soldier said as he passed, but his eyes never drifted far from their table.

Emily looked back at the woman, returning the smile, even though it didn't look very genuine. "Thank you. I'm Emily. This is Adeline."

"You both are very welcome here." Her smile softened. "I'm sure the boys will be glad to make a new friend." She gave them a nudge. "Say hi, boys."

They gave a small wave — polite, reluctant, and clearly not eager. Adeline said nothing and Emily, keeping her promise, didn't push her.

"I know it's a lot to take in at first," Travis said. "If you need directions, or just someone to sit with at breakfast, don't hesitate."

Emily opened her mouth to answer, but stopped; Reyes approached them, stopping beside the newcomers. "Afternoon."

They returned the greeting, a little more cautiously now.

"Just welcoming the new arrivals," Travis offered.

"Appreciate that," Reyes replied. His tone wasn't unkind, but it carried something else. "They'll be alright now."

Denise caught on first. "Of course," she said quickly, already stepping back. She glanced at Emily. "Remember, anything you need."

"Thank you," Emily said again.

Once they were gone, Reyes took the seat across from them. He hadn't even finished settling in when Emily spoke, "Where's Victor?"

"He probably ate with the first group," Reyes answered. "Don't worry. He's just as safe as you two are. You'll see him before dark."

Emily didn't answer right away. Her gaze drifted toward Adeline, who was poking at what was left on her tray. Reyes noticed the glance.

He let out a quiet sigh. "What do you want to know?" Emily's eyes turned back to him. "You had that look about you. That you need to talk, so, talk."

Emily bit her bottom lip, her hand stroking down Adeline's hair, almost absentmindedly. "So this is it?" she asked, hoping he would understand what she meant. "No one's coming?"

Reyes glanced at Adeline — briefly, carefully — before nodding.

"That's why your car isn't worth it. Not worth walking into a swarm for a dead engine."

Emily nodded, mind drifting miles away. "That mission Monroe mentioned," she continued. "You didn't seem thrilled."

"When we say the city's overrun, that's not exaggeration," he replied. "No one goes in. Not with six men and a half-tank of diesel."

"Should I be worried?"

"He'll come back."

"But what if he doesn't?"

Reyes didn't answer.

"You don't know," she said flatly. "And you expect me not to worry?"

"I'll handle it."

"Like you handled Everett?" Emily shot back — then realized. "I'm sorry. That was..."

She didn't finish. Her eyes flicked toward the tent, to the clatter of trays and soldiers standing up. The moment was slipping. Time was a luxury she didn't have.

So she didn't waste it.

"Why did he help us?" she asked. "Monroe. Don't pretend there's nothing going on. There is. You brought us here. So tell me — my car really isn't worth walking through an army of walkers for?"

"It's not," Reyes said, already exhaling. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, not quite meeting her eyes at first. "Look... we've known each other a long time. All of us here. We served together. I'd trust my life to most of these men, but that doesn't mean we have to like each other."

Emily didn't look away. "So what's going on?"

Reyes hesitated just long enough to make it clear he was choosing his words.

"He helped you for the same reason I did," he said. "And the same reason we're all still here."

His tone had changed — steadier. Practiced.

"We've lost too much already. And this place... this is it. It's the last thing we've got. Some men, like Everett, they're just focused on surviving, keeping order, keeping people in line. But that's not everything. Some of us are still trying to build something. To make it mean something."

He looked at her, carefully.

"We're not gonna throw it away over nothing. So whatever's going on in the chain of command, it's not your burden to carry. You're not supposed to feel it. That's the whole point."

"You really think that's possible?" Emily asked.

Reyes didn't answer right away.

"I think it has to be," he said. "That's why I'm still here."

His eyes flickered to Adeline.

"You're both safe," he added. "I'll make sure of that."

༻⁕༺

It was late afternoon and the sun was still hot.

Emily, Adeline, and Emma stood by a row of basins behind the tents, scrubbing clothes in silence. Their sleeves were rolled up and arms were damp to the elbow — the kind of work that left your back sore and your hands pruned.

A burst of laughter rang out from somewhere down the row and it was too sharp and too loud to feel right; Emily turned her head at the sound, brow tightening, and as quickly as it came, the laughter died.

"They're on edge," she commented, leaving space for a reply.

It wasn't only the laughter that was making her nervous; it was the way the men moved slower than they should; stood still when they should be walking; whispered when they should be working. It was the way eyes drifted to the fences and mouths closed shut in that sort of quiet of a place holding its breath.

"They're waiting," Emma explained.

"For Monroe?"

Emma nodded. "It's always like this when they send people out. Some of them never..." her words trailed off, eyes flicking briefly to Adeline, then softening; she offered the girl a small smile instead.

Adeline didn't look up; she sat on an overturned crate, folding shirts slowly, carefully, the way someone might handle glass.

Her fingers worked in silence, but Emily knew she was listening to every word.

"But it's better now," Emma added. "At least a little. Today's the first slow day we've had."

Emily stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, a wet shirt heavy in her hands. "How so?"

"First two days were a mess. Wounded coming in. Barricades collapsing. Everyone snapping at each other. Now there's some space to breathe."

"So you've been here since the start?"

Emma shook her head. "No. The military set this place up before Atlanta went dark. After the bombing, most of the soldiers who survived came back here. We all ran into a convoy headed this way the same night the sky lit up. We were trying to go to the city too."

Emily nodded; information she already possessed. But she was grateful for the chance to spend time alone with her — there were questions only someone from the outside could answer and some things only another woman could understand.

"You've never thought of leaving here?" she began, careful. "Find some place... I don't know... different?"

Emma looked at her for a long second. She understood and so did Adeline — she felt it, even though her young years couldn't even begin to name it.

It lived in the glances that lingered too long. In the way laughter cut off when they walked by. In the way Reyes's promise for safety didn't feel like a certain.

There were far too many men in that place.

And not enough rules.

"Some men did, on the first day," Emma finally said. "The ones who had families. It was horrible. Everett didn't wanna let them out. They took one of the trucks, almost stormed the armory if Reyes hadn't stepped in."

She wrung out a shirt with more force than needed, water dripping from her elbows. Her eyes stayed down for a beat too long.

"They never came back," Emma said finally.

Fear had become a powerful reason these days — it was what had driven Emily to beg for a spot in a place that was feeling less and less like a refuge the longer she stayed. But she couldn't let fear be the thing that stopped her. It never had. It was, in fact, the reason for her questions — to keep asking, to try to understand, just a little longer.

"There's nowhere else," Emma added, looking at her now. "Finding a place is like finding a needle in a haystack. And a world of those things. We were lucky. If it weren't for Travis and Denise, I don't think they would've let us stay."

"We almost didn't either."

"I've heard. You were lucky Monroe showed up."

Emily bit her lips — there was no other way to ask that, "What do you think of him?"

Emma paused, thinking about it. "People like him, I guess. He's intense. Knows how to get things done. He's got this... presence. Soldiers follow him. But I think most of them do because they're afraid not to. Can't really blame them."

Emily's gaze drifted to Adeline — still quiet, still folding — then returned to Emma. "What about Everett?"

She shrugged, not looking up. "Don't see much of him, if you know what I mean. He makes the calls, sure, but he's not really... around." She lowered her voice. "It's Reyes who holds this place together, most of the time. But he's quiet, you know. I would like this place a lot better if he wasn't."

"What?" Emily let out a quiet laugh through her nose. "You think he should be in charge?"

She still wasn't sure how she felt about him. Reyes struck her as the kind of man who reacts more than leads — someone built to carry burdens, not give orders. But still, not a bad man. If only his words were ones she knew she could trust, maybe Emily would have liked this place a lot better as well.

"No," Emma said, shaking her head. "It doesn't work like that here. They follow rank. But it could be worse."

"How much worse?"

Emma's gaze drifted briefly toward the perimeter, where two soldiers walked by in silence, one of them limping slightly, the other scanning the fence line with a rifle slung low across his chest.

"The walls are still standing," she said simply. "Anyway. That's the last of it. You're good to go now. I'll finish up. There's too much sun here for her."

They began gathering the baskets, stacking the folded linens with care. Adeline slid down from the crate with a quiet grunt, hugging her fox against her chest, while Emily adjusted one of the heavier bundles under her arm.

Emma lingered behind, turning back toward the line. A few undershirts still fluttered in the breeze; she reached for a clothespin, hesitated for a breath — as if distracted by something unsaid — then began unpinning the laundry slowly, one piece at a time.

As Emily and Adeline turned to leave, Emma's voice called after them:

"Stick to the sides. Try not to walk through the tents unless you really have to."

It was said lightly, almost like an afterthought, but when Emily glanced back, their eyes met. And there was no smile this time.

They moved on in silence, feet brushing over packed dirt and scattered gravel, and Emily scanned everything more carefully now: off near the fence, soldiers stood watch in pairs; one leaned against a post, drinking from a dented canteen; another paced slowly, head turning from side to side.

Adeline walked close to her aunt's side. She had been grateful for Emma's presence throughout most of the day, because it meant Emily wouldn't try to talk to her again, at least not about important things.

At first, the two women talked about amenities — introductions, soft comments, and where each tent was set up — but then, their conversation became nothing if not important and Adeline hated it. Her mind was now swirling with things she couldn't understand, but should; her heart, filled with things she was supposed to fear, but couldn't name.

If anything, being with Daryl had been easier. Once she stopped wondering if Emily would ever come, there was a rhythm; a routine. The only things she had to fear were the night and Merle — and the way his shouting could make her mind slip out of her body, like a switch being pulled.

But not here.

This place felt familiar in the worst ways. Like... her house. Wasn't it so much the same? There had always been ways to read the shifts in her mother's episodes, but not always, and she had always tried to keep her father from getting angry, but it never guaranteed anything. Sometimes, her best guesses failed; sometimes, her best efforts weren't enough.

Only here, there was no Jason. Here, everything was bigger and stranger. There was no one to anchor her. No one to stand between her and the unknown. No way to brace herself for what might come.

But her house had never been horrible, had it? Not like this place was. Because Jason was there and her family was there and there had been good days. But here, Adeline was alone. And now, after today, she knew Emily was feeling that same way: alone, tired, and scared. It was there, in the weight of her words; in her questions; in the way she watched, quietly. She was looking for something and she hadn't found it yet.

Adeline glanced up at her; Emily noticed immediately. Her hand rose, brushing lightly through Adeline's hair, a distant, fleeting smile tugging at her lips. No one said anything; not until they reached the edge of the tents near the entrance.

Up ahead, near the outer fence, a few soldiers were posted, standing rigid against the slanting light; one of them raised a hand, gesturing toward the trees; Adeline followed the motion and saw them:

Walkers.

A small group, maybe five or six, stumbled from the tree line, the kind that barely held together, dragging feet and slumped shoulders. But the soldiers reacted fast.

Three quick shots. One fell and two more followed. More shots were fired and the time Adeline's grip had tightened into fists, it was already over.

Emily gave her a look. "Hey... are you alright?"

There was no dodging the question now, not that she could blame her aunt; Adeline was a wreck when it came to the dead. But the words came easier than she expected. "They're always here, aren't they? Everywhere?"

Emily bit the inside of her cheek. "Yes, honey. They are." She kept her tone even. "And that's why we have to be really careful. No wandering off. You stay with me or Victor. Always. Never alone, okay?"

Adeline nodded.

"But you're safe here, I promise," she added. "We have fences. And people watching them day and night."

Adeline didn't answer; she was thinking about whether Emily really believed it and about that last day in the house — Daryl's house — and how stupid and slow she had been; about how she had just stood there, frozen, when those walkers came for them; about yesterday on the road, when all she did was scream and cover her ears.

And she was thinking about before, with her mother, when all she wanted was to let go. Fences didn't make her feel safe and maybe nothing did.

Then came the sound.

A truck, and riding fast. The unmistakable engine roar, tires kicking up dust across the open lot. It burst through the perimeter road, horn blaring, making everyone around flinch.

Adeline's head snapped to the sound. The soldiers at the gate were already waving, shouting. The barricade lifted too slowly. The truck didn't stop — it swerved, barely clearing the entry, and barreled through in a cloud of gravel and noise.

Someone's hurt, Adeline thought. Someone's dying.

The vehicle came to a screeching halt in the center of the yard and Monroe stepped out.

Alone.

His shirt was soaked red, sleeves rolled to the elbows, arms streaked in gore. His jaw was clenched. His eyes were locked on something far ahead.

The yard fell silent as he passed. Soldiers started to approach — one or two calling out to him — but he didn't slow down. His boots hit the ground like gunfire.

"Where's Everett?" he barked.

No one answered so he turned on the nearest soldier. "Where is he?"

Reyes was already moving, striding out from the command tent. He cut Monroe off, hands up. "Hey, hey, slow down. Talk to me."

But Monroe's chest was heaving and his skin was flushed beneath the blood — he looked like a man about to explode.

"He knew," Monroe growled. "He fucking knew."

"Monroe—"

"You don't send men into a death zone unless you know what's in there." He shoved past Reyes with his shoulder. "I watched them burn."

That was when Everett appeared, stepping out of the command tent a few paces behind the others. Pale and collected. Almost too collected.

"Where are they?" he asked. "Where's the rest of your unit?"

"They're dead." Monroe didn't slow. His boots struck the ground with finality. "You knew what we'd find. You fucking knew. You sent us in there to die."

He was almost on him now. Four soldiers rushed in, closing the space between them. Hands grabbed Monroe's arms, dragging him back as he thrashed, teeth bared. Emily didn't hesitate — she stepped in front of Adeline, shielding her with her body.

"They screamed, Everett," he roared. "You didn't hear them. You weren't there. But I did. I heard."

Everett didn't move. "We lost contact with the team in Sector Nine. You heard the distress signal yourself. You were sent to investigate."

"Investigate?" Monroe's voice cracked, ragged from shouting. "They were dead before we left this camp. Their bones were clean. You didn't send us to check on anyone. You sent us to disappear."

Everett's expression didn't change. "This camp survives because of hard decisions. I make them. It's not personal."

"You're a fucking coward," Monroe spat. "You used them. You used me."

The soldiers tightened their grip. Monroe was still struggling. Eyes wild. Breathing like a man who might tear the world apart with his bare hands.

"Get him out of here," Everett said at last, his voice cold. "He's out of himself."

"Let's go," Reyes said. "Not here. Not now."

Monroe shook his head, barely holding still. "You're done," he growled at Everett, voice shaking with fury. "You hear me? You're done."

The soldiers began to pull him back. Voices started to overlap, hushed, nervous murmurs.

Adeline caught a fragment: Is it true?

"Back to your posts," Everett said. "That's an order."

No one moved.

"I said now."

And just like that, the tension fractured. Boots scuffed against asphalt. Shoulders dropped. Orders followed.

Reyes lingered as Monroe was dragged off. Then, without wasting a second, he stepped toward Emily, hand closing roughly around her arm.

Everything about him was urgent.

"Go to your tent," Reyes whispered. "Now."

Chapter Text

"Dinner's up," a voice called out from the outside of the tent. Emily sat up immediately, her hand already on Adeline's arm; the voice wasn't one she recognized. A second later, the flap rustled. "Ma'am?" the man called again.

Emily approached the entrance in careful steps and eased the flap open wide enough to peer through. Outside, the light had softened; a pale orange bleeding gently through the canvas.

"What's going on?" she asked.

The soldier stood a few steps away, rifle slung over his shoulder. "They're serving food," he said. "Everyone's expected in the mess tent."

Emily didn't respond right away. Her eyes lingered on him — searching for more — but he didn't offer it. "Is something wrong?" she pressed, trying to sound more polite than defensive.

She failed, but still he seemed unbothered. "No, ma'am. Just orders. We need everyone there. Dinner's now, and there won't be another chance later. No take-out portions."

The way he said that last bit made it unclear whether it was a joke or not. He leaned forward, glancing inside the tent, scanning around to see who was there. Now, he was the one who was waiting. He stood there, eyes on her, as if he had all the time in the world, clearly expecting her to move — while he was watching, apparently.

Emily bit her lip. "C'mon, Addie," she said gently, extending a hand, and Adeline tossed her book aside. To her, endless hours had passed. Emily had counted one, maybe two. The night was taking its time, and so was Victor. While Adeline read — or tried to, against the unrest of the late afternoon — Emily paced. Listened.

She had made clear, silent plans not to leave that tent until her husband returned — or until Reyes could tell her what the hell was going on. Neither had happened. Now, she would rather let Adeline fall asleep hungry than step outside and face whatever it was she had been hearing all afternoon.

Obviously, not a choice she possessed now. So, Emily guided her niece outside, her steps slow as a match to the soldier's patience.

"That way, ma'am," he said with a nod and only when they were a few steps away did the soldier begin walking, already heading toward the next tent, probably to deliver the same message. Beyond him, more soldiers were making rounds, moving between tents and rounding people up.

With a hand on Adeline's shoulder, they followed the slow current of bodies toward the mess tent and it was more crowded than they had ever seen, people already lining up at the entrance in uneasy silence. The line moved quickly. Instead of a single guard at the flap, there were two. That swipe they used to do at meals — to track who had eaten — wasn't happening now. No questions asked. Just counting. Watching.

The voices in the tent bled into each other. Restless murmurs, impossible to pick apart, pressing in until the air itself felt heavy. There was no laughter, the rough jokes, or crude banter like before. Everything was hushed, as if people were trying to make themselves smaller. Unnoticed.

Emily smelled the food before she saw it — the same as before. Watery soup. Dry bread. A scoop of something that barely resembled mashed beans. Everything about that tent made her anxiety prickle and her stomach knot.

The space was packed. Emily stood for a moment, scanning the room for an empty seat, barely able to see past the rows of hunched shoulders. No sign of Victor or Reyes.

A hand lifted and it belonged Emma, seated in the back corner of the tent, Riley beside her and it was good enough for now.

As Emily and Adeline walked through the cluttered rows of tables, barely anyone looked up this time. Apparently, they weren't the latest news anymore and Adeline might've even felt relieved — if the last news hadn't involved a blood-covered giant shouting threats at another giant.

When they reached the table, Emma and Riley shifted, making space. Adeline slid in beside the woman and Emily took the seat next to her. There was enough space beside Riley, but the instinct to keep her niece close, shielded, outweighed any logic.

"Have you seen my husband?" was the first thing she asked. She knew he wasn't due back yet, but the anxiety had been chewing away at her since morning. She wasn't panicking — at least not yet — but she was getting close. Being trapped in the tent for hours, cut off from any kind of news, had her unraveling at the edges.

"Sorry," Emma replied. "We just got here. Haven't seen the Connors either."

"Do you know what the shooting was about?" Emily asked next. It had been second on her mental list. One more weight on her spine.

At some point in the afternoon, they heard sharp, rapid gunfire. Short bursts, and gone almost as soon as they started. It hadn't come from the tents, but somewhere farther out. And it hadn't been walkers. Emily was nearly certain. From what she had witnessed, perimeter rifles were fitted with suppressors. Silence had been the first thing Reyes emphasized.

"We're not sure," Emma said, glancing around before continuing. "But we saw three men being dragged to the hangar, not long after. Their hands were tied. Looked like they were being detained."

Emily's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"No idea," Emma said. "People are saying a lot of things, but no one really knows."

"They looked hurt," Riley added, keeping his voice low. "One was limping. Pretty bad."

Emma leaned closer. "Something's off."

Kind of an understatement, Emily thought, but kept it to herself. "Monroe?" she asked instead.

Emma gave a small nod — subtle enough to pass unnoticed. "Scared Everett off, it seems. No one's seen him since Monroe got back. A lot of people died out there. They're nervous."

"They called Travis to the med tent earlier," Riley added. "We heard it. Our tent's right next to theirs."

Emily didn't speak; her eyes scanned the room, to those rigid backs, the fast, quiet chewing, and to the way no one looked up unless absolutely necessary.

"Has Reyes said anything?"

Emma shook her head. "If he's holding things together, he's doing it in the dark."

A sharp crash rang out from somewhere across the tent: something metallic — a tray — clattered to the floor, followed by a grunt and the unmistakable sound of fists connecting.

People flinched and heads turned; Emily's arm shot across Adeline's back, protective. From between the rows of hunched bodies, she could only make out two soldiers grappling near the end of the tent; one of them slammed the other against a table, knocking it sideways; the other swung back, hard, blood already dripping from his nose.

"Go on," the bloodied one snarled. "Hit me again. Let's see how long you last."

"Enough!" a voice barked from the side: older, sharper, and strange to her. "Outside. Now."

Chairs scraped. Boots moved. The officer grabbed both men by the arms and dragged them toward the exit, their resistance dying in silence. The tent stilled, conversation stopped, no one moved and no one spoke — the silence left behind was deeper than before.

Emma didn't look away from her tray when she whispered, loud enough for only Emily to hear:

"If you're thinking of doing something — do it now."

༻⁕༺

They had been washing dishes long after the last tray was handed in. At first, it hadn't even been clear if the task still mattered — domestic work felt almost absurd against the backdrop of everything else unraveling. She'd followed Emma, Riley, and the rest of the crowd — eager to find Victor, who she prayed was waiting in their tent — until the same man they had replaced earlier sent her to the kitchen tent.

And as the hours passed, the noise around them faded quickly. Unlike the rest of the day, bit by bit, the rhythm of the camp had shifted. The footsteps grew sparse, the voices quieted, and the distant clatter of daily life thinned into an almost absolute stillness.

At first, Emily had believed the camp was simply winding down, same as it had the night they arrived, but the sound had merely dislocated. Distant now, but loud enough to reach the edge where the larger tents stood.

The sound of gathering.

By the time they stepped out of the kitchen tent, night had fully settled around them. Pale light stretched from a few overhead lamps, but most of the camp was dipped in long shadows. If not for the distant guards at the perimeter, it would've felt like they were completely alone. Her hand found Adeline's — small, cold and bruised, and eager to find something to hold on to.

A short distance away, the command tent flap shifted. A few figures slipped out — silhouettes against the canvas glow. None of them were Monroe. None were Reyes. None were Everett. She watched a moment longer, scanning unfamiliar faces. One or two lingered, their heads turning just slightly in her direction.

That was enough. "Let's go."

They moved quickly, but not enough to look like they were running. Emma's advice to walk along the outer row of tents, closer to the fence, was useless now, and Emily hated how exposed this side felt. Their own tent sat near the quiet edge of the layout — almost no one else around. A thin attempt at peace, maybe, when they first arrived, not it just looked abandoned.

The sound of footsteps behind them — the men returning from the command tent — began to fade.

Until one didn't.

Not steady. Not purposeful. First muffled, then dragging, uneven, like it wasn't entirely sure how to walk. Adeline felt it before Emily did; her small hand tightened around hers and her body leaned subtly, a gentle tug in the opposite direction of the steps. An instinct. A quiet plea to turn around.

Then came the sound and it was closer: leather scraping gravel and a hitch in breath. The figure that lurched into view was tall and swaying, uniform wrinkled and half-undone. His boots scraped against the gravel with every step.

And then he smiled — slurred, crooked, and disgusting.

"Well, hello there," the man said, all wrong, squinting as he leaned toward them. "Didn't think they sent pretty things into places like this."

Emily didn't stop; her arm moved as on instinct, guiding Adeline behind her. "Keep moving," she said with every ounce of firmness she could summon. Her gaze locked onto his red unfocused eyes and he took another step, close enough for her to catch the sour sting of alcohol on his breath:

"Hey now... no need to be rude." His eyes flicked past Emily. "Who's the little shadow? Your girl?"

Adeline stiffened behind her, hand clutching her jacket, pressing herself closer. The man's hand found its way to Emily's forearm, first a brush, then firmer, curling just enough to pull her closer.

"Step back," she spat. "You don't want to do this." Her voice came out thin, stretched tight — miles away from brave. Her body had gone rigid, spine locked, fingers trembling even as she pulled Adeline farther behind her. Her heart drummed so loudly it drowned everything else.

"You really shouldn't be walking around here looking like that," he muttered, breath hot and foul. "Makes it hard for a man to behave."

Emily's stomach turned and her free hand clenched.

"What's going on here?"

A deep, thundering voice, and Monroe stepped out of the dark like he belonged to it, the light catching the edge of his profile: the jagged scar, the weight of his frame, and jaw set as hard as stone.

Relief hit Emily in a wave so sudden her knees nearly gave out.

The soldier turned at the sound. One look, and the bravado drained from his face; he dropped her arm without a word and Emily stepped back, pulling Adeline with her.

"Sir— I was just—"

"I wasn't asking you," Monroe said and his tone was flat and final.

The soldier stiffened. "I didn't mean anything. Just talking."

Monroe's eyes shifted to Emily and then to Adeline — it was enough, their faces told the rest. He turned back to the man and stepped forward, unhurried. No raised voice and no theatrics, but his presence was like pressure on a ribcage — one wrong word and something would snap. "She's not for you," he said.

It dropped like a stone and the flicker of relief in Emily's chest froze back into dread.

The soldier backed away without another word. Monroe didn't move for a long time, watching the shadows. When he turned toward Emil, his eyes were darkened. "That's three now," he said, voice smooth as smoke. "I'd remember that, if I were you."

Emily's jaw tensed. Her hands were fists at her sides. "And what exactly am I supposed to remember?" Her voice barely sounded like her own.

Monroe smiled but there was no shadow left of that usual charm of his — the mask was gone.

"You're smart," he said, low and cool. "You'll figure it out."

He turned away without another word, boots heavy against the dirt, vanishing back into the shadows like nothing had happened.

Emily didn't move. Because what did you do when a line was crossed so quietly, so surgically, that there was no bruise to point to? Her thoughts weren't thoughts anymore; static, blunt edges scraping against each other. The world narrowed to noise; not even sound, just pressure, like being underwater, too deep to rise.

She should've said something. She should've screamed. She should've done something. But her mind was already folding in on itself — cataloguing, rationalizing, rewriting.

Was it enough to be real?

Was it enough to mean what she knew it meant?

Then, a whisper pierced through that static:

"Emily."

The cry belonged to Adeline, small fingers tugging at the hem of her jacket. It snapped her back like a slap: a cruel reminder of what she was still responsible for. Emily dropped to her knees, not in surrender, but because her body refused to hold her anymore.

The world was too loud and too quiet all at once.

"You're okay," she said, a mantra more than a statement. She forced the words out through the tightness in her throat, cupping Adeline's face with ice-cold, trembling hands. Blue, broken eyes, holding back their tears, stared back at her. "You're okay," she repeated. "You're okay, sweetheart. Let's go. C'mon."

She pulled herself up and took Adeline's hand, holding it so tightly it nearly hurt. Her stride was sharp and fast; a woman trying to outrun the echo of footsteps that no longer followed them. Adeline had to jog to keep up.

Each row they passed through felt like it would never end. Each corner felt like a trap waiting to spring. Emily flinched at every shadow, every distant sound, every imagined shape that lingered too long in the dark. Among the endless darkened, empty tents, one stood faintly lit: a flicker of light bleeding through the seams in the canvas.

Their tent.

Again, Adeline's instincts screamed before hers did. Her arm pushed back again, enough to make Emily's steps falter, feet dragging across the asphalt. She turned her head to see fear stamped across her niece's face and her eyes fixed to the tent. Emily understood. She stopped short of the entrance, pulling Adeline slightly behind her once again, one arm wrapped tight around the girl's shoulders.

"Victor?" she called out.

A second passed — long, stretched thin, hope and fear blurring into one.

Then came the answer, snapping the silence in half. "Emily?"

He stepped into the light in a rush, eyes wide and searching. The moment he saw her, everything in him shifted. His arms wrapped around her like they had been waiting to do it all day: one locking tight across her back, the other reaching blindly until it found Adeline's shoulder. His grip was firm, anchoring. Protective. His breath caught audibly as he held them both.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pulling back just enough to see her face. "Where have you been?"

The story was written all over them: in the red around Emily's eyes and in the way Adeline gripped her hand like it was the only solid thing left in the world. But neither of them spoke — his arms weren't enough to melt the fear yet. Emily pushed gently past him, ushering Adeline into the tent first, then stepping in after her. Victor followed, closing the flap behind them.

"What happened?"

She turned to him and her lips trembled, the truth begging to come out.

But it didn't.

"Just hold me."

And then she collapsed into him, into his warmth, into his steadiness. Her hand still gripped Adeline's like a lifeline.

"I thought you—"

"I'm here," he whispered and his arms tightened around her. "It's okay. I'm here now."

There was confusion in his voice, but he didn't ask again. He simply held her, steady as a heartbeat. When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were wet. "What took you so long?"

He shook his head, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. "It doesn't matter where I was—what happened to you?"

"Nothing," she said and it come out too fast. "It's just... This place is falling apart. Monroe came back screaming, covered in blood, said Everett sent him into a trap. Now the whole camp's going insane. And I didn't know where you were. People are yelling, someone said there were arrests. I don't know where anyone is—"

"I heard some of it," Victor said quietly.

"I haven't seen Reyes. And Monroe—"

She stopped cold.

"I have to find Reyes," she said abruptly. "Stay with her."

She crossed the tent in a few quick strides, hands already digging through one of the bags.

"What? Emily—wait. What are you talking about?"

"I'll explain later. Just—just stay here with her, okay?"

She unzipped the lining, fingers moving fast. Nothing. Not there. Her hand plunged deeper.

Nothing.

Shit.

"You think I'm gonna let you walk out there alone right now?" Victor called. "I'll go. Just tell me what you need."

"No." Her voice was cracking. "It has to be me. He'll only listen to me."

"Emily." He reached for her wrist — gentle, not forceful — but she pulled away like it burned. "You're not making sense."

"Just trust me," she pleaded. "Please. I need to do this."

She could see it breaking him — the fear, the confusion, the helplessness. His eyes were all worry, all softness. All love. And it nearly undid her. All she wanted was to collapse into him, to hide her face in his neck and let it all slip away.

But she couldn't.

"I'll come with you," he said.

"No. You stay with her."

Their eyes locked — both desperate, both pleading. But his desperation wasn't a match for hers.

"Please, Victor." Her voice softened, but it struck harder. "If you love me, you stay with her."

It broke him. She saw it in the way his shoulders sank, in the breath he dragged in.

Then, finally, "Alright."

Emily turned toward the flap, but not before reaching out one last time, brushing Adeline's hair back from her face, the gesture softer than everything else around them.

"I'll be right back," she whispered and stepped out, pulling the flap closed behind her. Each step away from that tent felt like climbing a mountain — her panic condensing, sharpening into something colder. The kind that sat in your bones. That made your limbs heavy.

Canvas rustled behind her then came the sound of gravel — hurried and uneven. Small, cold fingers wrapped around her wrist.

The first time Adeline ever reached for her.

"I'll go with you," she said. Her voice was so, so small, and Emily's chest split open all over again.

"Oh, baby, no," she whispered, barely holding back her tears now, crouching in front of her. "Not this time."

"It's too dangerous," she cried. "What if he—"

"Shh." Emily's hand rose quickly, not rough. Enough to quiet her. Her eyes flicked to the tent and Victor stood at the flap, watching. She pulled Adeline close. "That's why I have to go," she whispered against her hair. "To make sure this doesn't happen again, okay?"

"But..."

"Hey." Emily pulled away enough to look at her, cupping her face. "Please, baby, I need you safe here with Victor, okay? It's the only way we can get past this. We've all got jobs to do, this is yours, and Victor's is to keep you safe."

"But what about you?"

"Nothing is gonna happen to me," she said. Not yet, she thought. Because Monroe marked me. "Now, you can't tell your Uncle Victor about this, understand? Otherwise we won't let me go. Do you promise?"

Adeline's grip didn't loosen. "But—"

"Sweetie," she sighed. "Remember how I talked Reyes into helping us? I'm gonna do the same now, okay? Only I can do this. Now, do you promise me?"

She looked toward Victor. He was already moving, closing the distance — worry carved into every step. And Adeline gave the smallest nod.

Emily wrapped her in a fierce, trembling hug. "Sweet, brave girl. I'll come back. I promise."

She didn't wait for Victor to reach them. Because if she looked into his eyes again — just once more — she knew she wouldn't have the strength to go.

So she walked. Her mind fumbled through memory like fingers over faded maps, trying to recall the route Reyes had laid out that morning. The officers' row first. Then the commander's tent. Then, if it came to it, the end of the world itself.

The world's ended already, silly.

Not tonight. Not yet.

She cut across the main path, keeping to the edges of tents where the gravel was softer. As she got closer, the volume of voices swelled — laughter, shouting, and the occasional crash of something hitting metal.

The communal zone.

The officers' tents lined one side, but most were dark. A few had lights inside. And just beyond them, leaning casually against a pole with a cigarette between his lips, was Miles.

He caught sight of her before she could turn back.

"You're not supposed to be here," he called out, his voice carrying that usual edge of boredom.

Emily froze mid-step. "I got lost," she said quickly, shifting back a step.

"Sure you did."

He pushed off the post, starting toward her.

"Stay the fuck away," she snapped, hands trembling before she could hide them.

Miles blinked, startled. His head tilted. "Jesus, lady, relax." He raised both hands, the cigarette still pinched between his fingers. "Ain't touching you. Alright?"

He studied her for a beat longer, not leering, not mocking, just... assessing. Like he was trying to piece her together. Something in his expression shifted and his voice lost its edge. "I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need."

Emily hesitated. Her mind still carried the memory of his hands during the search. Rough and indifferent, as if she were nothing more than a package to be cleared. A man doing his job, or something else? That difference might matter now.

Reyes trusted him, somehow. This cynical man with eyes that were sometimes empty and sometimes... disturbing. But still, he trusted him. Like a dog he didn't like but kept fed. Miles was near the crowd of men ahead, but never quite with them.

So Emily said, "I need to find Reyes."

Miles squinted, smoke curling from his mouth. "And why do you need to find Reyes?"

She bit her lips. "It doesn't matter. I just... gotta find him."

"Alright, alright," he muttered. He took a step ahead, still keeping some distance. "I'll help you, okay? I know where he is. Just... follow me."

And Emily did. Cautiously. Her eyes never left his back as he led her around the last row of tents, until she was back on the other side of camp. By the kitchen. By the mess tent. And further away, the command tent. A faint glow flickered from inside and indistinguishable voices carried low through the walls. Her steps faltered and Miles noticed. Soon enough, the flap burst open and Everett stumbled out.

"Then go, Reyes!" he barked. "If you think you're so fucking righteous, go fix it!"

His voice rang sharp in the quiet night — clearly drunk. His coat hung crooked over his shoulders and he swayed with each step like the ground tilted beneath him. Soon he vanished into the dark, muttering as he went. A moment later, Reyes stepped out, letting the flap fall shut behind him. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw said enough.

Miles tilted his head toward him, smirking faintly. "Told ya."

Reyes spotted her immediately. "What happened?" His voice echoed in the open space, eyes scanning the surroundings as he walked toward them.

Miles gave a half-shrug. "This one needs to talk to you."

They exchanged a brief glance — something tired, something wary — and Reyes gave a single nod. No questions. Then he turned to Emily. "Come on."

He held the flap open and Emily stepped inside. Behind, Miles took a few steps back, cigarette in his mouth, and that was it. Still, he lingered. Watching? Spying? Protecting?

The air inside the command tent was warm and stale, heavy with the scent of sweat and something metallic — maybe fuel, maybe blood. A small folding table stood at the center, maps spread over it, corners weighed down with spare rounds and canteens. A lantern on a crate cast an anemic light, painting long shadows across the walls.

"What happened to him?" she asked.

Reyes didn't answer right away as she'd suspected he would. Then, quieter, "Nothing you need to be concerned about."

She let out a short, dry breath. "It's funny. You keep saying that to me. Like you've got any idea what I should be concerned about. Like we're not already knee-deep in whatever the hell this is."

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Emily—"

"I want out."

He blinked once then scoffed, almost a laugh. "You've gotta be kidding me."

"I want out," she repeated, more vehemently. "Tonight."

His jaw tensed and he stepped forward. "You think you've had a bad couple of days? You think this place is cracked?" He shook his head. "Out there, there's nothing. No walls. No guns on the perimeter." His voice rose and his lips twisted in disgust. "You break a leg out there, you die. You run into the wrong people, you die. You ever seen a walker pull someone apart? Not just bite. I mean rip someone limb from limb because there were too many hands and not enough flesh to go around?"

She held his stare, eyes steady. "At least it's a quick death." Her voice was bitter. "At least I know what they'll do."

A pause fell between them and it as thick as blood. What could be worse than a swarm of flesh-tearing dead? He was smart enough to understand; Victor could have, if he'd wanted.

Sometimes people are blind to the most terrifying truths.

"Something happened," he said finally — statement, not a question. "Who?"

She looked away. Her hands were trembling again and Reyes stepped forward. "Emily. Who?"

"It's all about debts with him, isn't it?" Her voice dropped. "Monroe." His jaw clenched as eyes averted eyes. "That's why he helped us."

"What did he do?" Reyes asked, already bracing himself for the answer. It was almost amusing to watch, actually, but mostly infuriating, the way men tend to make things about themselves.

"He didn't do anything," she replied with that weariness woman have of not being taken seriously simply because the worst did not happen. It was masked by rage. "That's the point. He didn't have to. But he made it very clear."

She locked eyes with him again because accountabilities needed to be handed out properly. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I didn't know," Reyes said and it came too fast and too defensive for her liking.

"Bullshit."

"You have to understand, even that night, I thought that all of that was about something else. Me, Everett. He's not like that. I never thought he—"

"Then what the hell is he like?" she snapped. "Because from where I'm standing, he's a fucking predator. He cornered me. He said I owed him."

Reyes couldn't meet her eyes anymore, and she stepped forward; she still had one job to do — one more act to perform.

"You brought us here, you looked me in the eye and told me we'd be safe. So start talking, because whatever the hell you've got going on with Monroe and Everett is bleeding into my life now. Why would he risk anything to get to you?"

Reyes didn't answer right away. His voice dropped, quieter now, exhaling through his nose. "Plenty here don't like Everett. More follow Monroe. That stunt with your arrival? It wasn't about you. It was a show — for Everett, for the camp. A power move. And maybe to get under my skin too, yeah."

"And it backfired."

A single, grim nod.

"So what he said... was it true?" she pressed. "Did Everett really send him to die?"

Reyes hesitated, and that was enough. "I think so."

Emily's lip curled. "And you? Where do you stand in all this?"

He looked at her like it stung. "Everett's weak. He's made a mess of things. But if it's between him and Monroe..." He shook his head. "I'll take Everett. Every damn time."

She stepped back, shaking her head. "This place is cracking apart. And you brought us here, asshole. My kid! I won't wait around for the walls to fall."

"Emily—"

"We leave. Tonight. And you're gonna help us."

"You can't just walk out," he said. "It's not that simple."

"Don't care." Her voice broke. "Look me in the eye and tell me Adeline, that little girl, the kid I'm responsible for, is safer here than she would be out there. Safer than I am. Tell me. And I'll stay."

Nothing and she laughed bitterly. "That's what I thought."

"Wait until morning," he said, almost pleading now. "Just wait—"

"This place won't make it until morning. And you know it. You fucking know it. I won't be caught in the crossfire when Monroe decides to finish what he started, and Everett's too drunk to stop him."

He lowered his head and didn't argue. Emily's voice softened, but only just, "You're gonna help us. You owe me that much."

Reyes looked away, jaw clenched. He let out a breath through his nose before turning back to her. "You're gonna forget about your car. It's the first place he'll look."

Emily blinked. It was too fast. "You really think he's gonna—"

"Yes," he cut in. "Yes. Two miles out, there's a gas station — old place by the highway. Half the cars still have keys. Choose one. Drive west. Don't stop. He won't follow you forever. He's not stupid. He'll follow as long as it doesn't cost him. The second it does, he'll let you go."

She stayed quiet, trying to keep up.

"Forget your bags. No food, no water. You'll find what you need in the way. All you need out there is a gun. You won't last a minute without one."

"They took mine," she said. "After dinner."

Reyes nodded. "Everett. We swept the tents while everyone was eating. Pulled it from your bag. They would've taken you in too if I hadn't stepped in."

The silence between them stretched. Long enough to feel like a verdict.

"I'll make sure you have one before you go," Reyes said. "One handgun. Suppressor. A couple full mags. It won't look like much, but it'll keep you alive."

His eyes had been sharp before — clear, certain — but now they softened. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw what was left behind. The fire was gone. Dread had taken its place, curling up behind her ribs like smoke. The reality of what she was about to do — what she was about to risk — was finally sinking in, and voice cracked as she spoke, "Come with us."

"I can't."

"You know they'll come for you too."

"These are my people," he said. "I can't leave them."

"Even if they let you die?" she asked, voice tight. "Even if you know you're on the losing side?"

He didn't flinch. "Doesn't matter. Someone's gotta stay behind. Someone who still gives a damn."

Emily swallowed hard. Her next words came out in a whisper, "How do we do this?"

"There's no gap. But there's a gate, just to our left. Southwest end. Between the hangar and the maintenance building."

Emily's eyes narrowed. She knew the spot.

"No one sees it from the fences. That's where you'll go. There's a shift change there at midnight. Brief window. I'll stall the switch, say something went wrong."

Emily let out a shaky breath. "And after that?"

"You run," Reyes said. "There are always two guards stationed by the hangar. It's where the weapons are kept. They are the ones with a clear view of the runway. Miles will be one of them. He'll keep things quiet. The side of the maintenance building creates a blind spot from the perimeter. You cut across that, straight through the open tarmac. No fences west of the runway anymore — that section's already down. Once you hit the treeline, you disappear."

Emily nodded, her mind racing ahead.

"You don't go near the highway," he said. "You follow the tree line north until the creek. The gas station shouldn't be far."

Emily breathed deep. The weight of it settled on her chest like wet stone.

"You sure about this?" Reyes asked.

"I'm not," she said. "But I'm doing it anyway."

He nodded once. "You and the girl go first. If anyone asks, you're taking her to the med tent. No one will question. Victor goes five minutes after you. Doesn't matter what story he uses. He just has to get to the gate. You don't wait for each other. You don't look back. You don't stop."

She hesitated. "And the signal?"

"I'll kill the back generator. Floodlights will flicker, just for a second. That's how you know it's time. Now, repeat everything I said."

She did. Every word. And when she was done, they both stood in silence for a moment too long. Was she to leave now? Her feet didn't want to. She wanted to be in that tent until it was over. Until it was someone else's decision to make.

"You and Monroe."

Emily's voice was quiet, clipped. Maybe she was stalling. Maybe she simply needed to understand what — or who — had shattered her life into pieces.

"What happened? What really happened?"

Reyes didn't answer right away, then, with a tight breath, he said, "He was almost court-martialed. Three years ago."

Emily's eyes stayed on him.

"There was an op," Reyes continued. "Not even classified, just ugly. A small town outside Mosul. Civilians got caught in the middle. Real bad." He rubbed his jaw. "Afterwards, the official story said the locals opened fire first. But a couple of the guys who were there started talking. Said it was different. That the trigger-happy ones weren't the locals."

"Monroe?" Emily asked.

He nodded. "He claimed the ones accusing him were corrupt. Dirty. Said he had proof. That they'd been running side deals, trading info for favors. I bought it. A lot of us did."

"But?"

"But two of those guys ended up dead before the hearing. Car bomb. Nothing left. Another one went missing off base. I don't think it was a coincidence. I think Monroe handled it."

"And you lied for him?"

"I didn't think I was lying at the time. Thought I was protecting a man who'd been used up and thrown away. He wasn't always like this. He saved my ass once. I thought I owed him."

He let out a slow breath. "But I should've known better. Those weren't combat kills. That wasn't war. That was clean-up. Monroe always had a way of making you think he was the last decent man in the room. He played the underdog well. He used to be the guy they sent to do the dirty work — the missions no one wanted on their record. High body count, no questions asked. And somewhere along the way, he lost the line. We all saw it."

Emily didn't speak. Reyes's jaw worked for a second before he went on.

"I confronted him, after," he said quietly. "Not loud, not in front of anyone. Just us. He didn't deny it." He shook his head, bitter. "But by then... it was too late. I'd lied under oath. And if that came out, both our careers were done. Maybe worse. You don't walk away from that kind of mess. Not in one piece." His voice dipped lower. "He never let it go. Not once. Not when I distanced myself. He just waited. Watching. Biding his time."

Emily's throat tightened. "So now this... all of it—?"

"I think he's trying to get under my skin," Reyes said. "Twist the knife. Remind me who he is. Who I made him into. This whole show — the help, the favors, the power plays — it's to make sure I remember I owe him. For bringing you in."

Her throat tightened. "And do you?"

"No," Reyes said. "Not anymore. Not after that."

He looked at her again. The guilt was there, clear in his eyes. Maybe one day, she would find it in her to forgive him — but not tonight.

"I'm sorry," he added. "I should've seen it sooner. Should've kept driving when I saw you."

"It's because of Adeline, isn't it?" she asked, even though it was a statement. She knew it from the start. That was his reason. What she didn't know was the rest of the story. So she asked, "You lost someone?" Her voice softened, "Were you a father, Reyes?"

He shook his head, exhaling. "No." Then, after a breath, "Atlanta was..." His voice trailed off, and something hollow settled in his expression. "We lost more than friends there. It wasn't just walkers that burned when the bombs fell." He finally looked at her. "So yeah. Maybe it's about her. Maybe she's the one I want to see make it out."

Emily's jaw tightened. Her next words were sharp, but not cruel, "Then don't let us down now."

Reyes nodded, once. "I won't."

Chapter Text

"Baby, you're bleeding."

The words reached Adeline's ears, but it was the touch — Emily's hands wrapping gently around her wrist — that pulled her back from that quiet, far-off void, where pain and silence became the same. Warm and careful hands; it wasn't the softness that startled her but that instinct, that old reflex to withdraw and keep herself untouched. The price was blood and her palms bloomed red; thin trails of crimson-red slipping down her wrist in gentle, hypnotic streaks.

Jason used to study the crescent moons on her palms back when they were only shallow impressions on still-unbroken skin and wonder where all that silent rage came from. His face would twist with a pain that wasn't for himself, but for the little sister he couldn't always understand.

She never had an answer — born of everything and of nothing — so she tossed the question back. Unknown and so different than her own, his rage was that kind to spill outward instead of sinking in; his was the kind to made people flinch. And if Jason ever knew the answer, he kept it to himself.

Later, she asked how he'd made it go away. Somewhere along the way, Jason traded violence for distance; fists for silence. Fire needs oxygen, he told her, without it, it fades. She thought the fire was why everything hurt so much but she never understood the science of it. Was hope the oxygen? His reason to fight? Sometimes she believed it was.

Jason's anger didn't drive people away like her own did, and it didn't chase people with noise either; hers moved like a knife. Sharp, unsettling, occasional — the kind that wants to wound with words and more and more and more. The whispers in the halls never stopped. Neither did the glances. Neither did the careful detours around her.

When Emily handed her a piece of her clothing — no, not hers, her mother's — she repeated that it was okay; that they were going to be fine; that this was the only way to keep Adeline safe.

Adeline clutched it so tightly it burned. Red stains against the blue and it was a match fit for her little tragedy. Because they would have to leave everything behind: the golden curls, the forest-green eyes, the sun-warmed cheeks — each would be surrendered to oblivion. The scent of leather and rust and oil would thin like smoke. And the sun would set on him for one last time.

When Adeline was all that remained of him, she had failed to keep the rot at bay. Maybe it had always been borrowed time, a gentle lie of her own creation, meant to keep darkness at the door so the horrors stayed far as long as they could. That, too, had been her mercy. That, too, was coming to an end.

She would have that very last thing, that picture folded in half, Jason in a red jersey and the future within hands reach. There would be a second fold to fit in her jeans back pocket, but it wasn't enough. The screaming would stay locked away, though, not the tears, for they had been spilled and any attempts of comfort diverted. She had begged for the turquoise backpack, but her fight didn't last this time; her arguments, her logic, and her crying sounded frayed in her own ears.

Again, Adeline understood what was at stake: it was about Emily and foul words and fears she couldn't name but became tangible in front of her. Adeline was afraid too. Terrified. So she would fight for her aunt even if she didn't want to fight for herself.

And Emily, somehow, always understood her; Victor did, too. Her aunt rummaged in the suitcase and there it was, of all things, a photo album.

With her hands stitched together by that soft blue cotton that once had been a shirt, they turned pages side by side. If Emily had kept going, she'd have reached the last photo — Adeline no older than five, when the camera still came out for birthdays and late afternoons, when moments were sweet enough to keep. But those weren't the ones Adeline was looking for. So she went back, and back, and back, turning the pages as if she could rewind time with her fingers. And then she found it:

Hunting Island, Summer of '97

A father, a mother, a son. Time was gentle then. Their past was a place of plenty.

Adeline would carry it, too.

The hours thinned. Midnight would be the mark. They watched Victor's wristwatch, but it was the lights that mattered — the flicker through canvas that would be the signal. She and her aunt first and then Victor. Meet at the treeline.

Emily told her to sleep. Adeline lay on the thin mattress, Foxy tucked to her chest, while Emily stroked her hair and hummed Moon River. By the third quiet, Wherever you're goin', I'm goin' your way, the tears finally came. The camp didn't hush. Neither did her mind.

To Adeline, it sounded like they were having fun; Emily said they were nervous, angry, dangerous, and she could only agree — those words were similar, oftentimes.

So Emily and Victor laid in the blankets by her bed, and while Adeline scrolled through the pictures on Jason's camera, the vest pressed tight against her chest, the two of them whispered — soft words and silent tears.

It left her heart heavy. A bitter taste on her tongue. A farewell, even if the words said otherwise. Even if they talked about merrier times.

So, when the time came, Adeline's heart could only do the same.

"I don't hate you," she whispered to Victor. "For taking my father's clothes."

He knelt in front of her. Fear clung to every inch of him, but his eyes — his eyes were still kind.

"I know, sweet girl, I know," he whispered back, taking her hands on his. "After this, is Montana, alright? I promise."

Adeline tried to ignore the sting in her heart.

Because no one had ever made her a promise they managed to keep.

༻⁕༺

Victor walked fast, but not too fast. The lights ahead buzzed faintly above the row of tents and the gravel shifted under his boots louder than he would've liked. His jacket was zipped up to his chest. His hands were inside the pockets. He knew the weight on his back — it wasn't much, barely anything at all, but it felt like he was dragging a corpse.

It wasn't the backpack that burdened him but the weight on his chest. Guilt? Hope? He couldn't shake the image of her. Those ocean-blue eyes, too heavy with sorrow for someone so young. Eyes that had already seen too much. Eyes that didn't blink when the world fell apart — only flinched when kindness got too close.

And still, when he looked at her, he forgot she was a child.

Everything in his body ached with the desire to give her peace.

Ahead, two soldiers were weaving their way toward him, laughter echoing a few steps too loud for the hour. One held an amber bottle — half-empty, swinging loosely in his hand. The other leaned into him as they walked, nudging his elbow and laughing at something slurred and half-said.

Victor tried not to look at them.

"Evenin'," one of them said, glancing up just as Victor passed.

"Evening," Victor replied, trying not to sound rushed.

The man stepped slightly forward. "Where you headed?"

Victor paused just long enough to not seem suspicious. "Medical tent," he said. "My wife said it was this way. Kid's not feeling well."

"Mm-hm," the other said, taking a long swing of the bottle in his hand. "Medical's over there." He nodded in the opposite direction.

Victor hesitated.

The first soldier smirked, stepping closer. "You sure you're not lost, man?"

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it again.

"That's funny," the man went on. "Because y'know what happens to thieves during martial law?" His tone was light, casual, but his eyes weren't. "I got three people in the hangar right now who could tell you a hell of a story. Might even throw in a moral at the end."

Victor's stomach turned cold. It was supposed to be simple. It was supposed to go unnoticed.

The second soldier's voice dropped. "Take off your jacket."

Victor's mouth went dry. "What? Look, I think there's been some—"

"We're not gonna ask again."

Rough hands grabbed the collar of his coat. Someone pulled at the zipper. Another pressed a hand to his shoulder, spinning him slightly to the side.

"Now what's this on your back?"

༻⁕༺

Through shadows and through silence, they had passed the gate.

Emily pushed it open just wide enough for them to slip through. The creaking hinge let out a sharp, cracking sound; deafening to Adeline, but swallowed by the distant noise of the camp.

"Go," Emily whispered and yanked Adeline forward by the hand, dragging them into the deeper darkness near the administrative building. Her aunt had found the gun just moments before, hidden behind a storage crate, exactly where Reyes said it would be. Small, matte black, a suppressor protruding from the barrel — Emily hadn't said a word about it and shoved it into the back of her waistband with practiced ease, as if she had done it a hundred times before.

The fear that had once crept across her features was gone now, carved into solid determination.

Their footsteps slapped against the asphalt as they raced around the building, breath visible in the cold air, the tarmac ahead slick and glinting under the moonlight. The wind bit through Adeline's jacket like it wasn't there at all, the chill sinking straight into her bones. Her lungs burned, legs struggling to keep up, but Emily never let go.

As they rounded the back side of the building, Adeline's breath caught in her throat. A silhouette stood by the edge of the hangar — a man, barely lit, but enough to see his outline, his stance, and the way he moved as if checking his corners; his head turned, but he didn't react.

Was he waiting for them?

Miles?

Adeline stumbled. "Emily..."

"I see him," she hissed, tightening her grip. "Keep going."

They didn't stop. Completely exposed from every side except the wall at their backs, they ran, pushed forward by blind trust in Miles somewhere behind them. The freezing wind whupped across the tarmac like a hundred unseen hands clawing at their skin, ready to drag them back.

They reached the far edge of the building, the last sliver of cover between them and the soldiers guarding the perimeter. No words passed between them. They had only luck and shadow to keep them hidden. The moon hung low and indifferent, casting just enough light to betray them.

Would it be enough?

Emily didn't slow for a second, but the silence behind them shattered when a single, sharp gunshot cracked through the air, echoing off the buildings and into Adeline's ribs. They skidded to halt on pure instinct, and when Adeline glance back, no one was standing there now.

"Go, go!" Emily whisper-shouted through the shock, dragging Adeline forward by the arm. The screech of metal hit their ears — a gate? a door? — and soon the sound of their own footsteps was joined by many others. Heavy and fast boots followed them now.

Another shot was fired and this one was closer. The bullet struck the ground so near it kicked up dirt beside Adeline's foot. She gasped — a strangled sound, more instinct than voice — and stopped. Emily stopped too and yanked Adeline behind her in one brutal, seamless motion.

"No," Emily said, breathless. "Stay behind me."

Now, Adeline could hear the footsteps thundering and that sudden, terrible chorus of people shouting over each other. Metal slammed and voices were calling names.

They were on them in seconds. Some of the soldiers held back, rifles raised and pointed directly at them while two others closed in. Adeline's feet skidded on the asphalt, instinct overriding the blind, quiet trust she had placed in Emily, but her aunt's grip tightened around her arm.

"You leave her alone," Emily begged.

Her aunt held her arm like a lifeline, desperate to keep her near, but one of the men yanked her hard by the arm. Adeline was shoved backward by another soldier and their hands tore apart like a snapped rope. "No!" her aunt shouted as they were driven apart.

Adeline's foot stumbled on something and it was her turn to scream, "No!" Foxy. On the ground. Foxy. Foxy. Foxy.  "Let me go!" she hissed as an arm locked around her waist. She thrashed and kicked and bit. Her fingers clawed at the arm that held her but it only tightened its grip, squeezing the air from her lungs. The man holding Adeline wrestled her arms together with one hand and another soldier stepped in, snapping something cold and plastic around her wrists — zip ties. They cinched fast and harsh, biting into her skin, and she whimpered from the sudden sting.

"Don't hurt her!" Emily pleaded somewhere behind her, voice breaking as she was dragged away, her own muffled sobs now distant. The soldier in front of Adeline slipped his arms beneath hers and lifted her like she was nothing more than a bundle — a sack of flour. Her ribs were pressed hard against his shoulder and her legs dangled behind him. The crook of his arm locked her in place by the knees.

"Got 'em," someone muttered nearby and a voice crackled in response over the radio.

They were dragged back across the runway, over the same cracked asphalt they had hoped to escape. Her arms ached inside the restraints and her ribs throbbed where his shoulder cut into her side. Every jolt sent pain screaming through her body. Every bootfall echoed through her skull like thunder. And she watched, helpless, as Foxy was left behind, crushed beneath indifferent boots, forgotten on the tarmac like nothing at all.

Foxy — who still carried the scent of home.

Foxy — who carried a name that meant safety. That she would never hear again.

Foxy — the last thing she still loved.

Adeline gave up holding her head up. Let it fall. Let the blood pool.

It was over, was it not?

Then, just ahead, she saw it, a flash of fading turquoise — her backpack. Torn and trampled, lying half-open on the ground like roadkill. One of the straps was twisted under a bootprint.

Adeline blinked at it through the blur of sweat and tears. Confused. Disoriented. She reached for it weakly. A reflex more than anything else — it was just as far as it would've been if it had been left behind in their tent. She would never reach it again.

Dropped to the ground, Adeline curled on herself in instinct, wrists still bound in front of her. The gravel bit into her skin and her ribs screamed from the fall. Next to her, Emily landed hard, shoved down with less force but no kindness. She tried to crawl toward her niece, but a rifle pointed in her direction froze her mid-motion. Adeline didn't need to look to know there was one pointed at her, too.

Victor was the first they saw. Kneeling, swaying, and barely holding himself up. His arms were tied behind his back and bruised bloomed across his skin. Blood crusted along the edge of his mouth, dried in a dark smear down his chin. And his eyes met Emily's.

I'm sorry, he mumbled to her.

There was something so broken behind those glassy, once-kind eyes that knocked the air straight out of Adeline's lungs. Something shattered inside of her and she knew, with all of her heart, that the backpack was his doing. That sweet man that had always looked at her not as something shattered, but rather as someone to shield.

It didn't matter now. They were surrounded. At least seven, maybe more. Footsteps were approaching, some closer and some further.

Beside Victor, there was Miles. Just as bad, if not worse. Shirt torn, one eye nearly swollen shut, lip split wide open, hands bound behind him like the rest of them. But what set him apart from the others wasn't the damage, but the look on his face. The way he met the eyes of the men around them, one by one, with his chin tilted high, mouth still, and gaze unwavering. And to Adeline, for the first time, his eyes weren't disturbing. They were something now she longed to mirror. Something in them beyond courage and beyond fearlessness she didn't have a name for.

And they moved, suddenly, not at her, but past her. Adeline stiffened.

There was a rhythm in the air now. Measured. Deliberate. Heavy boots striking pavement with intent. The sound of someone who didn't need to run to take control.

"Well," Monroe said, voice rich with mockery, almost amused, "aren't we full of surprises tonight?"

"They made it past the gate," one of the men surrounding them explained. "Almost reached the trees. We caught 'em by the hangar."

"They fucking killed Eddie." Another soldier stepped forward, jaw tight.

A short, bitter laugh from Miles. "I killed Eddie," he said. "You assholes just missed."

One of the soldiers lunged and his fist connected with Miles's jaw in a crack. His head snapped sideways and he spat blood, still grinning; dazed, but still defiant.

Monroe didn't even blink. Turning to Emily next, his voice softened to something almost gentle. "You're smarter than this. I told you we had a deal."

His tone dripped with wounded offense.

"Didn't I promise to keep you safe? Didn't I go out of my way to make this easy for you?"

Emily didn't answer — her face twisted with something past hatred.

"I gave you food," Monroe continued. "Shelter. Medicine. And this is how you repay me?"

His words weren't loud, but they filled the night. Monroe took a slow step back. He rolled his shoulders. Straightened his spine. Lifted his chin. His eyes swept over the gathered soldiers the same way he did the night he persuaded Everett to let them stay.

Flashes of that night raced through her mind now, drawing unwanted parallels with everything unraveling around her. The danger Adeline had always recognized in that man lived in that smile that never reached his eyes.

"The thing is," he began, voice rising just enough to command attention, "you give people chances. You try to do the right thing, and someone always spits in your face."

He took a deliberate pause, allowing his words to be processed. The silence created echoes inside of Adeline's whole body.

"I tried to build something here," Monroe continued, letting the words ring out over the silence. "Order. Safety. Food. Beds. A place where people could sleep through the night without a rifle under their pillow. All I asked for," he said, his voice hardening, "was respect."

Monroe's hand gestured loosely toward the captives on the ground — bound, bruised and silent.

"You all saw it. You saw how I tried. How I gave them chances. Again and again."

He took a breath — one that sounded almost mournful.

"And what did they do? They lied. They stole. They risked every single one of you for their little rebellion. They betrayed this camp. Not because they were desperate. But because they didn't care who paid the price."

His jaw clenched. He raised a finger; not pointing, but emphasizing.

"And who led them?"

A pause. He let it hang. Let the silence bloom.

"It was Reyes," he spat the name. "Reyes. The one you all trusted. The one who pretended to stand for something. The one who smiled and handed out blankets and asked about your goddamn families."

The fire in his voice was icy — a contradiction made flesh.

"He brought a gun into my camp. He planned this. He risked everything we've built, just to play hero."

Monroe took a breath, calmer now and almost measured.

"That's the funny thing about heroes, isn't it? They're just liars with better timing."

Monroe didn't need to give an order. Turning his head toward the man standing guard beside the command tent, like a dog already trained, the soldier moved. The flap was yanked open and Reyes was shoved out. Stumbling and landing hard on his knees, his arms were still bound and blood stroke from his temple to his collar. Monroe stepped forward with the calm of a man in complete control, hands folded behind his back.

"Lieutenant," he said coolly. "You've been busy tonight."

Reyes spat blood to the side, jaw clenched. "What is this?" he barked. "They just wanted to leave. That's it—"

"One of my men is dead because of them," Monroe replied. "Because of you."

Reyes shook his head. "You're blowing this out of proportion—"

"Don't," Monroe snapped, stepping forward. "Don't stand there bleeding in front of me and pretend like this is some harmless misunderstanding. This is insubordination. This is sabotage."

"This is survival," Reyes growled. "There a kid, for fuck's sake. You're turning fear into a firing squad. It doesn't have to be like this."

Monroe's eyes flared. His voice rose, cracked at the edges. "It already is!" He turned to the others — the soldiers, the prisoners, the camp itself. His hands trembled as he gestured. "I am the only one making decisions! Everett hides behind his title, pretending this isn't happening. But I see it. I do what needs to be done. I protect this place while that coward buries his head in reports and makes me pull the damn trigger." He let out a breathless laugh, unhinged, rubbing a hand down his face. "You think I want this? You think I enjoy it? I step in because no one else will. Because if I don't, it all falls apart. One loose thread and the whole thing unravels."

Reyes looked at him. "It's already unraveling. And you're pulling the threads."

Monroe stilled for half a second and smiled — the sort of smile that cracked instead of softened. "You still don't get it." He crouched low, nose inches from Reyes's. "There are no good men left. Only men willing to do what has to be done, and men who hide behind rules that don't mean shit anymore."

"You're not saving anyone," Reyes said quietly. "You're building a cage and calling it safety."

Monroe stared at him and something twitching in his jaw. "You want to judge me? Fine. But when the dead come crawling through those gates again, it won't be Everett out there. It won't be you. It'll be me. Because I don't flinch. I don't freeze. I act." He stood tall again, panting and wild-eyed. "I act, while the rest of you just wait to be eaten."

Miles's scoff reached her ears. Monroe turned, all of the sudden, drawing his gun faster than Adeline could catch the act, and aimed directly at the sergeant. Everything stopped and every breath caught — except for Miles.

He laughed.

"You think this is a fucking game, huh?" Monroe snarled.

Miles didn't flinch. "Better dead than licking your boots."

That was it. The last thread. Monroe's face twisted into something unrecognizable — rage, disbelief, animal panic — and then came the sound: a gunshot and loud enough to split the night in two. Adeline screamed and everyone else including Monroe flinched.

"That's enough!" Everett's voice cut through the ringing. His sidearm was still raised and smoke curled from the muzzle. The silence that followed was sharp and hollow and every weapon inside the circle shifted, barrels locking onto him. "Monroe. Stand down. Now."

Monroe turned toward Everett slowly, as if waking from a dream. "Well, look who finally crawled out of his bunker."

Everett narrowed his eyes. "This is over. We'll sort this through military procedure—"

Monroe barked a laugh. "Military procedure?" he echoed, stepping forward. "You mean like that night in Sector Nine? When you gave the order to pull back and let civilians die in the dark? Wanna talk about Johnson now?"

Adeline remembered the name, almost a distant echo. After everything that Johnson sacrificed?, Monroe had shot that question to his captain. Her eyes flicked from face to face, to the silent occasional glances the soldiers would throw at each other, and the flicker of panic that crossed Everett's face.

"Careful, Monroe," he said.

Really, Monroe? had been Everett's response that night. For them? A trade — was that what they were? Adeline was getting more and more confused by the second.

Monroe didn't stop. "You show up, waving a gun like you haven't been hiding behind a desk while I've been holding this goddamn place together with blood and duct tape."

"You're unraveling," Everett said quietly. "This isn't leadership anymore. It's a breakdown."

"No," Monroe growled, voice trembling. "This is what leadership looks like when everyone else is too afraid to get their hands dirty." He took a step closer, teeth bared. "You want to talk about fear? Let's talk about Iraq. '08. Smith. Cooper. Rogers. Do you remember their screams? Because I do."

Everett's body locked in place.

"Monroe," Reyes snapped, blood still dripping from his temple, "you're not doing this—"

"Shut up," Monroe growled without looking at him.

Adeline couldn't breathe. Her eyes didn't blink. Her body had long since stopped shaking — she was past that now. Frozen and numb, watching a nightmare unfold without knowing when it had started or how it would end.

"You let them die because you didn't want to be the bad guy," Monroe continued, voice rising with every syllable. "So I became him. And now what? Now you want to erase me? Pretend your conscience is clean? You knew what you were doing when you sent me to Atlanta."

His hands were shaking now, but his eyes gleamed. "But I came back, and this," he spread his arms to the scene, to the captives, to the guns and fear and silence, "this ends now." He tilted his head and a smile carved onto his face like a mask. "You wanted to talk order? Let's show them what real order looks like." He turned to the nearest soldier. "Take it."

The soldier hesitated only for a moment before stepping forward to relief Everett of his sidearm. No one stopped him. No one spoke. Everett didn't fight it and Monroe turned back to him with a look of slow, poisonous triumph. "Kneel."

Everett's head snapped up. "You can't be serious."

"Kneel."

Everett glanced at Reyes. At Emily. For a moment, he looked like a man calculating the last thing he would ever do. But, slowly, stiffly, he dropped to his knees. A man being bent at his will, just like all of them were. Nausea surged up Adeline's throat.

Monroe stepped back, theatrically composed. His voice rang clear, "This is the cost of indecision. This is what happens when cowards pretend to lead." He turned to the crowd, arms wide like a preacher. "We will restore control. We will remind people what it means to follow." He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. "First, move the woman and the child. I don't hurt women. I don't hurt children. Take them away. Keep them safe."

His tone was mock-gentle. But his eyes were fixed on Emily as if reminding her of the secret only the three of them knew.

"No!" Victor cried, trying to rise. "Let them go, please! They didn't do anything, she—"

A rifle butt slammed into his back and he collapsed again, gasping. Emily let out a strangled cry.

"Shut him up," Monroe muttered, not even sparing him a glance.

The soldiers behind them stepped ahead, lifting Adeline and her aunt from the ground in a single motion. Emily didn't beg this time. She looked at Monroe, eyes glassy, lips trembling, but her voice came out completely steady, "You're not letting us go. You're just saving us for later."

Monroe stood mute. Emily turned her head, glancing back at Reyes, at Miles, and lingering finally, for a long moment, at her husband.

"You'll kill them in front of everyone," she said, eyes again on Monroe. "Make a show of it. And then you'll keep us. So no one forgets who's in charge. Like the disgusting predator you are."

Monroe was unfazed. "Get her outta here."

Emily turned back to the soldiers about to take her. And, quietly — brokenly — she finally made her plea, "Don't let her see it."

Reyes's eyes were broken, locked onto Adeline, for the first time; Miles's were fixed on Monroe's back — dangerous.

But no one said anything. No one moved a single muscle. And as the silence was turning thick and unbearable, a raw, guttural, scream came from outside — complete and pure agony.

And the hail of automatic, aimless gunfire.

A second later:

BOOM.

The blast tore through the air like thunder. The ground shook beneath them. Heat rolled in, thick and oily, as flames leapt into the sky.

The truck by the fence had exploded.

Someone shouted. Another dropped their weapon. Smoke swallowed the field. Panic shattered the camp like glass.

"The fences!" someone screamed. "They're down!"

"West perimeter's breached—they're in!"

Chapter Text

The sound of death drew closer. Some men shifted, feet twitching with instinct, but Monroe spun around, voice booming, "No one moves."

The words cracked like a whip. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks.

"They're inside the camp!" one soldier shouted back, "We need to hold the line!"

"I said no one moves!"

His face was flushed, eyes wild. He pointed his gun at his own men now and that was when the shift began. The line between protection and madness had blurred beyond recognition.

Reyes tried to stand. "Monroe! Listen to yourself! This isn't control anymore, it's suicide!"

"You don't get to speak," Monroe spat, not even sparing him a glance.

"Those are our people out there! You let them die, and there's nothing left to lead!"

But Monroe stood still in the center of chaos, teeth clenched, fury shaking his limbs. Some soldiers had broken ranks, running to the breach. Others stood frozen, unsure where to aim. The man barked orders no one heard anymore.

There was still a hand beneath Adeline's arm; a presence behind her, hesitant and unmoving. Amid the noise and chaos, Adeline had forgotten how much it hurt. She had stopped noticing the burn of the zip ties cutting into her skin. The blood in her palms had long since dried, a quiet testament to the moment she had traded unknown pain for the comfort of that familiar sting.

Insanity had shaped every edge of her life. It had crept in through the walls, grown roots in her bones; not hers, but borrowed from others. The broken minds of those who'd touched her world had carved her path long before she ever took a step. Just like now.

There was no escaping it. No outrunning it. There never had been.

Her choices had always been reactions. Echoes of other people's violence. Her entire existence, a response to darkness she never asked to carry.

Ahead of her, Reyes stared at Monroe with a soldier's resolve. Fixed and unblinking. Bracing against the storm. His bound arm writhed behind him as he fought to break free.

Somewhere to her left, Miles. Still and sharp. Eyes locked, jaw clenched. He didn't need to move to radiate resistance; he was resistance. Ready to fight, or die trying. No fear in him. No hesitation.

Victor's gaze hadn't left Emily. Waiting for her signal? Hoping for it? He was quieter than the others. Passive, in many ways. A steady man — more earth than fire. A foundation for the path Emily had chosen to trail on first.

And Adeline?

Where did she stand among them?

She was not steady like Victor, or defiant like Miles, or battle-worn like Reyes.

But she was something. Something shaped in the quiet. Molded in the fractures of others.

And she was still standing.

The walkers — her aunt's focus was solely on them. On the way they were closing the distance between the rest of them quickly. The hunger-driven growls and the gnashing teeth. So many men and so many bullets vanished into their rotting masses, never enough to stop the swarm spilling from the dark. What came back were either guttural howls or that deafening silence. Heavy weaponry, but not enough bullets — not for those creatures, driven by blind, instinctual craving for warm blood and fresh meat.

Once, Emily had accepted that fate. Better to share her flesh — their flesh — with the indifferent dead than with the hands of men. No dignity and no innocence either way — only the illusion of choice.

But the fight still rang true in her bones.

Words, body, wits. Whatever it took, no matter the consequences.

"They're coming," Emily snapped, twisting against the arms that held her. "You need to let us go."

"Shut up," one of the men spat, yanking her back. His focus wasn't on her, but on Monroe and the fallen men ahead. Cowardice or desertion? His whole life had narrowed to that one choice.

"You think any of this will matter ten seconds from now?" she shouted, lunging toward Adeline. "You'll be as dead as the rest of us."

"Shut up," the man barked, slamming her to the ground. He reached for his holster in a blur of motion, but before he could decide where to aim — before any of them could react — Victor lunged.

He slammed into the soldier's side, both of them staggering. The movement wasn't planned — it was the flinch of a man trying to save someone he loved, too fast to think and too slow to stop what came next. The soldier reacted before anyone else could — his finger was already on the trigger and a deafening crack followed.

Blood.

Victor's body jerked, then crumpled; the bullet had found its mark, right between the eyes. He fell forward with a sound Adeline would never forget — a puppet with its strings cut.

Emily screamed.

Adeline might have screamed too.

Monroe finally turned, sharply, now toward them. The world had collapsed into that narrow space of suspended time, where the moans, gurgling jaws, and crunch of broken bones dimmed to a background static.

Someone fired and the last threads of order snapped.

Monroe was still shouting when Everett lunged. They collided hard in a blur of fists and limbs. A gun discharged into the air with a sharp, meaningless blast. Soldiers erupted into motion. Some raised their weapons at Monroe and some at Everett and some at each other. A few bolted toward the breach, desperate to contain the tide of dead pouring through the shattered fence. Each second that passed the air thickened with smoke, gunpowder, and screams. People ran in every direction, shouting and crying and firing into the smoke. A tent nearby was ablaze. Another collapsed under the weight of a falling man and the two corpses dragging him down.

Reyes was behind them, struggling against something — ropes? cuffs? Adeline couldn't tell. His face was drenched in blood and sweat. He was yelling too. Maybe at them. Maybe at her.

Emily was still on her knees. She hadn't moved, crouched over Victor's body like she could shield him from what had already happened. Her arms were trembling and her mouth was slightly open, but no sound came out. Her face was blank. Completely blank.

Adeline recognized that kind of paralyzing grief as well as she knew her own reflection. She had witnessed it. Lived through it. But because no one had ever taught her how to let go — because she had never known anything but the desperation and the hunger of screaming for a touch that was never hers — she screamed again.

"Emily," she cried. Adeline crawled forward, shoulder dragging through the dirt, and tugged at her aunt's sleeve with bound hands. "Emily, we have to go. Please!"

Pleading. She was used to pleading. Too used to getting nothing in return.

And still, Emily didn't move.

People ran past them, one boot nearly smashing down right beside her. Adeline yanked herself back just in time, curling inward to avoid getting trampled. The gravel scraped her knees and she tasted blood.

A walker stumbled forward, maybe five feet away. Another behind it. And another.

She tried to stand but her hands were still tied. Her arms couldn't balance her weight. She slipped and hit the ground again. The world spun. The dead were coming closer and for the first time, she wasn't numb — still couldn't save herself. She twisted away from the sound of death, heart leaping into her throat, and the walker's shadow lurched toward her.

CRACK.

It collapsed beside her in a heap of rotting limbs and snapping bones. A heavy boot came down a second later, stomping until the skull gave way. A sickening crunch, and bits of blood and bone sprayed the gravel. Her gaze locked onto Miles's for a second that felt far too long and there was a flicker in his face Adeline could recognize — indecision. "Shit," he muttered, eyes scanning the dead closing in from all sides — their impending death — and finally, he moved. He scooped her into his arms like she weighed nothing, the same way he had done the day — or was it years? — before.

"Wait!" She screamed, twisting in his grip as they sprinted through the chaos. "No! No, wait! Momma... Emily! Emily!"

She fought him, legs kicking wildly, but he didn't let go. The wind whipped her face. Miles ran hard, weaving between bodies and debris, dodging the dying and the dead. Smoke burned her eyes and she could barely tell who was alive anymore.

Behind them, through the smoke and flickering firelight, she witnessed a group of walkers swarming toward Emily, jaws snapping and hands outstretched. But they never reached her. Gunshots cracked through the air — not close, not far, not aimed — and one by one, the walkers' heads burst open, collapsing inches from where Emily knelt, still unmoving.

Before Adeline could even process what had just happened, Miles skidded to a stop behind the burned-out frame of a tent. He crouched and set her down, breathing hard. "Stay still."

He pulled something from his boot — a knife. Adeline flinched, shrinking back instinctively, but one of his hands was still wrapped around her bruised wrist. With the other, he grabbed both of hers, pulled them forward, and in one clean motion, slashed through the zip tie cutting into her skin. Adeline gasped as blood rushed back into her fingers, pins and needles blooming under her skin like fireflies.

"Emily... please—"

"She's gone, kid," Miles said, voice cracking. "We have to go. Now."

"No, she—"

"She's gone!" he shouted, grabbing her shoulders, forcing her to meet his eyes. "We won't make it if we stay. You hear me?"

Adeline's throat burned, not able to contain the way her lips trembled. Miles looked past her, into the wreckage and the screams, then back.

"We need to get to the truck. Can you run?"

Before she could answer — before a single sound could leave her lips — the air exploded.

A hail of gunfire burst out from somewhere behind the smoke. Sharp, fast, deafening. Bullets tore through the air, striking everything and nothing. Canvas tents ripped open. Dirt jumped from the ground. Metal sparked.

"Down!" Miles barked.

And then he was over her. His body crashed on top of hers, knocking the breath from her lungs. She hit the gravel again and her cheek scraped dirt. His arms shielded her head and his chest was curled around hers. A human shield. The sound of his heartbeat slammed against her ear.

And then silence.

Adeline didn't move. And neither did the man on top of her.

"Miles?" she called in a muffled voice.

No answer.

"Miles?" she repeated, more urgently.

She shifted, just barely, but the weight was wrong. He wasn't holding her anymore. He wasn't moving.

"Miles."

Still nothing.

Her fingers dug into the dirt as she pulled herself out from under him, crawling, wriggling, half-blind with dust and blood. She turned him just enough to see.

His back was soaked in red. His shirt shredded. Three small holes, still smoking.

"No..." Her voice cracked open.

She touched his arm. Nothing. His eyes were closed.

Gone.

Adeline sat there for a moment, stunned. Around them, a dozen walker corpses lay slumped and twitching in a lake of gore. More were coming, filling the silence and taking their place. She turned, eyes scanning frantically through the camp.

No Emily.

Smoke.

Screams.

Fire.

No Emily.

Walkers were emerging from the direction where her aunt still lay. But the path toward the runway was still clear. Scattered dead wandered, drawn toward the noise, the screams, and the scent of flesh. Her breath caught in her throat, chest rising and falling like she was underwater. The smoke, the heat, the growls — it was all closing in.

The truck, the truck, the truck.

On the night they arrived, one truck had been parked facing the exit. The other had followed the edge of the terminal, heading toward the hangars. That was where Miles had been going. That was the plan. Not in a thousand years could she drive that vehicle, but a military truck was safer than a canvas tent and it pointed toward the treeline.

Emily. Her aunt. Was she still breathing? Smart. Fearless. If there was a chance she was alive, she would head there too.

So Adeline ran. Ran as if her feet belonged to someone else. Slipping. Skidding. Sprinting over gravel and ash. Her lungs burned. Her heartbeat slammed in her ears.

Adeline stopped by the edge of the rows of tents before she could even grasp why. Her eyes scanned around — looking, looking, looking — for a flesh of a familiar turquoise.

There, just off the path. Half-buried under a broken support beam and shredded canvas, her backpack: tossed, trampled, and almost lost.

Adeline veered toward it without doubt. Dropping to her knees, she yanked away the tangled mess of tarp and wood, fingers trembling and breath ragged.

And that horrid sound reached her ears.

Walkers. Three. Four. Five. Dragging feet. Outstretched arms. Adeline clutched the backpack to her chest and scrambled backward. A snarl. Rotten teeth. The stench of death...

And the walker's head snapped back with a deafening boom, crumpling like wet paper. Another shot and one more fell. Another one next, until all of them lay sprawled at her feet. Eyes wide and teary and heart beating as loud as thunder, Adeline finally looked up. And there was Emily: bloodied, wild-eyed, and free. Gun steady in her hands.

"We have to move."

But Adeline didn't. Still dazzled by the sight upon her, she clutched the backpack tighter; her anchor. Emily finally approached her, eyes still lost in her sorrow and her free arm firm on Adeline's shoulders. "C'mon, baby, I'm sorry, let's go."

Gently, Emily hoisted Adeline up, and the girl wasted no time, "The truck," she gasped as she stood on her feet again. "By the hangars. It's there."

Emily didn't answer and she didn't hesitate either. And so together, they ran. Through broken fences, past bodies that didn't move anymore, Emily pulled her forward, leaving their tent behind.

Leaving Victor behind.

Adeline clutched the backpack to her chest, stumbling beside Emily as her voice broke out in the wind. Her legs burned and her lungs clawed for air as they ran across the cracked asphalt. The sky was smoke behind them and the world was on fire.

They cut behind a fallen tower light, through a half-collapsed gate. The hangar stood ahead, looming and silent, and there was the truck: an old military transport vehicle, parked crooked by the hangar.

The same way they had arrived in that truck, it would be their way out.

Emily scanned fast, then ran toward the front. "Driver's side. Climb up. Go," she rasped, throwing her weight into the door and forcing it open with a creak of strained hinges.

It was tall, higher than she could jump. Adeline grabbed the edge and tried to pull herself up with trembling arms. Emily's hands were at her back, lifting her. Adeline grunted, scrambling, one knee finding the metal lip of the door. She grabbed the steering wheel and hauled herself up, finally tumbling onto the driver's seat.

And the hand in her waist disappeared. A thud; a grunt; a body hitting the ground. Heart slamming against her ribs, Adeline twisted around and Emily was on the floor. Monroe was above her: blood down one side of his face and limp in one leg. His gun was raised, aiming directly at her aunt. A smile twisted the scar on the side of his face.

"Well, look who it is," he mocked, voice slick with satisfaction. Emily reached for her pistol, but Monroe beat her to it. He lifted his boot and brought it down hard on her wrist. Emily screamed and recoiled on herself, cradling her own wrist, as the gun skidded across the asphalt, now out of reach. Adeline barely had time to twist before Monroe stretched his arm.

"Na-ah," he slurred, closing his grip around her waist, yanking her off the cabin and laughing to himself. She screamed, twisting, kicking, flailing with everything she had. Her back was against his chest and her fists pounded against him blindly. Her breath was nothing more than broken, animal gasps as she scratched and bit and clawed at his arms.

But he was stronger.

So much stronger.

"Get off me!" she cried, legs kicking, nails digging into whatever skin she could reach. "Let me go! Let me go—"

Monroe jammed the barrel of the gun against her temple, metal cold against her skin.

"Keep screaming," he hissed in her ear. "See what happens."

Adeline stopped instantly.

"That's better."

Tears spilled hot and fast down her cheeks. Her breathing broke into hiccups as she struggled against his grip around her ribs. Beside them, Emily tried to rise, but her broken wrist buckled beneath her and she collapsed with a cry.

"Please," she gasped. There was no fury in her aunt's eyes now, only loss. "Please, just let her go. You can have the truck. Just let us walk. I'm not fighting you."

Monroe didn't look at her. His attention was on Adeline: panting, red-eyed, still fighting small, useless movements against his chest. Her legs kicked weakly against his knee, more a desperation to steady herself than to fight him now.

"You really think it's that easy?" he murmured. "After everything you did?"

He glanced at Emily now, fury simmering under the surface of his voice.

"You made a fool of me in front of everyone. You turned my own men against me. You tried to run, you cost me control. You don't get to walk away from that. Not you. Not her."

"She's a child," Emily said, her voice cracking. "She's just a child. Let her run. I'll stay. Please."

Monroe let out a short laugh, cruel and breathless. "You think I care?"

He looked down at Adeline again, the cold, metallic barrel of his gun brushing against her jaw, mockingly gentle. She closed her eyes, feeling the tears slide down her cheek.

"They're all the same. Just smaller. Just easier to break."

His voice was quiet. Collected. The kind of quiet that made your skin crawl. But from somewhere beyond their twisted standoff, another voice broke through:

"Put her down, Monroe."

Steady and familiar — Reyes.

Monroe turned slowly, the barrel of his gun now pressing against Adeline's temple. "Well. Look who made it out alive."

Reyes didn't flinch. His gun was steady and his eyes were locked on Monroe. Emily was behind them now.

"Let the girl go."

Monroe huffed out a laugh. "You still think you're in charge, Reyes?"

"No one's in charge anymore," the lieutenant spat back. "It's over. Let them go. You don't need to do this."

"See, that's the problem," Monroe muttered, adjusting Adeline's higher in his arms. "Nobody ever needed me. They just expected me to clean up the mess."

Reyes took one step closer. "You want out? Fine. Take the truck. Just leave them. I won't follow."

Monroe gave a shaky laugh. "You know what?" he said softly and Adeline felt the words vibrate through his chest. "I think I'm gonna take these two with me."

Adeline turned her head away from the heat of his breath, a low whimper slipping past her lips. His thick beard brushed her cheekbone in a way that made her stomach churn.

"A man gets lonely out there."

Reyes's finger twitched on the trigger. "Let. Them. Go."

"Don't be dramatic, Lieutenant," Monroe laughed — a bitter sound. "The world's changed. We all get what we can."

Reyes's eyes flicked to the side, only a fraction. Then he stepped forward. "You know," he said, raising his voice a degree, "I always thought you were smarter than this. Tactical. Not desperate."

"Watch it."

"That's what this is, right?" Reyes continued, voice oddly calm. "Desperation. You're not in control. You're cornered. So you're doing the one thing weak men always do — hurt someone smaller."

He took another step.

"You don't want to go out like this, Monroe. Not with a kid in your arms. Not like that."

Neither Monroe nor Adeline had time to process the rasping sound of breath behind them. The shot cracked the air not a second later and everything that followed was a blur. The bullet Emily had fired grazed Monroe's side and at the same time Adeline flinched so hard he had no choice but to let his grip slip; his arms flinched open in reflex and the girl was dropped to her knees against the pavement. A gasp tore from her throat as her vision went white from the impact.

And everything erupted around her.

Monroe spun with a roar, firing blindly, and Reyes returned fire instantly, yelling something undistinguishable through the static flooding her skull. The truck's windows blew out behind her, shards raining across the floor. Adeline curled forward, arms over her head, and Emily was suddenly there, throwing herself over her, shielding her with her body. Above her, the world kept breaking. The air stank of gunpowder and smoke and the gunshots were drawing closer each second.

The silence that came after was nearly deafening, only to be broken by something else: fists and struggling and gasping. Two voices, grunting and crashing into each other. And somewhere in the distance, groans and moans and feet dragging were getting louder.

Emily's breath was ragged against Adeline's ear as she pulled her up, one arm wrapped tight around her shoulders. The asphalt tore at Adeline's knees as she was dragged a few feet away, behind a half-toppled toolbox near the edge of the hangar.

Behind them, the sound of fists slamming into flesh filled the air, the desperate scuffle of two men tearing each other apart. Adeline looked up for the first time and it took her a moment to realize the grunts and gasps belonged to Reyes.

His movements were sluggish, one arm limp at his side, his balance faltering with every hit. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, spreading from a wound he no longer had the strength to protect. Monroe was relentless, fists driving forward like a machine, fueled by fury and madness, each blow pushing Reyes further to the ground. He tried to block, to counter, but his legs buckled beneath him. There was no rhythm to his defense anymore, only the instinct to survive and even that was fading.

Emily looked down at her and Adeline could see it right there in her face — that flicker of choice. Because both of them knew, even in different depths, that whatever was happening there wouldn't be over if that man walked out alive. So Emily let go of her. Not roughly, not with panic; it was a sort of quiet, heavy purpose. A decision was made then and Adeline didn't stop her.

Reyes was barely on his feet, arms wrapped around Monroe's middle in a loose hold that was slipping. Blood streaked both their faces. Monroe was snarling something she couldn't hear.

And Emily slammed into him.

It wasn't trained — it was teeth and nails and raw fury. She grabbed at Monroe's collar, clawed at his eyes, yanked his head back by the hair. Adeline saw her reach for his face, his neck, whatever she could hold onto. Monroe staggered, caught off-guard for one brief second.

But Reyes didn't move to her aid. He collapsed to the side, barely conscious, and Monroe turned his full weight on Emily.

He struck her. Once. Twice. Emily didn't fall. She stumbled and Monroe caught her by the throat. He lifted her slightly and slammed her against the wall of the hangar. Her feet scrambled for footing. Her broken wrist dangled, useless, and her other hand clawed at his forearm, face twisted with pain.

Again, Adeline was alone and there was nobody left to save her.

In a horrible parallel of a thousand moments that flashed through her mind, the world outside had gone quiet and all that remained was a single thought, sharp and clear as the piece of glass glinting near the ruined truck.

She dropped her backpack and her hands closed around the shred by her foot. It sliced straight through her palm — another bruise over so many others. But the blood sliding down her wrist had a new-found purpose now.

Her body was distant, moving without her. But in that thin line that divided what was real and what wasn't, her feet still stepped forward. And Adeline ran.

Monroe still had his back to her, pressing Emily against the wall. "You look better like this," he snarled. "All quiet. Should've stayed in line."

Adeline didn't hear anything else. She raised the shard, her feet crunching over glass and gravel, fire under her soles.

But Monroe turned faster than she expected. His hand lashed out, catching her wrist mid-swing, and the shard flew from her grasp. In one brutal motion, he yanked her forward, and the pain in her shoulder was sharp and white.

"You're a murderous little bitch, ain't ya?" he growled, shaking her violently. "You think you're brave? You think this wins?"

The backhand came and her vision exploded. Her face burned and she hit the ground hard. And Monroe was on her before she could move. She clawed at him, kicking blindly. But he grabbed her by the back of the neck and slammed her against the wall. Stars burst in her vision and her ears rang like sirens. Monroe crouched low, hand fisting in her hair, twisting until she cried out again. His face was inches from hers — the stink of sweat and rot. Spit hit her cheek as he hissed, "You should've run. You should've died back there with the rest of 'em."

Adeline sobbed, blinking through the pain, but still swung at him — a weak, desperate, useless punch. He caught her arm again and twisted, and she screamed a raw, unfiltered sound of pure agony.

"Monroe!"

Reyes's voice — rough and shredded like sandpaper — cut through the air. Monroe looked up, irritated.

Barely able to crawl, Reyes was dragging himself forward. Blood soaked his shirt and his face was past recognition. The lieutenant had nothing left — no weapon and no strength — only his voice:

"You kill her and it's over," he rasped, coughing blood. "You hear me? We're dead men anyway. You think you're getting out? They're here. You hear them?"

From the edge of the hangar, the groans were louder now. Dozens? Hundreds? It didn't matter the number — neither of them would walk out of there alive.

"Still talking, huh?" Monroe spat. "Can't shut the hell up even when you're dying."

Reyes coughed hard, but still forced the words out. "You're not walking away from this. You kill her, you die screaming. Just like the rest. I'll make sure of that."

Monroe snarled. "You think I care what you think? You think I give a damn about your threats? I've survived worse than—"

His voice cut off.

A strange, wet noise filled the air — meat tearing under pressure. A sound escaped him. Not a scream. Not a word.

A gurgle.

His whole body shuddered. Adeline felt it: the way his grip loosened, the way the air changed, the way something warm spilled down her back and arm.

Blood.

His mouth opened but no sound came. His eyes darted down in disbelief.

Behind him, Emily stood with her hand clenched around the shard of glass, driving it deep into the soft flesh of his neck all the way to the base. Her face was smeared with blood and her expression blank. Hollow. The kind of hollow you only see in people who have nothing left to lose. The kind Adeline had seen in her father's face when he walked away from her, blood soaking to every inch of him.

Monroe gurgled again, limbs twitching and knees buckling. His grip loosened completely and Adeline fell right on her knees. Emily twisted the glass. His body spasmed once — violently — and dropped right beside Adeline.

Neither of them moved. Adeline stared at him, chest rising and falling in shallow, silent panic.

"We have to go." Emily's voice was cracked — barely a voice at all. "Now."

Her aunt crouched down, picking up the gun near Monroe's body. Was it hers? Monroe's? Reyes's? Adeline couldn't tell.

But her aunt turned to the fallen lieutenant.

Reyes was still breathing — barely. Blood seeped from his gut in slow, steady pulses. He was ghost-pale, slick with sweat, but alive. His shaky fingers reached for the gun in Emily's hand and, gently, she handed it over. Reyes checked it like a man who had done it a thousand times. Pulled something small from his cargo pocket — a mag? a round? — and pressed it to the base of the gun with a soldier's muscle memory. Chambered it with a click Adeline knew she would never forget.

He extended it.

Not to Emily.

To her.

Adeline hesitated, eyes flickering between them.

"Her wrist's gone," Reyes rasped, nodding at Emily. "She can't shoot."

The gun. His hand. The blood soaking through his shirt. Her own trembling fingers.

"Take it," he said, calm. "You ever shot before?"

Her mouth was dry, but still, she nodded.

She had. A long time ago. Her father used to take them hunting — Jason, a lot more often than her. He taught them how to track deer trails and how to read broken branches and hoof prints in the mud, and he was patient as long as she stayed quiet.

At first, it was just target practicing. She remembered the weight of the rifle and he had adjusted it in her arms that first time. It didn't have much of a kick, but her shoulder still ached for a week after that first shot. Starling and doves, after that.

She had good aim, that was what he used to say, but Jason was better — he had always been better at everything.

He hated it. He never liked hunting. He didn't like to talk about those days and acted as they were memories best left buried.

But they had never felt that way to her.

"Good girl," Reyes whispered as he placed the gun gently into her hands, pulling her back from that bittersweet memory into the blood-and-smoke reality around them. "Just aim and squeeze. That's all. It'll kick a little, but you'll be fine."

She nodded again, fingers wrapping around the grip as if it might dissolve if she didn't hold tight enough.

Emily knelt beside Reyes. "We can carry you—"

"You can't," he said, without room for argument. "You'll never outrun them."

"But—"

"Don't argue with me. I've already made my peace."

Emily's eyes welled up. "Then I'll do it. I won't let them—"

"No." He shook his head. "You need every bullet. I'll finish it myself."

Emily seemed to hesitate, but gave the smallest nod. Reyes turned to Adeline again. Blood now spilled from the corner of his mouth, streaking his chin. The shuffling of steps were drawing closer.

"You're a little fox, huh?" he murmured. "I get it now."

Her throat closed, eyes burning with unshed tears for another goodbye. She opened her mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

"Run," he said. "And don't look back. Got it? Run like hell."

She nodded because there was all she could do. Reyes nodded too and turned to her aunt next, trembling fingers reaching for the knife in his belt.

"Don't let her see."

Without another word, Emily's hand found her shoulder, pressing hard enough to make her twist, then shifting it to her hair for comfort. Behind them, the truck was gone, completely surrounded — walkers were everywhere, not fast, not all at once, but scattered across the runway like a net tightening slowly.

Emily grabbed the backpack from where Adeline had dropped it and swung it over her shoulder in one fluid motion. Her good hand found Adeline's and they ran, out of the hangar and toward the tree line, so far away it looked like a lie.

They moved around debris, but the moans were growing louder and closer and the smell of them was thick in the air. From behind the buildings, walkers began to appear like water spilling from a broken dam, surging along the path of least resistance. Crawling out from behind dumpsters, from under tarps, emerging from the shattered ruins of what had once been an airport.

Adeline held the gun tight against her chest, fingers shaking on the trigger. Every time a walker lunged, her aunt was faster, throwing herself in its path without hesitation, using her own body to remove it off their path. Adeline didn't trust her own instincts, didn't know when to raise the gun or when to run, but Emily never seemed to expect that from her. "Don't stop!" They passed the first hangar and the second one loomed ahead. From the shadows just beside the door, three walkers burst out at once.

Not rotten and not decayed — soldiers. Freshly dead. Bruises bloomed across their faces, dried blood smeared across skin and uniform. The same men who had been arrested earlier that day, Adeline realized. One grabbed Emily by the waist and dragged her back with a snarl.

"No!" Adeline screamed and raised the gun in trembling hands.

She fired once and it hit the wall.

The second hit the ground.

The third went straight through the walker's eye.

Emily buckled to her knees but another was already reaching for her. Adeline moved closer, screaming wordlessly as she fired again. The bullet took off half the walker's jaw and it kept coming. She fired again — a miss; again, and finally, it dropped. Emily gasped for air, her face was pale and smeared with blood, but she was alive.

"Up," Adeline said through clenched teeth, little hand grabbing her aunt's arm. "Up. Please."

Emily nodded, using her one good arm to pull herself upright. Her breath came in ragged bursts, eyes were already searching the treeline.

But it was too late.

Walkers were closing in from all sides and too many of them. Dozens upon dozens. They were being herded, forced back toward the hangar by the tide of death. Growls echoed off the steel walls as the light dimmed. The smell — rot, blood, smoke — was suffocating.

Adeline backed up until her heels hit the hangar floor. Emily stood in front of her, shielding her again even though her arm dangled uselessly. They looked around and there was nowhere left to run.

Walkers at every exit. Closer every second.

Adeline's fingers tightened around the gun, lifting it to eye level, hands steadier for the first time despite the chaos crashing in around them.

She fired.

One walker dropped.

Another took its place.

Bang — a shot through the eye.

Bang — to the neck; it stumbled but didn't fall.

She fired again — missed. Again — hit the shoulder. Again — and it finally dropped.

One after another, she kept firing — no longer missing — walkers falling one by one.

Click.

She tried the trigger again. Nothing. Empty.

"No, no, no!" she whispered, slamming the bottom of the grip against her palm like the bullets might reappear.

The walkers kept coming, filling the hangar, their snarls echoing through the rafters. The scent of rot thickened the air. Their feet scraped over the cement, dragging through the dried streaks of blood that marked where others had once fallen. The hangar was otherwise completely empty — no crates, no machinery, no cover.

Nothing but steel and blood.

Emily grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back, guiding her toward a corner, the farthest point they could reach. "Behind me." Emily turned, half-collapsing in front of Adeline, wrapping her good arm around the girl and pulling her close — shielding her again, even now.

Adeline's chest heaved. Her cheek pressed to Emily's collarbone and her aunt's hear hammered against her ear. "It's okay," she said, tightening her hold. "It's gonna be okay. I've got you. I've got you, baby. Don't look."

But Adeline didn't look away. How could she, when Death was once again in front of her, after all of that fighting she had refused in the first place? Her tears were forgotten — all things are forgotten near the end.

Once, she wanted to let go. Now, a scream was building in her throat.

She met its ruined gaze and held her ground — terror stiffening into a kind of spine. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This was the end: a man, once; a nothing, now. Who had he been? What would she be after?

The picture twitched.

The skull snapped sideways and something black-fletched bloomed from bone. A bolt stood straight out of the walker that was meant to finish her, and the body remembered how to fall.

Chapter Text

And behind the swarm of the dead closing in around Adeline — Daryl.

The crossbow in his hands lowered the second their eyes met and for a heartbeat, everything stopped. All the pain, the terror, the incessant sound of death — it all came crashing down and falling apart. The cold air of the hangar seemed to suddenly warm, and an electric current, a shock of pure relief, ran through her veins.

Had Daryl really come?

For Adeline?

Her eyes searched his face, taking in every feature, every line of weariness, still wrapped in some kind of disbelief. There he was, that man Adeline thought she'd never see again, standing in front of her, looking like he had torn through hell just to reach her, body drenched in sweat and smoke and blood.

He had come.

For her.

Gunfire cracked somewhere behind him, glass-sharp through the haze, and walkers around her dropped one by one. Daryl didn't blink. He slung the crossbow over his shoulder, drew his pistol, and began to cut the nightmare down — cold, precise, and efficient. With each body that fell, he came a step closer, the promise plain: this ends.

Emily's grip around Adeline tightened, but still her aunt hadn't dared to look. And when the floor of that hangar was completely covered in the corpses of fallen walkers, and Merle's manic laughter echoed through the entrance, Daryl finally reached her, gun lowered in his hand.

His eyes raked over her, from the blood on her face to the tremble in her limbs, and he tried to speak, "I—" His expression twisted and something raw flickered behind it. "I'm—" he tried again, but never finished, and Adeline didn't wait; she tore from Emily's arms and ran. Stumbling through blood, through smoke, through the screaming ache in her bones, until he caught her.

Crashing into him was something breaking loose inside her; a heavy coat finally falling from her shoulders. Her fingers twisted into his shirt and his arms locked around her like a vice. Her whole body shook as he crushed her against his chest and that sound, that awful, breathless, half-swallowed sob, left her throat before she could stop it, and Daryl held her so tightly she could barely breathe. "You came," she cried against his shoulder. "You came."

"I'm here." He pressed his mouth to the top of her head, eyes clenched shut. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm here. I'm sorry. I'm here." He pulled back just enough to see her face, cupping it gently in both his rough, calloused hands. As if he were in pain, his eyes scanned over her bruises and the tear tracks on her face and that blood-soaked shirt. "You hurt?" he asked urgently. "Where?"

Oh, Adeline must've looked like death — she felt like death. But it was Emily who answered the question in her place, "Not hers," she said, rising to meet them, and her face was a mess of caution and relief. "Not all of it."

Monroe's blood; walker blood; her own blood. A gruesome canvas Adeline had become, something torn and stitched back together; a monster born the moment that glass tore through her palm. But the pieces had been breaking long before that night.

"You good?" Daryl asked Emily, grip still locked around the girl in his arms.

"I'll live."

Daryl's eyes narrowed and Adeline could see the questions swirling behind his eyes. Could he picture the terror they had endured? Could he have stopped, had he come sooner? Had he never left her — them — at all?

From near the door, Merle's voice rang out, sharp and sardonic, "Touching reunion and all, but unless you two wanna join the buffet, we need to move our asses. Walkers are gettin' real cozy out here."

Daryl didn't answer and his arms were already adjusting around Adeline. "C'mere," he grunted, more command than invitation. He didn't ask if she could walk; he didn't wait for permission; he scooped Adeline up into his arms, rising to his feet in one motion, and for the first time that night, she let herself be held without resistance, dead in her bones in the warmth of that body; in the steadiness of that voice, so gentle-wrapped now. Adeline had only felt that kindness of his once or twice. When she was hurt the most. When he was guilty the most.

She accepted that guilty-driven... love? Care, he definitely cared, at least at some depth, though she cared more. And her need for safety ached deeper than his. So she wrapped her legs around his waist, one arm draped over his shoulder, the other still gripping Reyes's gun. That piece of metal was her amulet now, even as it dripped with blood from the lines of her right bruised hand.

"Hold tight," he said, voice rough against her hair, and she did. They moved fast, dodging the fallen bodies that littered the hangar floor. Merle led the way, reloading his gun with mechanical precision, firing shots into any twitching corpse that dared move. Outside, the groans returned, louder and closer, and the dragging shuffle of feet came from every direction.

They ran for the treeline. Merle was ahead, taking out anything in their path, and Emily followed just in front of Daryl, pushing forward with one hand clutching her side and Adeline's backpack still secured in her back. Every now and then, Daryl shifted Adeline's weight and pulled his arm free to shoot, taking out walkers that stumbled too close. But the farther they ran, the more distant the groans became.

Only when they reached the trees, Adeline realized — she had forgotten to look for Foxy on the ground. Her throat clenched again, a sudden tightness rising in her chest. But Adeline couldn't stop, could she? Not even for Foxy. Not after everything she had done to make it out. Every bone in her body screamed to leave that place behind, and there was nothing in this world that could've pulled her from Daryl's arms. So she laid her head back on his shoulder, silently whispering her goodbyes to that graveyard for people she would carry with her for the rest of her days.

And in the forest, the smell of smoke and rot slowly gave way to something newer and fresher. Wet earth and pine trees. For the first time, Adeline breathed honest air and she came to a another realization: all the gunfire behind them had faded, and something scorched and bitter inside her wished the silence meant nothing but death, that they had all been left behind, condemned to an eternity roaming the ground they had poisoned with their filth.

Unnamed men whose faces still haunted her.

Everett.

Cooper — who'd held Emily's arm as if it were something he could claim.

Monroe — whom she had helped kill.

A few inches higher, the cover of silence, slowed reflexes, and Adeline would be a murderer. Could she still be considered one, given her — failed — attempt? Given the fact he was dead only because she had moved first? That the only reason she was still breathing air was because he wasn't?

A monster she was and a monster she always knew she would become.

But thought, feeling, and emotion had been silenced by a bone-deep exhaustion; one that ran deeper than her own tendency for desperation. So she allowed herself to be swallowed by it, covered by the only thing that felt solid anymore: Daryl's embrace.

The two brothers moved through the trees with swift, silent steps and eyes that had long adapted to the dark. Merle now had one arm around Emily, steadying her pace, while the other remained raised, weapon aimed forward. It didn't take long for the trees to thin and they stepped out from under the canopy onto cracked asphalt. Ahead, Merle's Triumph Bonneville and a grey pickup truck Adeline couldn't recognize.

Without waiting for words, Emily opened the back door and Daryl followed, ducking down and easing Adeline onto the seat beside her. An animal-like whimper escaped her throat, weakened arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. Logic was suppressed by feeling. Adeline wanted to be near him. Why was he letting her go?

"It's alright, kid," he murmured, voice rough. "I'll be right up front. You'll be more comfortable here."

Her hold loosened but her eyes were still searching his face. Daryl wasn't letting her go. He was still trying to keep her safe. Wasn't he?

He lingered for a moment longer, eyes searching her face like he needed to remember every part of it, then he closed the door and moved to the front and Adeline felt suddenly alone.

Feeling the cold — the abandonment — wrap its arms around her body again, Adeline immediately slid closer to her aunt, who already had one arm waiting to hold her tight.

Together again, the engine rumbled to life.

And up ahead, Merle led the way.

༻⁕༺

The headlights cut through the trees like knives, pale beams stretching over the cracked road ahead. Merle's bike weaved in and out of the shadows, taillight pulsing like a heartbeat; a fast one; one that hadn't calmed down since the hangar. The road kept winding and trees flanked both sides now, the forest pressing in like it was trying to swallow them whole.

Daryl gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. His grip wasn't just about the steering; it was about the control he didn't have — the anger that still boiled in his veins.

The girl hadn't made a sound since the truck started moving. He could see them in the rearview mirror: Emily with her head leaned back against the glass, eyes closed, holding Adeline close to her side like she was something precious that might shatter — not asleep but detached.

His jaw clenched at the sight of them and his mind replayed again the progression of events that led him here. An old pickup and a busted alternator could've been the first link in that rusted chain, if you looked at it one way. A phone call, if you looked at it another. Maybe even an old Harley-Davidson, worn down by time and carrying too many damn memories for his own sake.

He hadn't expected to find Earl and the dead. When he opened the door to that Ford Bronco, his crossbow was already up, eyes stinging with tears too stubborn to fall. But that old bastard was still alive. Barely.

Forehead slick with sweat, eyes bloodshot, skin pale as hell, and still, somehow, a smirk on his lips. Then came the words. Earl had never been one to waste them. Or soften them. That old man had always looked at Daryl like he was some broken-down machine worth fixing.

Disappointment. Disgust. You goddamn stubborn prick, he'd rasped. You had her in your hands, and you fuckin' let her slip.

But Daryl didn't need help carrying the guilt he'd been dragging since the moment he watched that SUV disappear down the road. It was worse then. Worse because safety didn't exist anymore. Not in Atlanta. Not anywhere.

And the decision came fast. Earl had paused his cursing just long enough to tell him to go — go now, before it was too late. Even if it already was.

Daryl couldn't finish it. Earl did it himself — at least, he said he would. Either way, he'd rot above ground, wandering his shop until his body dried up and blew away with the dust.

Earl had told him to choose and so he did. It didn't feel like stealing. Daryl had already accepted that the world had turned to shit before he even realized he did. An old GMC, not as old as his Ford, but reliable. Good enough to cross the state for a girl who might already be dead.

Another one to the list of losses.

Another fail.

Daryl didn't like the feel of it — that truck. Too smooth and too quiet. There was too much room for thinking and he couldn't stop thinking. Adeline wasn't dead. But she was bruised and marked. Torn up in ways he couldn't unsee. Before, maybe not everything that broke her was on him. But this part — this damage — that was his. It had taken him too damn long to realize he was the one who supposed to stand between her and the mess their lives had become.

Blood. On both of them. Too much for comfort but not enough to be fatal — at least not in the immediate kind of way. But that wasn't walker work. Those bruises came from men. Red rage nearly blinded him again, but the trees broke for a second and he saw the road sign flash by:

WESTSIDE STATE PARK – 1 MILE

Ahead, Merle was already slowing down, taking the next curve off the main road without hesitation. Daryl followed. The path was narrower here, and rougher. No lights and no signs of life. Nothing but the crunch of gravel and the weight of silence.

Eventually, the woods parted again and there it was, tucked between trees and fog, the small building that once served as the visitor center. A little ranger hut with big windows and an empty parking lot, half-covered in leaves. Abandoned like everything else. But the roof was intact. The walls were standing. And it was off the main road.

That was enough for now.

Daryl killed the engine and the quiet hit harder than expected. He sat there for a second, hand still on the keys. Listening. Thinking. Feeling that same tension he'd had since the world ended and maybe even before that.

In the backseat, Emily hadn't moved and Adeline's head was tucked against her chest.

Safe.

For now.

"Wait here," he told Emily; if she heard him, there was no sign.

The two men moved wordlessly, sweeping through the place with flashlights and instinct. The visitor center was quiet. There was the smell of old wood and dust and that faint metallic scent of a place that hadn't seen real life in a long time. But no sign of rot. They moved from room to room. Shelves had been emptied. Vending machines busted open. No food. No drinks. Whoever had been there took what they could and didn't waste time. But there were no bedrolls. No cigarette butts, no piss buckets, no signs of long stay.

Blinds still intact. Glass unbroken. A few cushioned chairs, faded posters on the walls, a stack of Welcome to Westside State Park pamphlets curling in on themselves by the window. One of those big You Are Here maps hung crooked by the entrance. Too dark to study, but Daryl caught the shape of the quarry. Water. Close enough — twenty minutes, maybe less. He and Merle both knew the type of place it was. Hiking trails. Hunting grounds. Good woods all around them.

Merle let out a low whistle. "Ain't a Hilton, but it'll do."

It would. Enough to get their bearings. Enough to stop the bleeding. Fort Benning could wait. Company could wait. Maybe for good.

They'd always done better on their own.

Daryl was moving again, checking the last door — locked, but easy enough to pry open. A utility room. Empty. Dry. No rot, no blood. As safe as anything could be.

He turned back, muttering, "Clear."

Merle was already walking toward the exit again. "I'll grab the bags."

Daryl headed straight for the truck. The night hit harder outside — colder now. Quieter. But not in that hollow way it used to be.

This silence was earned.

He opened the back door carefully. Adeline was still curled against Emily, limp with exhaustion. She didn't wake as he slid his arms beneath her. The girl shifted slightly and then stilled, her head on his chest like it belonged there. Emily moved to follow without a word. They stepped inside together and the door shut behind them with a soft, final click.

He laid the girl down gently on one of the armchairs in the waiting room, the cushions sinking beneath her small frame. She stirred a little, eyes fluttering open slowly, blinking away the sleep, the exhaustion, and maybe the pain. Surely the pain.

Daryl crouched beside her, breath held in the back of his throat. The fire inside him didn't calm when he saw her face under the dim light. It burned worse.

There was blood drying on her lips. A split right at the center. Another gash high on her cheekbone, like someone had struck her — hard. A shallow cut on her forehead, crusted and ugly. Her knees were raw. Both of them. Skin peeled away in patches, dirt embedded deep. Faint bruises circled her wrists, ugly and red — a clear imprint of plastic zip ties. Tight ones. The kind that bites deeper the more you struggle. The kind made to hold people down.

Adeline was a fighter and that fight would scar her for good.

Her right palm was split open in a clean, brutal line — not a scrape, not a nick like the ones he had patched up again and again. Something sharp had cut deep. It still bled, slowly now, soaking through the makeshift bandage Emily must've wrapped.

Daryl swore under his breath and reached for his bag. Found what he needed. He pulled her hand into his lap with more care than his fingers were used to. The wound pulsed against his calloused skin. Adeline barely reacted. He cleaned it as best he could, water first, then antiseptic, trying not to flinch every time she twitched.

After that, he moved up to her face, dabbing at the blood, cleaning what he could. Soft movements, like he was learning who she was through every wound.

Adeline watched him as he worked. Her gaze was steady, even as her body shook with exhaustion. When Daryl was done, she finally spoke, "Why did you come?"

Her voice was thin, frayed at the edges.

And there were about a thousand different ways Daryl could answer that question.

Because I've already failed to help you not once but twice.

Because Jason died and Lillian died and I wasn't there.

Because the weight settled in my chest the second I saw you leave.

Because there was a little girl half-eaten on the ground and all I could see was you.

Because I wasn't supposed to care this much — but I do.

But Daryl chose the simplest one instead.

"Earl came back," he said. "Made it outta Atlanta. I figured y'all would need help. Didn't know where else to go. Just followed the trail."

Her eyes searched him for a moment longer. That wasn't the answer she was looking for and he knew that.

"When... When did you find out?"

He rubbed a hand over his face. There was a weight to this question buried in every bruise in her body; in the distance of her eyes. "Few hours ago. Came as fast as I could."

Not fast enough — nothing would ever be enough to mend the fact he had let her go.

"I'm sorry. Should've been here sooner."

A lazy apology. Worthless, maybe. But she nodded, small, like it cost her something.

"Where's Earl now?"

Daryl could almost take comfort in the thought that Adeline hadn't known the old man long enough for the loss to matter. That her sorrow might be spared, drowned out by heavier grief. But that was a lie. Adeline was a girl that felt too much of everything the same way Lilly used to.

And Earl knew Jason. Earl had mourned him. Adeline would never forget him.

"I'm sorry, kid," he said finally. "He's gone."

No real reaction from her part. Her eyes drifted for half a second, like her brain registered the words but couldn't hold onto them. "Victor's dead," she said then.

Her voice cracked on his name, but she didn't cry; she didn't even wince. And Daryl let her carry on.

"So many people died," she said. "We almost..."

Her eyes closed. Her body curled tighter. She looked like she wanted to say more — like it was clawing up her throat — but it was too much.

Almost what? Got killed? Or worse? Could there even be worse?

Oh, but it could. It always could.

What happened to you?, Daryl wanted to scream.

Who did this to you?

Can you forgive me?

How can I make any of this better?

Not in a thousand years could Daryl. There was a little something, though. Barely anything at all, but it was hers. Shifting slightly, moving barely inches away from her, his hand moved to his belt, to that small item tucked in it: worn fabric, darkened in places, the little seams frayed from time and travel.

Foxy.

Jason used to call her that.

"That's how I knew I'd found ya," he said, voice low, almost apologetic.

Adeline stared at it. For a second, she didn't move or blink. Then, slowly, she reached out and took it from his hand, holding the plush fox tight against her chest. So tight it trembled in her arms.

And her little body gave out at last, curling back into the armchair, Foxy crushed beneath her chin. The tears finally came. Quiet, exhausted ones. Not sobs, but the kind that slides down your face when there's nothing left in you to stop them.

Daryl exhaled and stood, slowly, meaning to grab something for the pain.

"Don't go," she murmured, not even lifting her head.

Daryl paused, looking down at the small hand gripping his sleeve. His voice was low, rough with guilt and something gentler underneath. "Just gonna fix you a place to sleep. That's all."

She didn't respond — not with words — but her fingers loosened just enough for him to slip away. He moved around the room, pulling out one camping mattress from one of the bags Merle brought in. Adeline still needed clean clothes and so did Emily.

From another bag, he pulled out a soft flannel shirt and an old gray henley. He handed the henley to Emily, who was now letting Merle tend to her cuts without protest. Using his knife, Daryl carefully cut off a chunk of the flannel's hem and shortened the sleeves, enough so it wouldn't swallow Adeline whole. Still oversized, but better than bloodstained clothes.

He passed it to her without a word and turned away to give her privacy while she changed, working on her mattress next. It took a minute to roll it out, pad it with the softest pillows he could find, and tuck a worn blanket around it like a nest. He added another one — just in case.

When he came back to the couch, she was still curled up tight, Foxy pressed close to her face like a shield. The flannel looked huge on her. Swallowed her up in fabric and sleeves. But she looked comfortable. Warmer. Safer.

Daryl crouched in front of her and held out his arms. "C'mon."

She didn't resist when he lifted her. Just nestled in like she used to — like those few days before Emily, when it was just the two of them, and neither one knew what the hell they were doing. He laid her down slowly, tucking Foxy beside her before placing the blanket over her shoulders.

Adeline drank from the water bottle he gave her like she hadn't in days — desperate, grateful gulps. He gave her the pain meds next, and she swallowed them without question.

It was only when the bottle was empty and the room had quieted again that she asked, "Are you gonna leave again? Now that you found us?"

The words hit harder than he expected. Daryl sat down on the floor beside her, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on the dark wood ahead of him. His hand, almost instinctually, found its way to the top of her head, fingers brushing gently through her hair.

"No," he said. "Ain't goin' nowhere."

She nodded against the pillow.

And didn't say another word.

༻⁕༺

Emily stood by the counter, one arm held close to her chest, the other braced weakly against the wood. Crouched in front of her, Merle worked with surprisingly gentle hands over her wrist. She winced as he adjusted the splint, jaw clenching, and a soft rasp slipped from her throat.

"Easy, girl," he muttered, almost like an afterthought. "Ain't tryna break it worse."

Emily didn't answer. Her voice was shredded and every breath still tasted like fire. And she had to save what little voice she had — there was still too much left to say before the end.

Across the room, Daryl sat beside Adeline like a statue carved from grief and guilt. The girl had finally drifted into something resembling sleep, wrapped in his jacket and curled tight around that fox plush. Emily almost smiled — she had been sure it was gone for good.

There was something in the way he stayed there, with his hand resting lightly on her head, as if even rest had to be guarded. Emily swallowed hard, the motion burning raw, and her good hand trembled slightly where it pressed to the counter. She wasn't sure what she was looking at — that man or that girl — but it hollowed something in her chest. Emily was witnessing something she wasn't meant to see; something too fragile and too real.

"They dead?" Merle asked suddenly, without looking at her, tightening the bandage around her wrist. Her mind took a moment to catch up — to adjust to the weight of the question. "The bastards that did this to y'all?"

Her voice came out hoarse, almost broken, "Choking on his own blood."

A flicker passed over Merle's face. Not satisfaction; not quite. Something darker and deeper, that sort of approval that comes from someone who understood exactly what that meant.

He smirked, eyes flicking toward the darkened window. "Good."

And that was all he said.

When he was done, Emily didn't wait — steps careful as she crossed the room slowly, one hand still cradling her ribs. Lowering herself onto the floor beside Daryl took more of her than she cared to admit.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound between them was the softness of Adeline's breath contrasting against the roughness of Merle rummaging somewhere in the back, mumbling to himself.

Emilt took a breath deep enough to gather strength and voice. "How did you find us?" she asked finally. "How did you even know you had to?"

His eyes stayed fixed on the girl as he answered, "Remember Earl?"

Emily frowned. "Yeah... Daddy used to spend more time with him than he did with us back then. Why?"

She remembered the knocks on their door in the middle of the night: Earl dragging her semi-conscious father into the living room; Lillian taking off his boots and making sure there was a bucket by his side and coffee waiting by morning. Eleanor, he used to call her some nights.

An echo, she was.

A ghost, she was.

Until the burden became hers. And Emily was Eleanor until she was seventeen.

"He went into the city," he continued. "Saw the smoke. We figured you might be headin' toward Fort Benning. Started followin' your tracks. Found your car. The dead. The empty shells on the ground. Put two and two together. Then we heard the rest."

Two trackers and a quiet stroke of luck. And Emily's thoughts flickered to all the other ways this could've gone. Had they never crossed paths with Reyes, what then? Would they have driven straight into a dead city — engine sputtering to a halt in the middle of a swarm? Would Daryl have ever found them? Had Emily waited another night to leave, how different would things be?

She and Daryl — two sides of the same tarnished coin and regret was the price. While he was the one to let them go, Emily had led them straight into the wolves' den. But while hers would soon follow her to her grave, Daryl's would linger. For better or for worse.

"Why's Earl not with you?" she asked.

Daryl shifted, jaw tightening. "Walker got his arm." He looked away. "Took 'im a whole day to die."

Emily closed her eyes and winced — not at the story itself, but at the weight of it. A cruel, cosmic joke. "A day, huh?" Her lips curled into a fractured smile, something bitter and raw. "Don't think I have that much time."

Daryl turned toward her sharply. "Where?"

Wordlessly, Emily pulled the collar of her shirt to the side, enough for him to see the swollen flesh at the top of her back. The bruised skin. The ugly red marks curving toward her scapula. The unmistakable puncture.

Daryl stared. His mouth opened and then closed and nothing came out.

"She doesn't know yet," Emily said softly. "Didn't want her fallin' asleep scared."

She looked down at Adeline's face — peaceful in sleep, yet tense even in rest. Placing her body between the dead and her niece had been a choice Emily would have made a thousand times over. Every step she had taken since that sheriff called had been to keep her alive — and alive she was.

Her bitterness came from someplace else. The knowledge that, at some depth, her life had  ended because the deeds of men. Their egos and their filth became their price and that had cost many lives. It had cost the fragile, lingering innocence of a child.

There was a hope that her fighting would leave a mark that lasted longer. That her fragility; her softness; her helplessness weren't contradictions to her strength but proof of its coexistence. And Adeline would remember her and that night not for what was taken, but for what had lived.

"They were monsters," Emily carried on. "Not all of them, but once the rot spreads, well..."

This was her final testimony. Daryl needed to understand what it had cost. What it meant — this life in his hands now; the enormous weight over his shoulders.

One Emily would've carried gladly for the rest of her days.

"We never even made it to the city. They caught up with us on the road. Said they had shelter. Food. We were desperate." She swallowed hard. "I just needed to get her out of there."

"You did," Daryl said and there was no room for doubt in his voice.

"Barely." Her laugh was short and bitter. "We got ourselves out."

Her eyes dropped to her hands — dried blood still crusted in the lines of her palms.

"I killed a man tonight," she whispered. "He would've... The only reason he let us in was..."

Her throat closed around the words, so she didn't finish. Foul ones, even now.

It was over, nonetheless.

"While he had his hands around my neck," she continued even though she didn't trust her voice, "Addie ran at him with a piece of broken glass. He was beating me and she... she didn't even hesitate. She just... ran. The only reason we made it out was because while he was busy beating her up I grabbed the shard and drove it straight into his neck."

Daryl's hands curled slowly into fists. His jaw clenched hard. For a moment, he didn't move or breathe.

"She's ten," Emily said. Her voice was barely above a breath now. "Ten. And she's already seen and done things most people can't even imagine."

Daryl's voice was low, almost a growl. "Should've never let you go alone."

"I wanted to blame you," Emily admitted. "For a lot of things. And maybe I did. But we all got caught in Mason's mess. It's not your fault you didn't know what to do with it. I barely do now."

Another long silence. Nothing but the sound of Adeline breathing between them.

"You think he's still alive?" Emily asked, her voice quieter now. "You think he's looking for her?"

"I don't know," Daryl said. "But if he is..."

He looked down at the girl curled beside him, then back at Emily.

"He won't get to her. I promise you that."

Emily nodded, exhaling through her nose, thinking of the small, heavy packages in her pockets.

"A doctor gave these to us back at the camp," she murmured, fumbling inside her jacket, and pulled out the two items — a small amber vial and a crumpled blister pack. "She woke up screaming. Loud. Woke everyone up. People started getting mad." She held up the bottle. "This one's a sedative. Clonazepan. It's strong. Too strong, maybe. But it got her to sleep through the night."

Then she lifted the blister pack.

"This is an antidepressant. They said it's for PTSD. For the anxiety. For... everything else." Her fingers tightened around the edges. "I didn't give it to her. I... I thought I'd have more time. Time to watch her. To decide."

"Drugs never did anything for Lilly," Daryl muttered. "Addie don't need this stuff scrambling her head. What she needs is time."

Emily let out a soft, humorless laugh. "God, you're stubborn." She turned her head to look at him fully, her voice sharpening just enough to cut through the air. "What she needs is a chance. A real one. And sometimes that means help. This isn't a cure. But it might give her enough air to breathe. Enough stillness to get her through the night."

She reached for his hand and gently placed the pills in his calloused palm.

"It's your choice now."

Emily leaned back against the wall, resting her head, breathing carefully. Her ribs ached.

"Addie's a fighter," she whispered. "Her mother was a fighter too."

Daryl looked sideways at her, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"Maybe what Lilly needed more than drugs was someone to fight for her too, do you understand?"

Their silence stretched — heavy with ghosts and things that would never be said again. Daryl's eyes were fixed on the medicines, that same quiet pain she had displayed only the night before, when the choice was hers to make.

"We used to talk," Emily spoke again, the memory of her sister lingering. The weight of her never-ending guilt. "Back when they still lived in Charleston. We were building something. Some kind of relationship again. She sounded... happy. Not 'Lillian-happy.' Not manic. Just... real. Steady. Then she got pregnant with Addie, and they had to move back. And little by little, she stopped picking up the phone."

Her voice caught.

"I should've pushed back. Should've gone after her. Fought for her. Fought for the three of them."

"You were on the other side of the country, Em," Daryl said, almost too quiet to hear. "I was right there. I saw it all — saw she was sick. That she was slippin'. And I still closed my eyes. Told myself it wasn't my place."

Emily nodded. That man had years of healing ahead of him, but Emily had so little time.

"You can't look at her and see Lillian," she said. "I did that and nearly lost my mind. You can't look at her and see her mistakes. Your mistakes."

"I think I screwed up enough already," Daryl murmured.

"Well, you don't get to anymore," Emily said sharply. "You gotta be here now. You have to reach for her. She deserves more than you and me — she deserves more than all of this. But we don't get to choose anymore."

Daryl looked at her. "I thought you were that someone better," he said sincerely.

Emily gave a tired laugh. "Victor was."

That deep ache pierced her heart again — one that might've cut even deeper if not for the quiet comfort of knowing she was only hours away from seeing him again. Emily had never been much of a religious person, but her possibilities were wide open now. And in that space, there was still a little room for hope.

"We were divorced, you know?" she said softly, not meeting his eyes. "It was complicated from the start. I wasn't big on commitments. Too many ghosts already in the bed. And he was just so damn... perfect. Patient. Gentle. Solid in a way that terrified me."

She rubbed her wrist absentmindedly, gaze distant.

"But we made it work, for a while. Then he brought up kids, and I panicked. All I could think about was our mother. Lillian. Me. What kind of blood ran in my veins."

Her voice cracked slightly.

"So I let him go. Or he let me. Depends on the day."

She looked over at Daryl again, face thinner now under the strain of too many truths.

"When Lillian died, we were trying again. Reaching toward something. And then Adeline came into the picture, and... that was it. Settled. No hesitation from him. He just stepped in like he'd been waiting for her his whole life."

She smiled faintly, eyes flicking to the girl sleeping beside them.

"He was a better father to her in one day than Mason ever tried to be. Maybe not the one she needed, but definitely the one she deserved."

Daryl listened in silence, jaw tight, the weight of every lost moment pulling down his shoulders.

"You, me, Lilly," she continued, "we're all cut from the same cloth. I'm just the one who got away. Unlike you and her, I had nothing to hold me back."

She paused, then leaned forward just enough to catch his eye.

"She's your chance, Daryl. You hear me? Not a second chance. Your only chance. Don't let your brother hold you back. Not yourself. Not your past. She needs all of you."

For a moment, he didn't answer. His eyes were on the girl. Still breathing. Still here.

When he spoke, it was barely audible.

"I don't know how to do this, Em," he said. "Didn't save Lilly. Didn't save Jason. You. Barely got to her in time."

Emily reached out and placed a hand over his.

"We can't save anyone," she said gently. "Thought you'd figured that out by now."

Then, softer, like a knife dressed in silk:

"But you can love them."

His eyes flicked to hers — something raw and vulnerable breaking through.

She smiled. Not wide. Just enough.

"Don't lie to yourself, Daryl Dixon," she whispered. "You loved all of them."

Emily stood, slowly, every movement deliberate. Her hand lingered on his shoulder just a moment longer — not needing to say goodbye yet, but already beginning to let go.

"But it doesn't mean everything that follows is gonna break your heart."

Chapter Text

"I began to talk. I talked about summer, and about time. The pleasures of eating, the terrors of the night. About this cup we call a life. About happiness. And how good it feels, the heat of the sun between the shoulder blades."

— Mary Oliver. Toad, from Truro Bear and Other Adventures: Poems and Essays.

༻⁕༺

When Adeline woke from an exhausted, dreamless sleep, it was by the look on her uncle's face as he sat still beside her that she knew something was irrevocably wrong.

As so many nights before, he hadn't slept. In the uncertain light of a sun still deciding whether it would commit to the day, she stirred ever so slightly on her mattress and that familiar rush of adrenaline began to flood her veins. The weight in her chest, ancient and unyielding, pressed down as her one and only truth. And their eyes met.

His had been drawn by the soft shimmer of her breath he had counted through the night, over and over again. Hers were pulled by that same primal instinct that had long ago rewired itself to mean one thing: safety meant him.

Sorrow — that was Adeline noticed first.

There were moments when she thought she understood him. She knew that rage, always humming just beneath his skin, leaking through the sharpness of his breath and the tightness of his jaw, and in words that cut so deeply though that already bruised heart. And she recognized that care in his gaze. The quiet precision of his footsteps. The raw intensity with which he met all things. Daryl was distant because something that roared so deeply could only shatter something so gentle. And that fragility of hers, to both, was something as certain as it was unapproachable.

The only truth they failed to notice was that they were equal — hers a mirror to his.

If the choice had been Daryl's, he would've carried her far from all this. Wrapped her in his arms and ran. Because knowledge was a beast and the kind of truth surrounding them now could only cause harm. Had she stayed asleep, it couldn't reach her. Nothing kind waited on the other side of her waking. And God forgive him, if he could've kept her eyes closed, he would've. She looked so still and at peace. He'd learned to recognize the signs when her dreams turned on her: the winces, the twitching, the shallow gasps of breath. But not this time. She had slept. Deeply and calmly.

Peaceful, yes. But when those blue eyes snapped open — first unfocused, then aware — it struck him like a blow. Because that peace wouldn't last. Not today.

And Adeline recognized those grief-filled eyes. They were nothing but a picture burned deep into her eyelids — a scar that had never truly healed. A precursor to every turn of every chapter. And her first thought was: Is there still anything left to lose?

Her eyes darted through the room the way they always did — in anticipation.

Lying sprawled out on his own mattress across the room, one arm flung over his eyes, was Merle. Adeline couldn't tell if he was asleep or simply detached — just as disconnected from his surroundings as ever. Either way, whatever was unfolding didn't concern him and he wasn't about to involve himself.

Her gaze drifted next to the crack in the door where the pale light of morning dared to sneak inside, dragging with it the cold bite of early dawn air. Then she noticed the most important absence. No other nest of blankets and pillows tucked away in the corner and no other sleeping form curled up nearby where it should have been. Her heart, already uneasy, roared like thunder in her chest.

Emily was nowhere to be seen. And the only clues were the cold air leaking through the half-open door.

And the look in Daryl's eyes.

Adeline shifted and it wasn't graceful. Not as someone rested or whole but in that clumsy, frantic way a body moved when the soul underneath had already begun to panic. Her hands braced against the floor as she tried to push herself up, but pain shot through her side like a warning. Her ribs ached, and the raw skin on both knees burned with even the slightest movements. That familiar weight settled in her skull again, stripping her body of its steadiness. Still, she tried once more.

"Hey, hey, slow down," Daryl said, rising quickly to crouch beside her. His voice was gentle, but edged with that same fear she carried in her chest. His hand hovered near her shoulder, not quite touching her, but close enough to catch her if she collapsed.

"Where—" Adeline whispered, her breath catching. "She's not here. She's not here."

"I know," Daryl said. "I know. Just take it slow, alright?"

She barely heard him. Her hand gripped the edge of the wall and, trembling, she pulled herself upright. Daryl steadied her when her legs faltered with one arm gently around her back, the other guiding her shoulder.

Step by shaky step, she moved toward the door.

The morning air was sharp and clean. The kind of cold that clung to skin and made your bones ache. Light spilled over the horizon, not yet warm, but promising warmth to come.

And there she was.

Emily sat on a weathered wooden bench just outside, a wool blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders. Her eyes drifted from the almost-beautiful landscape to the girl standing in the doorway, her lips twitching into a pained smile. But a still genuine one.

If not for the truth that weighed heavy in the sight before her, Adeline might have breathed easier. The pallor of her aunt's skin, the cracked lips framing that smile, the sheen of sweat catching faint light on her brow — it all made her chest tighten. Exhaustion clung to Emily like a second skin.

Adeline's steps were slow and dragging over the wooden floor. Daryl stopped just behind her at the doorway, his presence still and watchful. Emily extended a hand toward her. "Mornin', baby."

Her hands took Emily's hesitantly. She sat close beside her, searching her face with quiet urgency. "What's wrong?"

Emily brushed a strand of hair behind Adeline's ear with the back of her fingers, her touch featherlight, as if even that might break her.

"Are you sick?" she asked again.

Emily exhaled a soft breath and leaned back slightly, as if the act of sitting upright was already taxing her. "Yes, baby," she said, quietly. "I am."

The silence that followed wasn't shocked. It was heavy, yes, but almost accepting. Adeline's eyes didn't widen. She didn't flinch. Instead, her fingers tightened, and her chin trembled, just once.

"When..." she started, "when did it..."

"It was before I found you."

Her fingers wove gently through Adeline's hair, lingering in those wild, coppery strands, trying to memorize them. It was a sweet lie, meant to keep a fragile peace in her niece's heart.

But Adeline didn't believe it — not truly. She couldn't say exactly why she didn't speak up then and she wouldn't understand it for a long time. But the words that fall from a dying person's lips are sacred, and if they're meant to bring peace, Adeline would let them.

"I'm sorry," she whispered as quiet tears slipped down her face. "I'm sorry about Victor. I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm so sorry..."

"Hey, hey." Emily reached for her, brushing the tears from her cheeks with both thumbs. "It's okay, baby."

"I don't want you to go," Adeline breathed. It came out as barely more than air.

Emily pulled her closer, her arm wrapping around her shoulders. "I know, sweetheart. I don't want to go either."

Careful not to hurt her further, Adeline folded herself into that embrace — one that, not so long ago, had felt foreign and even terrifying. Now, she melted into it, into the scent of morning air and smoke and something sweet and ancient that belonged only to Emily.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Adeline asked into her shoulder. "Maybe there's a medicine, or a hospital..."

Emily pulled back just enough to cup her niece's face in both hands, cutting off the words before they could break either of them further. Her cheeks were streaked with fresh tears now, but even so, she smiled.

"I'm sorry, baby," she whispered. "I'm afraid this is it."

Futile hope, was it not? Too late it was when she heard — the news and the radio and whispers that filtered through Merle's mouth. By the time Mrs. Long closed her jaw around her mother's arm, her life was already doomed. As it was now.

"It's not fair," Adeline cried. None of it had ever been fair.

"I know, I know." Emily gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. "I wish we had more time, sweetheart. But you're not gonna be alone. Not anymore. Your Uncle Daryl's got you now. He'll keep you safe."

Another soft smile touched Emily's lips as her eyes drifted past Adeline to the doorway. "Can you help me get inside? It's colder than I thought."

Adeline's eyes lingered on her face for a moment longer, searching. Memorizing. The bruises were a mirror to her own — a map to their survival. And that cut on their palms had branded them as equals. A scar that would remain on Adeline, and Adeline alone.

God, everything hurt so much.

Daryl stepped forward without a word. One arm wrapped gently around her back, the other steadied her side. "I got you."

Emily nodded and leaned into him, letting him carry most of the weight. Her body was trembling by then and the few steps back into the visitor center felt longer than they should have. Daryl brought her straight to the mattress he had set up for Adeline and lowered her onto it with care. A faint wince escaped her lips, but she didn't complain, and as the warmth of the blankets closed in around her, she exhaled like someone finally allowed to rest.

Soon, who knew? Maybe she would see Victor again. Her sister. The mother she never met. The father who had been a stranger in their own home.

Following a few steps behind, an uncertain Adeline watched in silence the way Daryl adjusted the blankets around her aunt, until his hand settled firmly on her shoulder. "C'mon, kid," he said but his eyes were set on his own shoes.

"I'm not... I'm not going anywhere," she protested. "I'm staying with her."

Why is that even a question?

"Adeline..." His voice held something frayed — not anger, but sorrow.

"No," she said more firmly. "I wanna be with her." Her eyes turned to her aunt and her voice lost its edge. "If... If she wants me to."

Emily smiled softly. "It's okay," she whispered to Daryl. "We still have a few more hours, right?"

His eyes lingered on them for a moment. Behind him, Merle was already rising with a grunt from his mattress, wordless, heading for the door.

The sight of that woman — pale and wrapped in blankets, but still smiling for Adeline — was more than a trigger. More than a reflex carved into the raw edges of his failures. It was a doorway to a memory or maybe a dream. One Daryl struggled every damn night to keep locked away.

Lillian hadn't lived long enough for the fever to take hold. It was blood loss that claimed her first — fast, messy, final — and Adeline had seen all of it. He hadn't been there to stop it and hadn't been fast enough to shield her. And now, here she was, bracing herself again. Steeling her little heart for another weight she'd have to carry. Another ghost that would visit her each time she shut her eyes.

But wasn't this the exact opposite?

Lillian's death had been violent. No time for goodbyes and kindly spoken words. And her second death — the rising, the screaming — even more brutal. Something Adeline had to fight her way out of with blood and sobs and shaking hands. He didn't need a sharper mind to guess what haunted her dreams because his own weren't much different.

But Emily, that mirror, would have a peaceful one — a moment of her choice. To Adeline was a chance to rewrite an ending that should never have been.

One that wouldn't scar so damn cruelly.

And what else could Daryl do for her, except give her that?

"I'll be outside," he said at last. To Emily. To Adeline. To himself. And maybe to no one at all.

It wasn't until he stepped out onto the porch, leaning heavily against one of the rough-hewn wooden beams that framed the doorway — close enough to hear, far enough to give them space — that Merle, sitting down on the weathered bench beside him, finally opened his mouth for the first time that morning:

"You look at that girl like she's 'bout to break."

It was true.

Something fragile that would shatter like the glass that had torn open the skin of her palm. As delicate as the cold morning light cracking across that pale sky above them, stirring birds into song. As fresh and fleeting as the breeze that whispered through the trees.

Because he was all roughness and sharp edges, and she was something soft he would never be able to hold in both hands.

"Look again, 'lil brother," Merle said, voice low and rasped, eyes sharp on his brother. "She's broken already. She's still standin'."

༻⁕༺

And so they talked.

They talked in whispers. Not about death, but about all the things that still lived in the quiet between them.

There were memories still so painful and Lillian was one of them. A mother, a sister, a daughter, a stranger. A tragedy — when Emily was anything but. Even now, as she met her end.

Adeline would try to remember that — that we are defined in so many ways, and death is only one of them.

And so she told her about Jason and his motorcycle. About how he chased the wind far up in the hills of their home, and the way he captured every sunset. She told her about the girl with sunlight in her hair, the one Adeline hoped was still alive. And how she had taught her that love was something everlasting and evergrowing, not trapped in blood, but born in the day-to-day choosing. That it was carried in the fresh breath of spring, and in the way birds sing.

And Emily told her about Victor and his kind eyes, and the garden he never got to finish. About what Daryl was like before she left. Young, but never free and never soft. Loud and quiet, reckless and kind. She talked in secret about the blonde girl in black clothes and freckles across her nose he once loved and maybe still loved and maybe always would.

Emily was sad — not in the way that bends your spine, but in the kind that lingers behind your eyes and blurs your joy. And she was cold, and she was happy. She was strong, and she was sweet, and she was vulnerable.

And she was broken.

Emily was like Jason in a way that Lillian never had been.

Her aunt promised she'd never leave her heart behind — that a piece of it would stay tucked inside Adeline, no matter what. She tried not to cry, and failed quietly.

And when the words finally lacked, they sang.

༻⁕༺

Emily's breaths had grown shallower. Quieter. Not strained, but the silence between them was beginning to stretch longer and heavier.

Adeline sat with her back curved forward, knees drawn up to her chest, her fingers curled tight around the blanket covering her aunt's legs. Her face was slack, unreadable, but her eyes shimmered like glass under too much pressure. She hadn't spoken in a while — hadn't trusted her voice not to betray her.

Emily's hand shifted from where it rested beside her and reached again for Daryl, who stood nearby, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. Her fingers barely brushed his. But that was all it took.

"I envy you," Emily murmured, a smile tugging at the edge of her lips. "You'll get to see who she becomes."

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a brief surrender. Her hand slipped from his and rested once more against Adeline's hair. Daryl's lips parted, but no sound came.

There it was again, that helplessness.

The three of them lingered motionless and wordless, postponing the end that was still uncertain in so many ways. Because it should be him to finish it — never her — the same way it should have been him with Earl. With Lillian. With Jason. But the sharp features of that face were a terribly beautiful ghost, and there was a girl beside him spilling quiet tears who should never have to witness it and neither should she live through it alone.

That was when Merle stepped in.

He had always shown strength in ways Daryl hadn't. Merle had walked away when Daryl should've. Let go of people long before Daryl even thought to — Mason was one; their father another.

With that blunt, rasped tone only his brother could make sound almost kind, he said, "Get her outta here."

Adeline's head snapped up. "No—" she gasped, already shaking. "No, no, please, not yet—"

Daryl's eyes found Emily's. A silent understanding passed between them, and she gave a single, slight nod. His hands were firm when they touched Adeline's shoulders. She thrashed once, almost childlike, on instinct. "No, please, let me stay—"

"I'm sorry," Daryl said, barely above a whisper. "I'm sorry, kid. She don't want ya t'see this."

He lifted her with more ease than he expected. She was heavier with grief than with flesh and bone. And her fighting didn't last — only until the weight of it all pulled her under.

He carried her outside.

Emily looked past her niece to Merle, closing her eyes for a second to memorize those red curls, ocean-filled eyes, and soft orange freckles spread across her whole little precious being. Her eyes — dimmed, yet sharp — locked on Merle's, with the last thing she still needed to say, steady as a breath.

"Don't screw this up."

Daryl and Adeline. Her niece, his niece, his brother. A family — one Merle could still be part of, in the same way she wished she could be.

And Merle, for once, nodded.

The moment the door shut behind them, her body gave out. In Daryl's arms, Adeline broke.

"I can't breathe," she gasped. "I can't breathe."

He lowered her to the ground, crouching in front of her.

"I... I can't breathe." Her chest was rising in those panicked gasps, tears still streaming down her cheeks. The bruises on that too-young face made something in him twist, deep and painful like an ache born in the bone.

"Look at me," he said, holding her shoulders. "You can breathe. You're just doing it too fast."

She shook her head. "I can't..." she cried. "It's... It's my fault. It's all my fault."

Daryl tried to speak — he wanted to say it wasn't her fault, wanted to tell her she was just a kid, that none of this was on her — but she kept going, the words spilling fast and jagged, as if her heart had waited too long to bleed.

"It's my fault Jason died," she gasped. "If I hadn't—if I wasn't—he was trying to protect me. I shouldn't have let him go. I shouldn't...."

Her tears broke into sobs.

"And Mom—she was sick because of me. Because I made things worse. Because I stayed. I stayed even when I knew she was getting worse and I thought I could fix it and I made it worse."

Her breath hitched. Her voice cracked.

"And Daddy left because... I'm not—I'm not good."

"Stop," Daryl said. But she didn't.

"Emily's dying and it's my fault. Victor, too. And Miles and Reyes. Everyone."

"Kid."

"You didn't want me," she finally spat, and it gutted him. "You didn't. I know it. I know you didn't want to be stuck with me, don't lie, I heard you."

Daryl's grip tightened, not in anger, but in the way you hold something slipping through your fingers.

"I'm sorry, Daryl. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

And Daryl held her. Let her sob into his chest. Let the tears soak into his skin. Let her say every word she'd buried down so deep it had started to rot inside her.

"I got you," he whispered. "I ain't going nowhere."

She wasn't screaming, but the sounds that tore from her chest were raw and ragged and ancient, like something that had waited a lifetime to escape. Her fists beat once, twice against his chest before she curled inward, sobbing so violently it stole her breath.

Daryl dropped to the dirt with her still in his arms, letting her fold into his lap, into his jacket, into the smell of dust and woodsmoke and safety. He wrapped around her like armor. One hand at the back of her head, the other bracing her trembling frame against his own.

"I'm so tired," she whispered. "I'm so tired."

"I know, I know," he said, over and over, voice cracked and low. "I know, darlin'. I've got you. I've got you, now."

She wept until her throat was raw. Until her tears soaked through the fabric of his shirt. Until her body couldn't take more — until sleep crept in like a thief.

And even then, even after her sobs gave way to silence and her breathing steadied against his ribs, Daryl didn't move.

Because she hadn't let go.

And neither would he.

Chapter Text

When Adeline woke up, Emily was already buried.

In silence she walked up to her grave and in that same silence Daryl stood beside her. There had never been a proper funeral — never a proper goodbye — each time she lost someone. And yet, her uncle had always been there; in her mourning, Adeline had never been alone.

They talked about love, near the end, the kind that lingers, even after death, that reshapes and never disappears. Adeline never said it back. Her aunt didn't ask her to. At some depth, she knew Adeline, the layers of which she was made. She knew where — who — she came from. But what had stopped her from saying it wasn't hardness, but disbelief — the doubt of someone who never knew beyond.

Because what kind of love was that, born in a single afternoon and gone by the night that followed? Could bonds truly sharpen in the wake of shared blood and ruin, could tragedy thicken what was once born of the womb yet lost along the way? But there was no lie in her voice when she spoke and no hollow comfort meant for a girl about to lose someone else; Emily wasn't speaking of something built slowly over years, tested and worn in, but of something else entirely. Sudden and still worth dying for; real, and the pain, for both of them, real enough.

Love had never been a confusing subject for Adeline, but rather one, in her desperate search for patterns and meaning and comfort, that had grown and adapted through the years, something becoming more complex and tangled as everything around her changed.

Cold at times and warm at others, for Jason, love was something of a burden he carried; a weight he was never allowed to share. Loving her mother meant making room for loneliness and rage, because Lillian Dixon burned on both. Everything about her bore that intense touch to it and how so terribly beautiful and familiar she was! Looking at her was facing a mirror to the very core of what defined Adeline: half-alive beast, half-dead girl. And loving her father had taught her that there is a sort of destruction to every creation — he was both the knife and the sculptor, and Adeline that shapeless little thing he left behind.

Was he a ghost now or a stranger?

Mason had left blood in his path and after that, Adeline became a burden passed from hand to hand. Strangers had paved her path since that tormented ending — or should it be called beginning? — and weren't they — wasn't Daryl; his brother; a stranger — everything her father wasn't? Hadn't they done everything he couldn't?

Violence was a word that had grown closer to her heart only now when it should have settled there so many years ago. What happened to her that night wasn't foreign. In all its shifting shapes, it had become familiar enough that it was difficult now to tell where one ended and Adeline began.

The longing, however, lingered.

It lingered in that fresh patch of dirt surrounded by soft green grass.

It lingered as the cold light turned warm then gold and the air filled with sounds of a world still turning.

It lingered when soft wool was draped over her bare arms and quiet hands lifted her from the ground and carried her away.

But her heart — aching and bruised and stubborn — still couldn't reach the understanding it so desperately grasped for.

It was still too painful of one.

༻⁕༺

The days passed in a blur.

When the adrenaline fades and routine settles, what remains after is nothing but the body — the way the blood flows, hot and sure, through this beating muscle that carries an unknown, rejected strength. The smells were real: woodwork and dust and something that didn't want to be abandoned.

Adeline stayed in bed. Hurting and healing and with no need for movement. Some nights she did — the first one. Only to drag her mattress closer to his. Safety wasn't certain but the sound of his breathing was. His hands were larger and secure and something to hold onto while the bandages covered that tender skin from her own biting. Her right, dominant hand was an evidence and a shameful one. Too many scars, each pain as true as the next. It still bled if she clenched her fist tight enough. A feeling, when everything else was absence.

Daryl never said a word about it.

They all rarely spoke now, but unlike before, their conversations could almost be described as tentative. Water and food, mostly. And, of course, drugs. Painkillers and that sweet sedative Daryl only came to terms with on the third time she woke up screaming in the same night. Silence had become imperative enough to cross lines he wouldn't have before because now, even Merle would lose himself in it.

The two men talked in whispers. Adeline would often catch glimpses of it — because what else was there to listen to? The breeze carried no peace now, only bitter promises. And birdsong was a painful reminder of a past and a freedom she no longer sought in the way she once had. It meant nothing now.

And so they talked. About how Adeline needed clothes and how she needed food and how she needed to get out of that goddamn bed. Adeline needed to heal. Adeline needed someone who knew what the hell they were doing.

Adeline needed to be left fucking alone.

The last was granted with ease and received without complaint.

Oh, she slept and most of her sleeping was quiet now. Not peaceful but quiet was good enough; plenty, even.

He never drifted far, though. The first watch was always Merle's and Daryl only took his turn after Adeline was fast asleep. It was usually better not to think about it — knowing there would be a few hours she'd be left alone at night would most likely lead to eventful dreams, and she'd had enough of those by now. Childish, yes, but she no longer cared for it and neither did Daryl.

There was an anguish for change — there always had been. But this one was different. The shades of hope had faded and there was no kindness left in most of her thoughts. The longing was real, because she couldn't keep up this kind of drifting down. Being so present, so locked inside her own bones and flesh, was unbearable; there was no release to be found in her mind. Only the now, the present, existed, and the gnawing sense that her days were numbered. One more day in this reality and something was bound to break.

And it did.

Because it always would and always in a way she didn't ask for.

The adrenaline returned fast and with it came something else. Because they needed water, and who knew? Maybe Daryl was tired — he had left home to look for a dead man and a dying woman and a girl who was anything but alive and became tied to her in a wooden hut in the middle of nothingness and silence. And he was a man built for the outside the same way Adeline used to be before she shattered and no one bothered to put the pieces back.

But he was leaving, and Merle and Adeline agreed: he didn't want to look after her, and while Adeline didn't care much for the older brother's presence nowadays, she didn't want Daryl to go either.

There was a trail marked in a map from their visitor center to a quarry. Clean water and good hunting grounds and perhaps a decent camping site. But Merle wasn't interested in settling. Daryl said they should. Nobody asked Adeline anything.

It was early morning and the only reason she knew that was because she'd woken before sunrise and couldn't fall back asleep. Days of sleeping nonstop had finally run out, it seemed. And Daryl was just as surprised, apparently. Crossbow slung over his shoulder, pistol at his hip, backpack halfway full, and he was ready to leave her without a word when he caught her moving, wincing as she pushed herself up to sit. Hesitating for a second or maybe two, he approached in usual silent steps to crouch in front of her. "You good?" she only nodded, waiting for his next words, "I'm headin' out. Gonna get us some water. Maybe find game." He glanced back toward the door. "You okay stayin' here with Merle?"

"I wanna come with," Adeline stated in a voice that sounded more rasped than she'd expected.

Daryl shook his head. "Not this time. Don't know what's out there."

"But..." She tried to stand, but pain shot through her side. It wasn't the pain that stopped her, though, but the shock of it. Still, Daryl's hand came to her shoulder — steady — guiding her back down.

"Not now, Adeline," he said quietly. "Ya ain't strong enough yet."

This time, he was trying to be kind and maybe Adeline should've settled or even appreciated it. Kindness should be rewarded with silence, but she was just so simply mad. That tenderness wasn't real — it was careful and she didn't need it.

What she needed was him here or not to treat her as something fragile. That cut in her palm meant something. Reyes had given her that gun and she became someone who could almost save her aunt. She had faced fear and kept it caged, even if he couldn't see it. And she was so tired of that fucking bed. Of that hut. Of herself. There was a warmth that came only from the sun and she craved it now. And that metal on her hands made her feel not so small — Adeline was anything but. She had survived when so many others hadn't.

But Merle was outside now and all of their things were still inside. She had watched them day after day because there was nothing left to do. So she nodded, not meeting his eyes.

Daryl lingered a moment, then stood. "Be back by noon."

When the door shut behind him, Adeline stood. She didn't hesitate and there was no rush either. No frantic movement or trembling fingers. A quiet resolve — the sort that came when there was nothing left to lose and nowhere else to go. Her body was still aching, but it didn't matter. Pain was background noise now and she could manage background noise.

The gun was tucked away in the bag — Daryl had taken it from her the moment she woke up inside the cabin. She hadn't asked, but she'd noticed him fumble with it now and then. Her hand hovered over it for a second, not out of doubt but out of memory.

She had only seen Reyes reload it once. A fluid movement — quiet and practiced — a small ritual passed between the living and the dying. It had been rushed, panicked, never meant to teach. But desperation has its own way of leaving marks. She hadn't asked questions then. Maybe she should have.

Still, her fingers remembered more than her mind did.

Taking the magazine from the box beside it, she pressed it into place with a soft, satisfying click, surprised that it fit and not sure how it did. She racked the slide — clumsy, almost — but it worked, and checked the chamber just like Reyes had.

The weight of it settled in her palm like it belonged there.

And maybe it did.

It was given to her in blood and she had claimed it as hers.

Adeline moved with purpose after that, careful not to alert Merle, though something told her he wouldn't bother stopping her even if he saw. He was tired of her and she didn't blame him.

When she stepped outside, the air was damp and sharp, morning clinging to the trees in beads of moisture. Her sneakers sunk slightly into the mud and for a moment she thought about turning back.

No.

There was a trail. She'd seen the map and knew the general direction. It was supposed to be easy. But that's the thing no one tells you — easy doesn't mean simple. It doesn't mean kind either. It was a hiking trail, not the kind built in parks for lazy afternoon strolls. Not the kind she and Jay used to ride bikes through.

The trail was visible, sure, and well-marked. But it was steep and uneven, climbing through brush and rock, winding like it didn't want to be followed. Thorns scratched at her arms and the undergrowth tugged at her knees, still bruised and swollen. Daryl couldn't be far — he'd only just left. She could very well catch up. There was no need to be a great tracker because Adeline for sure wasn't.

She stumbled once or twice and still pressed forward. Her legs shook, her breath grew shallow, and yet the path didn't care. It kept going and so did she.

But after a while, doubt began to trickle in. She couldn't hear him or see him. And every step forward felt heavier than the last.

What if she made a mistake? What if she had misread the map? Misread him? What if he left her?

But it was too late for that — turning back was no easier than going forward. So she gripped the gun tighter, forced her feet to keep moving, and told herself that if she kept going, she'd see him again.

And why turn back now? When the forest was so alive. Streaks of cold morning sunlight filtered through the trees, dancing over her arms like blessings she didn't ask for. Leaves whispered above her and birds sang in a language she didn't understand but it was beautiful still. Stupidly, achingly beautiful.

Her feet ached, the cuts on her skin flared with every step, but she welcomed it — it reminded her she was still here. The breeze brushed her cheeks, cool and soft, and she moved through the trees like she belonged to them. Her fingers flexed around the grip of the gun, heavy and so real in her hand. Her aim was good and she was sure of that now. She almost hoped something would crawl out of the woods, teeth first. Anything to shoot. Anything to silence the chaos inside her chest.

She could feel her muscles again — legs, arms, even the pull of her back where the bruises hadn't fully healed. Her body had betrayed her so many times lately but now it carried her forward, scrunching softly leaves and twigs beneath her feet in a way that made her want to run. Something rose in her chest and she had to hold back a laugh.

There was a sound.

Laughter — light and quick and young — carried by the wind like a ribbon through the trees.

Adeline came to a stop, wondering for only a moment if her mind — so untrustworthy lately — had somehow made it up. But the sound carried on.

It was a boy's voice. Not much older than her, if at all. A little rascally and almost normal.

Searching for the source, Adeline turned her head and her fingers curled tighter around the grip of the gun at her side. Her heart had already started racing, but now it thudded in her chest like it didn't know what to feel. Branches whispered under her feet and she took a step forward. It felt like a trick, but it also felt like life. And she wasn't ready to turn her back on it.

Another voice followed: a man's. And her body locked up. The sound was closer. Not like Daryl's voice — rough, yes, but warm in the cracks. This one was different. Commanding and distant and heavy.

She crept forward until she could see them through the trees.

A man. Tall. Huge. Standing there with his back half-turned. Dark pants, thick and worn from use. A light gray shirt stretched across his chest and a faded badge printed over the heart. Her breath caught in her throat and her mind could only whisper military. Her eyes locked onto the uniform, the way it clung to his broad frame and the sharp outline of something strapped at his waist.

Her body moved before her thoughts could catch up, stepping back one step after the other. A twig snapped beneath her boot and the man turned.

Their eyes met.

And Adeline stopped breathing.

"Hey, it's alright," he said, hands raised a little. "You okay, kid?"

No. No. No, I'm not.

"Don't move," she whispered, but he didn't hear her. Or he did and didn't care.

From behind him, the boy took a step back, his expression folding from curiosity into something tight and unsure. "Shane...?"

Jet-black hair, deep blue eyes, freckles sprinkled across his nose — he reminded her of those two boys. He was alive and they probably weren't. Walkers now or not even that. Maybe someone had taken mercy on them, the way Emily had tried with Reyes. Had they watched their parents turn into something they weren't supposed to see?

Her feet continued to move backwards until her lower back caught something.

A line of wire.

And before she could even register what it was, a loud, metallic clatter burst through the forest. Cans, forks, glass — a string of noise erupting from the trap she'd just collapsed into. It echoed far and wide, and the birds screamed as they shot from the treetops in startled flight. Her legs folded and she fell backwards hard, catching herself on her elbow. Pain bloomed sharp through her arm.

"Shit," the man muttered. "Stay there, I got you."

No.

He stepped closer, but Adeline was struggling. The more she pulled, the more the wire twisted around her shirt, cinching her in place.

"Hey, don't, it's okay," he said again, rushing now, crouching low. "Let me help—"

Her hand reached back and she felt the cold weight in her palm. Adeline yanked the gun from her waistband and aimed it straight at him, two hands, almost in a familiar way. Her arms trembled, maybe from fear or from muscle weakness or something else.

"Don't come any closer!" she rasped.

The forest went still and the man froze, eyes wide and trained on the barrel aimed at his chest. But he didn't reach for his own weapon. The man stood there with both palms facing her and his body shifted inches to position himself more firmly in front of the boy.

"Alright," he said, voice gentler now, like he was talking to a cornered animal. But his eyes were cold and measured. "Okay. You're scared. You're hurt. I get that. But you don't have to do this."

She didn't answer. Her grip tightened.

"Lower the gun, sweetheart," he tried again. "Ain't nobody gonna hurt you. I promise. I'm a cop, alright? Name's Shane, can you tell me your name now?"

Sweetheart.

The word sliced through her like a blade and her jaw clenched.

"Don't call me that," she said, voice brittle.

He nodded. "Okay. No names. No moving. Just you and me, alright? But you gotta lower the weapon before someone gets hurt."

His foot skidded forward and Adeline snapped, "I said don't come closer." Her arms were trembling harder now, but the gun never lowered. "I don't know you."

"You're right. You don't. But I'm not your enemy."

The line that divided enemies and friends was something blurry, now more than ever. The concept was something she couldn't grasp and perhaps she never would. But for the first time, Adeline was the one with the gun in front of a man and there was an obliterating power to it. It should have been her the first time she felt afraid — the first time she ached to wound and what stopped her what fear of she might become.

She remembered the weight of that stone in her hands, how her arms could barely lift it and that desire to draw blood and make the laughter die. That boy had freckles too. The consequences that had followed were some distant nuisance to the metal in her hands.

"Shane..." The boy behind him took a step, startled by the rising tension.

"Stay back, Carl," the man said quickly. "Just stay back."

A sound tore through the trees — fast footsteps, sharp and coming closer. The heavy and urgent crunch of leaves. And before the man could turn to look he was no longer the closest danger in the woods.

Daryl burst through the brush like a storm, crossbow already raised, already aimed, his body placing itself between Adeline and the stranger in one seamless motion.

"Step the hell back."

His voice was burning — fury barely leashed — and his eyes had already scanned the scene in a blink: Adeline on the ground, wire caught in her clothes, gun in hand.

The man standing too damn close.

"Hey, easy now," Shane held his hands up immediately, face twisting up in discontent. "I ain't the one pointin' a gun here."

"I don't give a damn." Daryl's voice didn't rise, but the threat in it did. He inched closer, crossbow never lowering. "You don't move 'til I say."

His eyes locked on the man, finger steady on the trigger. The two men locked eyes and neither budged. Shane kept his hands up, jaw working, trying to figure out the next move — not scared exactly, but no longer casual either. Carl stood behind him, a growing unease pulling at his features.

"You okay, kid?" Daryl asked her, but his eyes never left Shane. "He touch you?"

Adeline couldn't find her words. Relief had hit her like a whip, but still, the gun in her hands didn't lower. And something in the back of her mind told her that fear wasn't the only reason she was keeping it raised.

"She got caught in one of our traps," Shane said. "We were just tryin' to help. I'm a cop. Nobody touched her."

"Shut your mouth. Ain't talkin' to you." Then, sharper, tossed over his shoulder, "Adeline."

She didn't answer and Daryl cursed. His hand flexed around the grip of the crossbow and his voice turned venomous, raw with rage. "Who the hell are you? What the fuck you doin' this close to her?"

Shane shifted slightly, bracing his stance without lowering his hands. "Look, name's Shane. Kid back there's Carl. We were just settin' traps and she walked right into one, alright? We tried to help her. That's it. Why don't we all just lower our weapons and nobody gets hurt?"

Daryl's eyes set on the boy behind Shane. "This your kid?" he asked flatly, still harsh.

"He's a friend," Shane answered, almost grimly. "My partner's kid."

A pause stretched — long enough to feel dangerous. Daryl hesitated, maybe pondering for a moment and, slowly, the crossbow dipped. Shane took the opportunity to take a few steps back, Carl scared and still behind him.

Daryl finally turned to Adeline and his eyes — no longer narrowed at a threat but widened at her — were filled with something far hotter than anger.

"You outta your goddamn mind?" he barked. "What the hell you think you're doin' out here?"

Adeline didn't answer. Her fingers were still wrapped around the grip, knuckles white, breathing fast.

"Where the hell'd you get the gun?"

"It's my gun," she retorted finally — maybe stupidly — but it was her gun. Hers to take whenever she'd please. "He gave it to me."

Daryl cursed under his breath, eyes darting from the Glock to the wire, to the clatter trap still shivering in the branches behind her. And back to her.

Adeline was scared of him too.

And Daryl could see it.

"Put it down," he said, quieter now — not calm. "Ain't no one touchin' you. You hear me?"

She looked at him then. And beneath the heat in his voice and the flare of rage in his eyes, she saw the panic — a raw, carved panic, buried deep but not deep enough to hide from someone who knew how to recognize fear in others because it lived inside her too.

Still, she didn't move. Her fingers stayed clenched around the gun and she wasn't sure she knew how to let go — wasn't sure she wanted to.

"Dammit," Daryl cursed under his breath and crouched low beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him. His body was between her and the stranger completely, as if he could shield her from everything, even from the part of herself she was now scared of. His crossbow stayed raised in one hand, but the other moved slowly reaching not for the weapon, but for her wrist.

"Give it to me," he rasped.

And maybe it was the sheer wrongness of the whole scene — the trap, the dirt, the boy behind the stranger, the birds gone silent. Or maybe it was just the unbearable weight pressing into her chest, but something in her relented. Her grip loosened and her fingers peeled back with a sluggish — shameful — resistance.

Daryl caught the gun in a practiced movement — finger along the slide, not the trigger — and he gave it a quick glance, jaw tightening.

"You loaded this shit yourself?" he asked and Adeline didn't answer. Her eyes dropped to the ground, her jaw locked. She could feel the frown pulling stubbornly at her mouth, but it couldn't hold back the sting building behind her eyes. She refused to let it spill.

Daryl let out a rough breath and turned his attention to the wire. It had twisted around the hem of her shirt and into her side — the thin metal had dug shallow grooves into already bruised skin. With a hunter's blade, the same one he used to skin squirrels and gut fish, he slipped it beneath the wire and, with a care that surprised her, cut through it in two quick, precise motions. The tension snapped and the line recoiled, freeing her. She gasped and her body slumped slightly, muscles giving out just enough to remind her she was still running on fumes. Daryl didn't help her stand right away. Instead, he decided it was a good enough moment to scold her, "You got a death wish? Sneakin' out like that. You even thinkin', or just... what? You wanted to be alone so bad you were willin' to die for it?"

She wanted to say something. Anything. Wanted to scream, maybe. Tell him that she didn't know — that her chest was splitting open, that the stillness was killing her, that she hadn't felt alive in days, weeks, or maybe her entire life. But none of that came out.

"I was looking for you", she said, defiant, even if her voice was too close to a whisper. Even if she felt more like silk than steel by saying them. But something in his expression twitched and hers hardened enough to say, "Besides, I was fine."

"Fine?" he scoffed. "You ain't fine, Adeline. You're bleedin', you're limpin', and you nearly shot a damn kid. That what you call fine?"

Her jaw twitched — she was left with no arguments.

Then Daryl stood and, for a second, she thought he might yell again, maybe drag her up by the arm and shake some sense into her. But he didn't. Instead, he held out a hand.

Not demanding. Not impatient.

Waiting.

Adeline stared at it like it was a foreign object. Something out of place in this shattered world. But, slowly, she reached. Fingers stiff and dirty and still trembling. But she reached.

He pulled her to her feet and neither spoke anything at first. Daryl simply stared at her the way you stare at a puzzle missing too many pieces, trying to figure out how it ever made sense to begin with. Adeline felt her breath begin to slow, not because she wanted it to, but because her body had to. Her hands were empty now and it made her feel hollow. The gun had left a ghost-shaped imprint in her palm, as if her fingers didn't know how to curl around anything else.

"Didn't mean no harm," Shane said, more measured now. He was about the same age as Daryl, not as tall but bulkier, and less wild. Less unreadable. That was the problem. "Didn't touch her. Kid tripped a trap, is all."

Daryl's silence was not uncertainty, but evaluation. His eyes flicked to the boy again, still half-hidden behind Shane, then to the patch on Shane's sleeve. Then back to the forest, the trap, the tension. A full sweep like drawing a map inside his skull.

"You from the quarry?" he asked finally, voice rusted with suspicion.

Shane seemed taken aback by the question. "Yeah. Got a group up there. We been holdin' out near the old pit since the outbreak hit."

Daryl slipped the Glock into the back of his waistband without comment. The silence drew out long enough for Carl to shuffle forward, cautious, but mostly curious.

"If you need a place," the boy started, glancing nervously at Shane, "we got food. There's room. It's safe, I think."

Shane didn't interrupt, but his jaw tensed — not angry, but clearly not amused.

"Kid's right," he added eventually, tone less smug now, more calculated. "Ain't ideal, but it's shelter. And that girl don't look like she's been restin' much."

His eyes flicked to Adeline's and something in his tone shifted again.

"Whoever patched her up didn't finish the job."

Suddenly, she felt self-conscious and her heart picked up speed again. Not having looked at a mirror in weeks, the bone-ache that still pulsed through her face told her enough: a mess, a ghost in shape a of a girl that still carried the marks of her destruction. But Adeline wasn't something half-dead anymore. Electricity pulsed her body now and she wasn't just the wreckage but the reason for the chaos. And Shane should know that. Daryl should too.

But at his words, Daryl's face darkened even deeper than hers, the muscle in his jaw twitching. "Bastards dressed like you did that to her," he said. "So don't pretend you give a shit."

Shane's expression flickered, but he didn't argue. "No one's pressin' you," he said. "Offer's there. Take it or don't."

Adeline's body was stiff with fatigue, her breathing shallow, her eyes locked on some fixed point in the leaves. Daryl turned his eyes away from the girl to Shane and said flatly, "Yeah, we're good."

Carl looked disappointed and Shane only gave a short nod, glancing toward the path like he wanted this moment over with.

"Suit yourself," he said, backing away slowly, posture guarded and a hand firm on the boy's shoulder. "You change your mind... you'll know where to find us."

And with that, the two disappeared into the brush, their figures swallowed by green and shadow.

Daryl waited until the silence was real and thick again, until even the wind seemed to hold its breath, and only then did he turn to her. "Can you walk?" he asked, voice stripped down to something bare.

Adeline nodded, but didn't look at him. Daryl stepped beside her and waited silently until she took the first step. And as they walked she knew, with a bitter and terrifying certainty, that whatever they'd been building cracked the moment she took that gun.

Chapter Text

The walk back to camp was unbearably silent.

But the absence of words was replaced by something far more unsettling that lingered in Daryl's thoughts long after dusk settled and the world dimmed to shadows.

He could be called a cautious man, always on edge, attuned to the smallest breath of the woods. The wind was blood in his ears and the sway of branches the cracking of old bones. Flora and fauna moved in rhythm with a world older than language — an ecosystem that had shaped itself the same way for a thousand years, and Daryl knew how to read it.

But Adeline was not the same child he'd first found again on that hillside, all dressed in black, drowning in mourning and tragedy. There was something deeper now and even he could see it — something Merle had seen before any of them. And right now, she was all anxiety: a body burning fumes, keeping her distance, refusing to look at him. Every crack of twig made her flinch. Every squirrel startled her eyes in a snap. Her breath hitched at the wrong rhythm. But it wasn't the woods she feared and that much was clear after her little stunt. Adeline had grown up afraid of men and of herself. And not once had life proven her wrong for it. Not for long enough to linger, anyway.

He didn't know how to fix that. Their shouting match sure as hell didn't help but seeing a stranger hovering over her after everything, after the things she still wouldn't say, had done no favors to his temper. Another second and then what? Was it so damn hard to just stay still? But he should've known better by now. He knew her well enough to know she was no easy thing to predict.

And neither had been Lillian.

As he watched her step ahead of him — small, taut, untouchable — he could only wonder what kind of fractured courage it took to steal a gun, load it herself, cross the woods, and aim it at a grown man. That wasn't the girl who'd once curled up on a mattress like a shadow, her eyes dragging to him as if pulled by gravity. Was she that afraid he'd leave?

Could he even blame her for it?

Difficult now to say which was worse: watching her waste away from something he couldn't reach or watching that same fragile thing snarl with a weapon too big for her hands. Both left the same panic lodged in his throat and the same question of what the hell he was supposed to do.

He still didn't have the answer. Maybe it was tucked in the blister pack that never left his pocket. Or behind a door in a storage closet and a good lock.

The pure mirror image of Lillian with room for something else he couldn't yet name. It wasn't Mason — couldn't be — and she and Jason had always been worlds apart.

The real question was how much of her mother she would become. Jason had escaped that fate. Would Adeline be that lucky? Against all odds, she had survived when half the world hadn't. Whether that counted as luck or misfortune was up for debate. All he knew was that he had to keep her breathing — and he was good at that.

But Daryl also knew — maybe more than most — that sometimes, just breathing wasn't enough.

And one day soon, he wouldn't be enough either.

༻⁕༺

After a proper scolding aimed at his brother — to which Merle only laughed, half-amused and half-impressed — and a too-quiet Get inside directed at Adeline, Daryl told his brother everything.

He saved his words as was his occasional tendency, but Adeline had learned to listen between the lines. Quiet and perched near the porch steps with her knees pulled up to her chest like something trying to make itself invisible, she pretended not to care while tracing lazy circles into the dust with her heel. To be fair, she had gone inside as she'd been told but Daryl didn't send her back again when he saw her sitting outside so she took it as permission.

From her perch, she could hear the low rhythm of their voices from inside the visitor center. It wasn't particularly tense this time, but there was something clipped in the way Daryl spoke — she could picture the way his jaw clenched as he laid out his version of things — as Merle, true to form, didn't say much in return.

A low chuckle, some muttered curses, one or other coment about how Daryl was too soft when it came to Adeline — she didn't know what to make of it — and that was about enough to resume his contribution to the conversation. If Merle had any real reaction about their earlier encounter, it didn't reach his voice as much as it didn't reach Adeline's ears. To anyone else, it might've seemed like he didn't care — and maybe he didn't — but she'd started to understand the way he moved, too; the brief pause before a comment; that particular kind of stillness that only came when Merle was slowly piecing something together.

Eventually the door creaked open and their voices spilled out with the air. Daryl came out first, lighting a cigarette like something inside him was still burning. Merle followed, lazily scratching his ribs. The older Dixon stretched and squinted at the woods like they might hold answers or maybe just more problems.

"They sendin' out kids now?" Merle said with a bark of a laugh. "Hell, what's next? Puppies with pistols?"

The phrasing was confusing to her, but apparently not to Daryl, who exhaled a long stream of smoke and muttered back, "I don't like it." He flicked the ash toward the grass. "Wanna head out in the mornin'. Try the ridge. Find somewhere else."

Torn between hope and expectation, Adeline's eyes flicked up as the words settled in her chest like stones, solid and certain. It had been clear to Shane that her uncle had no interest in taking part of their little camp, but Merle was always a wildcard and Adeline was well aware of that. But relief washed through her again the way clear breath reaches your lungs after too much time spent indoors. They weren't joining; they weren't staying; they weren't becoming part of anything.

Were they?

But Merle tilted his head like the idea didn't land right. "Ain't no rush," he said and his tone was casual. "Could hang back a few days. Ain't like we got some deadline breathin' down our necks."

Daryl turned to him with a look she couldn't quite read. Suspicious, she hoped, because she shared the feeling. "Thought you were all high and mighty 'bout gettin' away. Gettin' somethin' solid."

"Yeah, well, plans change." Merle shrugged, reaching into his pocket for a piece of jerky. "Ain't hurtin' to wait. Might even be useful knowin' what kinda idiots set up shop out here."

Adeline's stomach twisted and she looked away before either of them could see her watching. Merle had spent days itching to move on, ranting about the stench of desperation in the air, the rotting towns, and the stragglers with empty backpacks and dead eyes. And now he wanted to stay? Daryl didn't want company, but would that be enough? Before, his will was enough to slow down Merle's blind pursuit for Fort Benning, but after those walkers, if her aunt — her heart ached — hadn't gotten there in time, maybe Daryl would've changed his mind even without Merle's push.

Her whole body tensed without meaning to, shoulders curling inward. Daryl must've noticed too. He didn't argue with Merle, but he didn't agree either. And let the silence hang.

And in that silence, Adeline felt something shift. It reminded her of watching storms build on the edge of a field.

The way the clouds gathered with purpose. Even when the sky was still blue.

༻⁕༺

By mid-afternoon, Merle said he was going hunting. He threw the strap of his rifle over one shoulder, tossed some half-hearted warning about not wandering off, and vanished into the trees with that same swagger he wore like armor. Daryl didn't seem to care, barely looking up when his brother left, and that in itself was its own strange comfort. Whatever Merle was planning, Daryl wasn't part of it.

And so the quiet settled in like dust — soft, invisible, and all around her. Adeline sat on the front steps again, not to hide, but to exist. Her legs bounced with that restless energy, one foot tapping against the wooden boards, never able to shake the excess out of her bones. She'd slept too much the past few days, barely waking to eat or speak, and now it felt like her body had reversed course, set on burning through all that stillness in a single afternoon.

Seated just a few feet away, Daryl was sharpening one of his knives and the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone was the only sound between them until Adeline decided to break it. Since Daryl, despite his brother, was set on the idea of moving from their little hut, it was only natural that she asked where they were headed next. Adeline even tried offering her own suggestions because it felt like they could go anywhere now, so why not? The beach seemed fair at first, but she figured he'd probably be more comfortable near the woods, so she changed course. Forests and mountains; somewhere green and quiet. Blue Ridge, perhaps, or the Smokies. Somewhere with fewer ghosts than Montana or California, because those places weren't dreams anymore but graves.

His answers were at times no, or I dunno, or we'll see, which was a little annoying and definitely not enough for a proper conversation. They landed in the air like broken matches and Adeline quickly realized he wasn't really listening. Or he was and simply didn't want to talk.

Changing the subject didn't do any favors to her cause. She pointed out the birds, wondering aloud if they sounded different here than back home, and he only grunted — not yes, not no. That sound hit her harder than she expected and tears prickled behind her eyes, unwelcome.

So Adeline gave up on words, turning to Foxy instead.

On their second night here, she'd told Daryl that the stuffed fox smelled like oil, asphalt, and old smoke, heartbroken that the scents from home had faded into a reminder of something awful. By morning, without a word, he had washed, and now Foxy smelled like old soap and mildew — and she really, really tried not to mind.

So Adeline made Foxy talk. Then walk. Then sneak across the porch on his belly like a spy. She stacked stones into a crooked little tower and pretended they were a castle. Gave Foxy a crown of moss and declared him king. She narrated the whole thing under her breath, making up voices and characters, even pretending the wind was someone trying to steal the throne. And sometimes, Adeline would catch Daryl glancing at her like she was a half-remembered ghost.

Still, none of it was enough. Her chest kept humming with that awful brightness. It wasn't joy and it wasn't panic, but rather something wild and shapeless she didn't know how to contain — her skin was too small for her body now. And stillness meant thinking and spiraling about how Daryl was probably still mad at her and probably would be for a while and how actually maybe he really hated her.

And about everything else.

So Adeline lay flat on the porch. Then sat up. Then walked in circles around the edge of the clearing. She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Tried running but it made her knees sting and her ribs ache. She even grabbed a stick and mimicked the way Daryl sat, pretending to sharpen knives like he did, but she kept jabbing the tip into the boards and it didn't sound right.

Finally, after too many Get back here and Don't go near that and Stop with that runnin' and Adeline!, Daryl finally set his blade down. "You wanna help?" he asked; he wasn't actually looking at her.

Her head snapped up instantly. "Help what?"

He jerked his chin toward a sack near the door. "That squirrel from earlier. Needs skinnin'."

Adeline blinked. "You're gonna let me?" And he shrugged. "Only way you'll quiet up, right?"

She would've scowled if it hadn't been true. But instead, she followed him where he laid out a stained tarp and pulled the limp squirrel from the bag. It was stiff, small, and slightly pathetic. Not quite disgusting — not to her. She'd seen worse and felt worse. Daryl crouched and pulled a short blade from the sheath at his ankle. "Ain't hard," he said. "Just messy. You watch first."

And she did. Eyes sharp, focused, and tilted chin. Daryl didn't talk much, explaining only what needed to be said. The way his hands moved was all deliberate and precise: small incision at the base, two fingers working beneath the skin, a tug, and the fur peeled back like a coat. A little muscle, some blood, and then bone. There was a kind of control to it; a method. It was gross but quite honestly fascinating.

When it was her turn, her hands trembled at first and for the first time in what felt like days, the buzz in her chest didn't vanish but dulled to something she could actually manage. Her breath evened out and her thoughts slowed and as her fingers worked, Daryl didn't stop her, only watched. She barely noticed when he left, only realizing it when he returned from inside the visitor center holding a baby-pink cap. He placed it gently over her head with a muttered So yer head don't burst into flames.

He wasn't wrong. Her scalp did have a tendency to burn too easily.

And maybe, just maybe, Daryl didn't actually hate her.

༻⁕༺

The sun had begun to sink low by the time Merle came back.

As always, Adeline heard him before she saw him. The crunch of boots, the muttered curses, the unmistakable rhythm of someone too loud to be stealthy but skilled enough not to care, and Merle emerged from the trees with a half-smoked cigarette behind his ear, a squirrel slung lazy over one shoulder, and a crooked grin stretched across his face like he'd just stumbled on a secret he couldn't wait to ruin.

"You ain't gonna believe what I just saw," Merle drawled as he stepped onto the porch. Daryl didn't look up right away, but the shift was immediate. Adeline, now seated by the porch with her hands clean, felt it ripple through her like static.

The older man let the squirrel drop with a wet thump. "Had company," he said, voice lazy but eyes gleaming. "Two of 'em. Tryna play spy out by the ridge."

Daryl's hand stopped as a mirror to her own heart and Merle chuckled at his reaction. "Didn't do a good job. Little Chinese guy and some crusty old coot with a rifle. Bet you anything that cop from earlier sent 'em."

Daryl stood in a heartbeat. "You sure?"

"Hell yeah, I'm sure. Followed their prints easy. City kid couldn't sneak past a raccoon. Old man wasn't even tryin'."

"What'd they see?"

Merle shrugged, but there was something too careful in it this time. "Maybe not much. Maybe more than I'd like. But I caught up. Had a little... chat."

"You talked to 'em?"

"Yeah," the older brother said, too casual for her liking. "Figured might as well play the part. Told 'em we was just passin' through, keepin' to ourselves. Mentioned the girl, made sure they saw she ain't some stray, she's got people watchin' out for her."

The thought of strangers creeping close without a sound made her skin crawl. She believed she'd made quite an impression earlier, enough at least to not need further mentions. Was Merle trying to use the innocent little girl card, the same way Emily had? With Reyes, it had worked wonders. Now, she wasn't so sure it would; pointing a gun at a man and a kid wasn't a very good way of making friends and Adeline was versed at this subject.

Daryl's jaw ticked. "What else?"

"Nothin' that'd stir shit," Merle answered. "Just enough to make us look like decent folk who ain't worth shootin'."

"You outta your mind," Daryl growled. "They know we're here. That's enough."

"They ain't stupid enough to make a move," Merle insisted, raising a hand. "Especially after seein' me."

Daryl looked furious — shoulders drawn tight and chest rising fast. His eyes burned like he already had them in his crosshairs. "Goddamn bastards," he hissed. "We're packin' up. Tonight."

"What?" Merle let out a bark of disbelief. "You serious?"

"They spied on us," Daryl snapped. "We're gone by sunrise."

"And go where, exactly? We just got here."

"I don't give a damn."

Merle stepped in front of him, arms out. "Man, you think they're comin' for us? What, gonna march up here and wave their forks around? It's a bunch of weak-ass family folk. You saw 'em."

"I don't care," Daryl bit back. "They send people creepin' around, I ain't stickin' close. We ain't stayin'."

Merle exhaled sharply, then tried a softer tack. "Look, they ain't hostile. If they were, I'd have gutted 'em right there. But they were just curious. They saw a scared little girl, not a threat. They ain't stupid, but they ain't soldiers either. Just a bunch of soft suburbanites playin' cowboy."

Daryl still looked unconvinced, so Merle went for the final play, "Listen. You said yourself you wanted to hit that military camp, grab some clothes for the girl, see what else they left behind. Well, now we got more folks around, more eyes, more hands. Might be the only shot we get." He smirked. "I ain't sayin' we hold hands and sing songs. Just lemme talk. You hang back, keep your crossbow up, and we walk out soon as it smells wrong. Fair?"

"No," Adeline said before she could stop herself and both eyes turned to her in surprise.

Daryl's jaw tightened. "Get inside," he said, his voice not raised, but sharp. She flinched and stood slowly, clutching Foxy to her chest, and backed toward the door. Her eyes flicked once to Merle then back to Daryl. His eyes were still dark with fury, but Adeline could swear that when they flicked to her — only for a second — she saw them softening.

To avoid letting them see the way her tears gathered and her hands trembled, she slipped inside and closed the screen door behind her. The porch muffled their voices, but the tension bled through the cracks like smoke. From where she sat, back against the wall and ears perked, she caught only fragments — some sharp, some low:

"...think about the girl," said Merle's voice.

"...we ain't joinin' nobody," Daryl said.

"...just long enough to see what they got," Merle argued, slick and coaxing.

"...don't trust 'em."

"...ain't sayin' stay forever, 'lil brother. Just take a look. Let me handle it."

She hugged her knees, heart beating too loud in her ears. The light inside the visitor center was sundown-golden now, almost gentle. But nothing about the way her chest felt was kind.

By the time Daryl came back in, the conversation was over. She looked up at him, already knowing the outcome, and something had shifted in his expression. "We'll head down there tomorrow."

Adeline didn't answer. She simply stared, long enough that Daryl, almost uncomfortable, broke the silence himself, "Just to check it out. That's it."

She wanted to believe him. But she also remembered the look in Merle's eyes.

And the sound of leaves cracking under someone else's boots.

༻⁕༺

The night had crept in slow, all deep blues and silver edges, and the woods around them softened under the hush of dark. Daryl sat with his back to a wall, knife in hand, sharpening absentmindedly the way a man does when bracing for something important. The rhythm helped — the scrape and drag of metal over stone — though his thoughts stayed restless.

Adeline hadn't come to him. She always did, by now. Eventually. Even if she didn't say anything, even if she just sat nearby and waited to sleep once he did. But tonight, she was curled in the corner, knees pulled to her chest, and arms wrapped around her legs like a barrier.

And maybe that shouldn't have stung the way it did.

Slipping his knife quietly into his belt, he made his way over. His steps were heavy enough she'd hear them and soft enough not to spook her. He didn't sit too close, but enough that she'd know he was there. "You mad?"

Adeline shrugged without looking up. "Not really."

That wasn't true. He could hear it in her tone — a strange stiffness. Not anger. Not fear. Something tangled. He waited and she broke the silence first after what felt like a hundred breaths.

"I almost shot him."

Daryl blinked. "Yeah. I saw."

"I was gonna pull the trigger. My arms were shaking but my finger wasn't."

He swallowed hard, but said nothing.

"I think... I was hoping he'd give me a reason. Just one." Her voice cracked. "But he didn't. He didn't really do anything."

Daryl shifted, arms on his knees. "You don't gotta explain nothin'."

Adeline rubbed her hands against her jeans like she was trying to get something off them. Her fingers were fidgety — twisting, pulling at the fabric, almost like they didn't belong to her.

"Reyes gave that gun to me," she continued. "He was nice. He really tried to help us and it got him killed. He gave it to me because Emily's wrist was broken and we were surrounded. I killed a whole lot of them."

Daryl nodded once. That tracked. He could picture it clear: her hands, steady from grief instead of calm, reaching for something that might make her feel less powerless.

"I think she lied," Adeline continued. "We were separated for a while, after... after Victor. She said she was bit then but I don't think that's true. If I had been faster, maybe she'd still be here."

It was probably true, Daryl figured. It made sense Emily would lie about it. He wanted to ask about Victor, though, ever since he found them curled up in that hangar and he wasn't there with them. Was it the dead or the men? Daryl hadn't liked him from the beginning, but now, he felt something closer to gratitude. Small, even, under that man's shadow. Victor didn't share blood with Adeline and yet he'd cared for her while Daryl had counted the seconds until he could pass the responsibility off.

The thought made him angry. Made him question things. Himself. That'd been happening for a while now. Ever since Adeline. Ever since Jason.

But Daryl pushed it aside.

"You don't gotta carry all that," he said then, cautious. "Ain't on you. She chose to protect you. No use beatin' yourself up over what might've happened. That kind of thinkin' kills ya faster than a bullet."

Difficult to believe he was saying that to a kid. But there he was, trying to teach Adeline about guilt when he didn't know what to do with his own. Empty words, these were, but he wasn't ready to tell her the truth yet — that it never goes away; that you just get used to the weight.

"There was this other man. Miles," Adeline said. "He was nice too. In the end. He was really brave. I'm alive because he isn't."

He didn't know how to answer that. So he didn't. Adeline was spilling out her grief in the shape of names. Carving them in air like they'd already been carved in her bones. Maybe because she didn't want to carry them alone.

Some things are too heavy to keep to yourself.

Then, her voice, quiet as moth wings, "I don't wanna be scared anymore. That's why..." She swallowed thickly and took a breath, like those next words cost her, "Can I have my gun back?"

Daryl sighed. "Look, I get that. I get you survived things no one should have to. I get you did what you had to. But it ain't your job to decide where to point a gun anymore. It's mine now." He glanced at her, steady. "Fear's not bad. Keeps you sharp. But long as you don't run off again, you won't have to be scared alone."

She finally looked up at him.

"You ain't alone no more, Addie."

Her eyes stayed on him, searching. But it was Daryl that looked away first and the silence stretched again.

"I don't wanna go to that camp," she whispered after a while.

"Yeah." His voice dropped. "Me neither, kid."

"But Merle wants to. And you're gonna let him."

Daryl bit the inside of his cheek, hard enough to sting. He hadn't told her anything. Not what Merle said, not what he was really thinking. And still, she knew.

But hell, maybe Adeline wasn't ready for people yet, but Daryl wasn't ready for whatever this was either. A bunch of families that didn't know the first thing about survival that might as well just be on their way was what they were walking into. But families still. Parents to keep an eye on her when he couldn't. Children so she didn't have to grow up alone. Someone to teach him.

Worth a look, Merle had said, among other things.

Worth a look.

"Back there," she continued, blue eyes locking onto him, "you said he was like them. Shane. That man. You said he was like them. That..."

She couldn't finish her words, but Daryl understood well enough. "You're right not to trust him. Or anyone. That's smart. But he was a cop, not military." He shook his head. "Don't know why I said that. I was mad."

Her eyes averted his, facing the ground. "Sorry."

He turned to her sharply, maybe even startled. Maybe apologetic. "Wasn't mad at you," he explained. "Was mad at him. Mad at myself. I dunno."

Adeline was quiet for a while, but he could see the thoughts twisting behind her eyes.

"I don't wanna be with other people," she said finally. "I just want it to be us."

He nodded slowly. "Us, huh."

She looked away and gave the tiniest shrug. A breath passed between them before she shifted beside him, reaching into her pocket.

In her small hand, a familiar photograph, folded twice — one his, the other hers — and corners worn.

"I should've given it back to you," she said. "The day I left."

Daryl looked at her, feeling the weight of those of unspoken words. She didn't owe him anything, not then. Not now.

"Don't ya want it?"

"I have more now," she said, hands brushing the green backpack she always had with her now. He still didn't get how it had managed to survive. That bag had a story of its own.

He took the photo from her hand and they looked at it together. The weight of it pressed against his chest. Adeline needed Jason more than ever.

Hell, they both did.

Daryl leaned forward and looked at her like he could wield the weight from her bones. "Ain't takin' you nowhere you don't wanna be. You hear me? The second it feels wrong, we leave. Don't care what Merle says."

Her little hands pressed hard enough into her knees he could see her knuckles turning white.

Not to steady herself, but to cause pain.

"We tried to leave," she said, something sharp and splintered in her voice. "He didn't let us."

That gutted him. His veins turned into fire again. Whoever that man had been, Daryl wished he could drag him back so just to kill him again and again with his bare hands.

"Ain't the same," Daryl said firmly. "You hear me? Ain't nobody gonna keep us there. Not if I got a say. I promise you that."

Adeline turned just enough that the moonlight caught the sheen in her eyes. Glassy, red, and full of a tentative trust. One he wasn't sure he deserved but would spend the rest of his days trying to earn.

"Okay," she said.

And after a moment, she shifted a little closer, enough to close the space between grief and something gentler. He didn't reach for her, but he stayed still and let her lean.

Eventually, her head dropped to his shoulder.

And he didn't move until long after she fell asleep.