#reader perspective

Maggie’s silhouette darted past the front windows an instant before the farmhouse door burst open. In flooded Maggie and Lori, both windswept from hard riding; Lori’s eyes were huge with panic. “Rick? Carl—oh my God—Carl!” Lori’s voice cracked at the sight of her little boy, pale and unconscious on the bed. Rick was already on his feet, catching Lori as she stumbled forward.

Glenn and T-Dog clambered in close behind, both out of breath and anxious. They must have driven behind Maggie’s horse, racing against nightfall to get here. The moment Lori saw Carl—so small and motionless against the white sheets—she choked on a sob. She flew to his bedside, and Rick had to grab her shoulders to keep her from collapsing onto their son.

“Oh God—oh no, no,” Lori keened, reaching out with trembling hands toward Carl’s face. “Carl, baby, I’m here. Mommy’s here.” She was shaking so badly that Rick had to support her. Hershel stepped forward calmly to put a gentle hand on her arm.

“Ma’am, he’s holding on,” Hershel said quietly. “He lost a lot of blood, but we’ve done what we can for now. My name’s Hershel Greene—I’ve been looking after him.”

Lori nodded frantically, barely processing his words. Her hands hovered over Carl, afraid to touch the bandages wrapping his torso. “He’s so pale… oh God.” Her gaze jumped to Rick, wild and pleading. “What happened? How…?”

Rick swallowed, his voice rough. “It was an accident. A man on a hunt… Carl got hit by a few bullets that went through a deer. This is Hershel’s farm. He’s been doing everything he can.”

Lori turned to the older man in sweat-stained clothes. In the dim lamplight, she saw her son’s blood on his hands. “You’re a doctor?” she managed, hope and terror warring in her expression.

Hershel hesitated. “I’m a veterinarian, ma’am,” he answered gently. “But I’ve dealt with injuries like this before. Your boy is in good hands, I promise you.”

Lori blinked at him, not understanding. “A vet…?” she echoed. The flicker of hope in her face faltered. “You’re not—you’re not a real doctor?”

“Mom,” she interjected softly, stepping closer, “Hershel’s helped a lot already. He stopped the bleeding, and he knows what to do.”

But Lori’s shock was rapidly spiralling into panic. She clutched Rick’s arm. “We—we have to get Carl to a hospital,” she insisted, voice rising. “Rick, we need an actual surgeon. We can’t just let a veterinarian—”

Rick squeezed her hand firmly, though he swayed on his feet from exhaustion. “Lori, listen to me. There is no hospital. This farm is the only safe place for miles. Hershel’s our best shot—he’s kept Carl alive this long.”

Lori pressed a hand hard over her mouth, trying to stifle a sob. Her entire body trembled with the force of her fear. As Rick guided her to the chair beside the bed, her eyes landed on her daughter hovering a few steps away. In the lamplight, the girl’s face was drawn and tear-streaked, a bruise darkening on her cheek. For an instant, Lori simply stared. Then her expression twisted.

“Y-You were supposed to protect him,” Lori spat, her voice low and trembling. The sudden venom in it made her flinch. “I left him with you. You promised me.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach. “Mom…” she whispered, throat tight. “I—I tried. It all happened so fast—”

“Not fast enough for you to stop it, apparently.” Lori’s words cut like a knife. She was crying openly now, but her tears only seemed to feed her fury. “I trusted you with your brother’s life! I thought, just this once, I could count on you to keep him safe.” Her tone dripped with a bitter, accusatory edge that knocked the breath out of her. “And now look at him.”

“You said you’d never let him out of your sight,” Lori went on, voice sharpening with each syllable. “That’s what you told me. And yet here we are!” She gestured in anguish toward Carl’s still form. “What good is your promise now?”

Each word was a blow. She could taste iron in her mouth and realised she’d bitten the inside of her cheek. “It was an accident,” she managed in a small voice. “We were just searching and—”

“Accident,” Lori echoed with a hollow, disbelieving laugh. “My son is lying here with a bullet in him, because you didn’t keep him safe.”

“Lori, stop.” Rick’s tone was firm despite the quaver of fatigue. He stepped between his wife and daughter, one hand raised in a placating gesture. “That’s enough.”

“She was supposed to keep him safe, Rick!” Lori cried, voice breaking on a ragged gasp. “She promised!”

“And she did all she could,” Rick shot back, a flash of anger in his eyes. “It was nobody’s fault—”

Lori wrenched away from his steadying grip, her face crumpling as fresh tears spilled. “Nobody’s fault?” she repeated, almost a whisper. Her gaze found her daughter again, full of pain. “You had one job,” she hissed, each word trembling. “You hear me? One job.”

The condemnation landed like a slap. She felt the blood drain from her face, her vision blurring with tears that burned hot and shameful. In the charged silence that followed Lori’s words, she could only hear the rush of her own heartbeat in her ears.

“I… I’m sorry,” she choked out, voice barely audible. It was all she could manage. Neither of her parents seemed to hear her over the roaring in their own heads. Lori had turned back to Carl, sobbing into her hand, and Rick was trying to console her.

No one stopped her as she stumbled from the room. She couldn’t stay—not when each of her mother’s sobs felt like broken glass in her lungs. The last glimpse she caught as she fled was of Rick’s stricken face over Lori’s shoulder and Carl’s small hand lying limp on the bed.

Outside, the night air was cool on her flushed face. She gulped it in, chest hitching as she fought not to sob outright. The porch boards creaked under her unsteady steps. Darkness draped the farm, broken only by the thin glow from a lantern hanging by the door.

She braced her hands on the porch railing, its rough wood steadying her shaking fingers. A whimper escaped before she could choke it down. In the space of a single terrible day, everything had fallen apart—Sophia was lost, Carl was hovering between life and death, and now her mother… her mother hated her. The thought sent a bolt of pain through her that nearly buckled her knees.

“Hey.” A soft voice at her shoulder made her flinch. She hastily scrubbed at her eyes and turned to find Glenn standing there, concern etched on his face. A step behind, T-Dog hovered with equal sympathy. In the dark, she could just make out the white bandage wrapping T-Dog’s injured arm.

Glenn’s brow creased. “We… we heard yelling,” he said gently. “Are you okay?”

She opened her mouth, but the reply wouldn’t come. A tremor shuddered through her. Glenn didn’t hesitate; he put a warm hand on her shoulder, anchoring her. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “I mean, it’s not—but Lori’s just… she’s scared out of her mind right now. She doesn’t mean it.”

A tear slid down her cheek despite her efforts to hold everything in. She brushed it away angrily. “It’s not okay,” she whispered. “Carl… Carl might…” Her throat closed around the word. Fresh panic swelled at admitting that possibility, and she sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep herself from spiralling.

T-Dog stepped closer, his voice gentle. “Carl’s a tough kid,” he said. “And Hershel seems to know his stuff. They’re gonna do everything possible for him.” He paused, then added quietly, “And Lori’s just in shock. She’ll come around.”

She nodded weakly, though she wasn’t sure she believed it. In her mind, she kept hearing her mother’s voice: You had one job.

Glenn rubbed her shoulder supportively. “I’m so sorry this happened,” he said, sincerity heavy in each word. “None of us ever imagined…” He trailed off, jaw tightening at the cruelty of it all. “If there’s anything we can do…”

She managed a faint sniffle of a laugh at that—what could anyone do? “Just… just keep being here, I guess,” she said. “That’s enough.”

Glenn nodded, shifting his weight as he leaned against the porch rail. “Maggie got to your mom fast,” he explained gently. “After she told Lori what happened, she showed us where the farm was and took Lori straight back here on horseback. The rest of us headed back to the highway. Dale thought it was best for everyone to stay put there overnight—just in case Sophia wandered back.” He gave a small, weary shrug. “T-Dog and I took one of the cars and came here as soon as we could. The others will move out at first light.”

She felt a swell of gratitude for their friends. Even in all the chaos, they weren’t alone. “Thank you,” she whispered, glancing between Glenn and T-Dog. “For coming. For… being here.”

Glenn offered a small, earnest smile. “Anytime.”

T-Dog flexed his bandaged arm, the movement drawing her eye. “Maggie fixed me up already,” he said, noticing her concern. “Just a few stitches. I’ll be alright.” He managed a faint grin. “Starting to think I got off easy compared to you guys.”

She gave a half-hearted nod, appreciating the attempt at levity but unable to summon a smile. Her mind was already drifting back to the image of Carl in that bed, and the echo of her mother’s reproach.

After a moment, Glenn cleared his throat. “I’m gonna head back in,” he said softly. “Make sure everything’s… okay.” He didn’t have to finish the sentence; they all knew nothing was truly okay right now. “You gonna be alright out here?”

“Yeah,” she said. The night air and solitude were what she needed—just a minute to collect herself. “I just need a minute.”

“Alright. We’ll be right inside if you need us.” Glenn squeezed her arm gently before he and T-Dog retreated back through the door, closing it with a quiet click.

Silence settled around her once Glenn and T-Dog disappeared inside. In that silence, all the fear and guilt she’d been holding at bay came surging up anew. She sank down on the top step of the porch, elbows on her knees, and covered her face with her hands. For what felt like hours, she let herself simply breathe.

Keep it together, she begged herself. Falling apart won’t help Carl. But her mother’s anguished accusations kept replaying in her head. You had one job. A hot ache bloomed behind her eyes. Maybe Lori was right. Maybe if she had just kept Carl closer… or insisted he go back to the highway with the others…

A rustle in the darkness snapped her to attention. She lifted her head, heart thudding as twin beams of headlights suddenly cut across the yard. An engine rumbled low as a car turned off the main road and rolled slowly toward the farmhouse, tyres crunching over gravel. Swallowing hard, she rose to her feet, one hand instinctively going to the pistol at her hip.

The vehicle coasted to a stop a short distance away. For a moment, all she could hear was the tick of the cooling engine. Then the driver’s door shoved open. A figure climbed out—shoulders slumped, movements heavy with exhaustion—and when the light from the porch finally caught his face, she saw Shane.

Her breath caught. “Shane!”

She nearly tripped in her haste to get down the steps. Shane staggered to a halt a few yards from the porch. Even in the low light, she could see he was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. A large canvas pack hung from his shoulder, clanking faintly with metal inside. In his other hand, he gripped a shotgun. His eyes widened in relief when he recognised her.

“You made it,” she gasped, reaching out as if to steady him. He looked like he might keel over. Up close, she could see smears of dirt and blood on his arms and a ragged tear in his pant leg. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Shane panted, though his voice was strained. “We got… got the stuff Hershel needed.” He shifted the heavy pack off his shoulder and let it thump to the ground. Only then did she notice the pack was slicked with dark stains—blood, and not all of it looked dried.

Her stomach turned. She glanced behind him into the darkness, expecting to see the broad shape of Otis following. There was no one. “Where’s Otis?”

Shane went rigid for a second. He averted his eyes. “He… didn’t make it.” His tone was flat, almost too flat. “Walkers got him on the way out. I barely got away.”

“Oh… no.” Her heart lurched. Otis—the man who had accidentally shot Carl—was dead. She pressed a hand to her mouth, unsure what to feel. Sorrow that he’d lost his life trying to fix his mistake? Or anger that none of this would have happened if not for him? She settled on a quiet, “I’m so sorry.”

Shane just shook his head, jaw clenched as if refusing to let emotion in. “It was him or me,” he said after a beat, voice gruff. “He… he saved me, buying time when I hurt my ankle. I wouldn’t be here if not for him.” The words sounded practised, like he’d decided on the story during his long run back. “But we got what Carl needs. That’s what matters.”

She exhaled a shaky breath of relief. “Shane… thank you. We need to get these to Hershel, right now.” She bent to grab the stained pack, but Shane was already hauling it up again despite a wince of pain.

At the commotion, the farmhouse door flew open. Rick filled the doorway, pale and drawn but upright. His eyes went wide at the sight of his best friend. “Shane!”

“Got the equipment,” Shane grunted, limping forward. “Where’s Hershel?”

“Here!” came Hershel’s voice from inside, urgent and relieved. The older man rushed forward, Maggie on his heels. Shane passed the heavy pack to Hershel, who immediately knelt and began rifling through its contents by lantern light. “This is it,” Hershel breathed, pulling out packages of sutures, a curved needle holder, and a small generator-powered ventilator. “This is everything we need.”

Rick clasped Shane’s shoulder tightly. “Thank you,” he said, his voice rough with gratitude. “Otis…?”

Shane shook his head, face grim. “Didn’t make it,” he replied quietly. “I’m sorry.”

Maggie sucked in a breath, lifting a hand to her mouth. Hershel’s expression flashed with pain—Otis had been their friend and farmhand—but he pressed his lips thin, refocusing on the mission at hand.

“We’ll mourn later,” Hershel said, steeling himself. “Right now, we have to save this boy.” He rose, arms full of supplies. “Maggie, get Patricia and put some water on to boil. We need to prep for surgery immediately.”

Within minutes, the farmhouse bustled with controlled chaos. Hershel and Maggie moved Carl to a sturdier table they’d covered as an impromptu operating surface. Lori refused to leave Carl’s side until Rick gently pulled her away so Hershel could work. “We have to let him do this, Lori,” he murmured, guiding her toward the hall. Lori finally relented, sobbing quietly into Rick’s chest as he held her.

She hovered near the doorway, unsure if she should stay. Part of her desperately wanted to be there for her brother, to see any sign of improvement, but Hershel needed space and steady hands—not a terrified sister in the way. And after her mother’s outburst, she felt too raw to be near Lori right now.

As the preparations continued inside, she found herself backing away, retracing her steps to the porch. The screen door creaked as she slipped out. A moment later, Shane followed, having been similarly ushered from the crowded room. He eased himself down the porch steps with a tired groan and sank onto an overturned bucket by the wall. In the faint glow from the window, she could see him clearly now—sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, and a reddish bruise was swelling on his left cheekbone.

She approached him hesitantly. “You should come inside and rest,” she said. “You look… you’re exhausted.”

Shane huffed a breath that might have been a laugh. “I’ll rest when that kid’s outta the woods,” he muttered. He glanced up at her, eyes softening. “How ’bout you? You holding up?”

Her instinct was to answer yes, but the word wouldn’t come. Instead, her eyes stung. What was the point of pretending? Shane could see the truth written all over her face. She lowered herself to sit on the porch step, a short distance from him. The cool night breeze lifted a few loose strands of her hair, tickling her face.

Her composure shattered like thin ice. Before she knew it, the words were tumbling out in a broken whisper. “Mom… she blames me.”

Shane frowned. “Blames you? For what happened to Carl?”

A hot tear slipped down her nose. She nodded, breath hitching. “I promised her I’d keep him safe,” she said, her voice cracking on the last word. “I promised, and I— I failed.”

Shane was quiet for a moment; she could feel his gaze on her, steady and intent. When he spoke, his voice was low and careful. “That why you were outside earlier? ’Cause of what Lori said?”

Another nod. A shiver of remembered hurt coursed through her. “She was so angry,” she murmured, barely audible. “She said… she said I had one job. That I didn’t keep my promise.” Her face crumpled as she relived the moment. “She’s right, isn’t she? I should’ve kept him closer—I shouldn’t have let him out of my sight—”

“Hey, hey.” Shane shifted off the bucket and knelt in front of her on the dirt, ignoring his own aches. He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Look at me.”

She dragged her eyes up to meet his. In the faint light, Shane’s face was drawn with exhaustion, but his expression was earnest and fierce. “This was not your fault,” he said, pronouncing each word with emphasis. “You hear me? What happened to Carl… it was a freak accident. You did protect him. You stayed with him, you did everything you could.”

A sob lodged in her throat. “It wasn’t enough,” she choked. “I promised her, Shane… I promised.” Fresh tears blurred her vision. “What good is a promise if he d-dies?”

“He’s not gonna die,” Shane said instantly, a flash of anguish in his eyes at even the suggestion. His grip on her shoulders tightened as if he could physically hold her together. “Hershel’s gonna save him. Carl’s a tough little man. And Rick and Lori— they need you strong for him, alright?”

She tried to believe him, to cling to that hope, but the fear was too great. Her composure collapsed entirely. “She h-hates me, Shane,” she sobbed. “Mom… she hates me now. And if Carl— if Carl—”

Her breaths were coming too fast. The edges of her vision darkened as panic closed in, a crushing weight on her chest. Dimly, she felt Shane’s hand move from her shoulder to cup the side of her face, his thumb wiping a tear from her cheek. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. “I… I can’t… I c-can’t—”

“Shhh, hey. Breathe.” Shane’s voice was soft but commanding. “Just breathe, darlin’.”

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made the images sharper: Carl collapsing, blood blossoming on his shirt; Lori’s devastated face twisting in rage.

Suddenly, Shane’s hands framed her face, warm and steady. Before she could register what was happening, he leaned in. His lips pressed against hers—firm, grounding, and utterly gentle.

All thoughts short-circuited in her mind. The world fell away for an instant; there was no fear, no grief, no sound but the faint rasp of their breathing. Shane was kissing her.

Her eyes flew open in shock, but the warmth of his mouth, the certainty of his touch, held her in place. It wasn’t hurried or frantic—he was holding her as if she were something fragile that might break, pouring all the reassurance he could into that single, tender kiss.

Slowly, the tightness in her chest eased. Her hands, which had been trembling in fists, unclenched. One of them found its way to Shane’s arm, grasping on as if he might vanish if she let go. A different kind of heat flooded through her, momentarily eclipsing the pain. She realised, faintly, that she was kissing him back.

They lingered there in the dark, lips pressed together in a promise unspoken. He tasted of salt and desperation, and when he finally drew back, she felt cool night air rush between them, making her realise just how warm he had been.

Shane kept his face close to hers, his forehead nearly touching hers. His hands slipped from her cheeks to her waist, where they remained, holding her as if she might float away. Both of them were breathing unsteadily—her tears had stopped in pure surprise.

“S-Sorry,” Shane managed, voice hoarse. “I… probably shouldn’t have—”

She answered by shaking her head quickly, her hand tightening on his arm. “It’s okay,” she whispered, and she meant it. Her heart was pounding, but for the first time since Carl fell, it wasn’t solely from terror. There was something else there, a flutter beneath the grief, brought to life by the feel of Shane’s lips and the steady weight of his hands.

To her astonishment, the storm inside her had quieted. She drew in a shaky breath and found that she could, in fact, breathe again. The panic that had threatened to devour her was ebbing, held at bay by the feeling of Shane’s arms anchoring her.

Shane exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath too. Wordlessly, he shifted to sit beside her on the step. One arm slid around her shoulders, drawing her against him. She went willingly, folding into his side. The solidity of him—the steady thump of his heart under her ear—was a comfort she hadn’t known she needed until now.

In the stillness that followed, neither of them spoke. They simply stayed there, huddled together on the porch while a sliver of moonlight peeked through the clouds. Inside the house, low voices murmured and the wooden floor creaked as Hershel and Maggie worked to save Carl. But out here, it was quiet, the chirp of crickets the only chorus to their vigil.

She didn’t know how long they remained like that, holding each other against the darkness. Minutes or hours—time had lost meaning. Gradually, the adrenaline of the day ebbed, leaving a bone-deep fatigue in its wake. Safe in the circle of Shane’s arm, she felt her eyelids grow heavy. She fought against it at first, unwilling to surrender to any rest until she knew Carl was okay. But Shane’s hand gently rubbing her arm and the warmth of his body lulled her more effectively than any lullaby. Eventually, curled against his shoulder, she slipped into a light, fitful sleep.

The next thing she knew, a rumbling motor was groaning up the farm’s long drive. She stirred awake with a jolt, lifting her head from where it had been resting on Shane’s shoulder. Early dawn light bathed the porch in grey-blue, and for a disorienting second, she didn’t know what had woken her. Then she heard the unmistakable chug of Dale’s RV engine drawing closer.

Beside her, Shane roused, blinking hard and straightening up. She realised they had fallen asleep leaning against each other, his arm still loosely around her. A flush warmed her cheeks as the memories of the night—of his kiss—rushed back. She opened her mouth to speak, but the sudden crunch of footsteps on gravel made her turn.

Daryl Dixon stood a few paces away, half-hidden by the corner of the porch. He must have come ahead of the others. His crossbow hung in his grasp, and he looked at her and Shane in silence. His expression was guarded, but she caught the faint lift of his chin—like he’d been about to greet her and thought better of it.

She sat up straighter, instinctively easing away from Shane’s side. “Daryl—” she began, voice still thick with sleep.

At that, Daryl gave a tight, wordless nod. His gaze flickered from her to Shane, then back. Whatever he saw made something shutter in his eyes. Without a word, he turned on his heel and walked away, boots crunching over dirt as he headed toward the sound of the arriving vehicles.

Puzzled, she watched him go, a slight frown pulling at her brow. She hadn’t missed the flash of emotion that crossed his features when he saw her tucked against Shane, but in her groggy state, she couldn’t quite parse it. Hurt? Disappointment? Before she could dwell on it, the RV rumbled into view by the yard, followed by the familiar blue pickup truck from the highway.

Shane cleared his throat beside her. She realised suddenly that his arm had dropped from her shoulders and he’d shifted a few more inches away, as if only now remembering himself. The two of them exchanged a look—shy, uncertain—and then the moment was swept away in the flurry of the arriving group.

The RV’s brakes squealed as it came to a stop. The door was flung open even before the engine died, and Dale emerged, looking weary and anxious. Andrea hopped down right after, her hand on her pistol out of habit as her keen eyes took in the farm. Sophia’s absence hung over the group like a cloud, but Carol herself came next, her face drawn with worry.

The moment Carol spotted her on the porch, Carol hurried forward. “Sweetheart, are you alright?” Carol’s voice was hoarse, as if she’d spent the whole night crying (and she likely had). The older woman reached up and gripped her hand tightly. “How’s Carl?”

She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, the front door creaked again. Rick stepped out onto the porch, his face gaunt with exhaustion but lit with a fragile relief. “Carol,” he greeted softly, managing a faint smile for the worried mother. “Carl just came out of surgery. He’s stable. He’s gonna be okay.”

A collective breath seemed to whoosh out of the gathered group. Carol’s legs nearly gave out; she clutched Dale’s arm for support, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh thank God… thank God,” she whispered. Relief and lingering sorrow warred on her face—joy for Carl, renewed fear for Sophia.

A chorus of thankfulness rippled through the others. Andrea closed her eyes, murmuring something that sounded like a prayer. Dale patted Rick’s shoulder with open gratitude. “That’s wonderful, Rick,” he said warmly. “We’ve been worried sick.”

Rick nodded, emotion tightening his throat. His eyes found his daughter standing on the steps. In that moment, her heart soared with relief—Carl was going to live. She felt tears of gratitude blur her vision. Rick opened his arms, and she flew into them, hugging him fiercely.

“He made it, Dad,” she whispered, voice watery with happiness. “You kept your promise.”

Rick held her just as tightly. “So did you,” he replied in a rough whisper. “He’s here—he’s alive. We didn’t let go.” There was a world of meaning in those words, and she knew he wasn’t just talking about Carl’s fight. He was talking about their family.

Over Rick’s shoulder, she noticed Lori standing in the doorway now, hovering just inside the threshold. Lori’s eyes were red-rimmed and shining as she gazed out at the reunion. For an instant, her gaze met her mother’s. There was no anger there now—only immense relief and regret.

Before either of them could say anything, Hershel called quietly from inside, asking Lori to help with Carl’s settling. Lori disappeared back into the house without a word. Rick let his daughter go and turned to the others, thanking them for coming, for their support.

In the following minutes, the group began to disperse into a semblance of order. Maggie directed Carol and the rest toward the kitchen to get some food and water after their long night. Dale offered to park the vehicles out of the way and Shane went with him to help, giving her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder before he left. Andrea climbed the porch steps, intent on checking on Carl herself if allowed.

Amid the shuffle, she slipped back inside the house. The living room was dim and empty now. Voices drifted from the bedroom down the hall—Hershel’s calm cadence and Maggie’s quieter responses as they tended to Carl. Lori must have been there too, but it was oddly quiet; perhaps Carl was still unconscious.

She hesitated, not wanting to intrude. Part of her yearned to see her brother with her own eyes, reassure herself he was really still breathing. But she wasn’t sure if she’d be welcome at Carl’s bedside yet, not after the things Lori had said.

As she stood there wringing her hands, low voices emanated from the kitchen nearby. Through the half-closed door, she recognised her father’s tone—tight with barely restrained anger. And Lori’s—tired, defensive.

“…had no right,” Rick was saying, his voice hushed but seething, “to put that on her. To say that to her. Our daughter just went through hell worrying about Carl, and you—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Lori snapped back, her words thick with remorse. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I said? I was out of my mind with fear, Rick—I wasn’t thinking straight!”

“Fear or not, you hurt her,” Rick hissed. “I saw her face, Lori. She blames herself enough already. How could you…?” He trailed off, a tremor in his voice.

There was a heavy silence. When Lori spoke again, it was quieter, choked with tears. “I know. I know. The moment it came out of my mouth I wanted to take it back. But I couldn’t—I can’t. And now she probably thinks I… God, Rick, what have I done?”

“She’s going to need to hear it from you that you didn’t mean it,” Rick said, exhaustion and frustration vying in his tone. “She worships you. One cruel word from you cuts deeper than any walker’s teeth, you understand?”

A muffled sob. “I’m sorry,” Lori whispered. “I’ll make it right. I will.”

Heart pounding, she stepped away from the kitchen door, cheeks hot with the feeling she’d witnessed something not meant for her eyes. She backed into the hallway just as Andrea emerged quietly from the bedroom where Carl was. Andrea gave her a brief smile and a squeeze of the arm in passing, then continued outside to rejoin the others, leaving the front door ajar.

For a moment, she remained rooted in place, absorbing what she’d overheard. Her chest ached. Yes, her mother had been cruel—but hearing the regret in Lori’s voice eased some of the sting. Maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate her after all.

The kitchen door creaked open then. Lori stepped out, hastily wiping her eyes. She looked around, almost frantic, until her gaze landed on her daughter standing down the hall.

“Sweetheart…” Lori breathed, taking a tentative step forward. But before either of them could move further, voices called from outside.

Lori startled, her face tensing as if only now realising the entire group was present at the farm. She closed her eyes for a second, visibly steadying herself.

When Lori looked at her again, her expression was flooded with guilt and resolve. “Can we talk?” she asked softly. “Outside. I-I need to apologise.”

She drew in a breath and gave a small nod. “Okay,” she murmured. She wasn’t sure what else to say; the knot of emotion in her throat made it hard to speak. Lori visibly steeled herself and turned toward the front door.

Outside, the early sun was cresting the trees, spilling gold over the quiet farm. Wanting a shred of privacy from the others, she walked off the porch toward the field fence, her heart thumping nervously as her mother followed.

Before she could move farther, Shane came striding towards her, concern written plainly on his face.

He must have heard their voices; he must have known something was wrong. His eyes flicked between her and Lori, and instinctively, he gravitated to her. “You alright?” he asked her under his breath, as if Lori weren’t there. His hand found the small of her back in a steadying gesture.

She felt a tiny surge of warmth—his presence still had the power to steady her racing heart. She managed a faint smile. “I’m okay,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was true. Having him close made her feel safer, regardless.

Behind her, Lori quickened her pace to catch up. “I—” Lori began, but the words died in her throat as she took in the tableau before her: her daughter and Shane standing close, heads bent together in confidence. Shane’s broad palm resting protectively against the small of the younger woman’s spine. The gentle familiarity of the touch.

For a long moment, none of them spoke. The morning breeze whispered through the leaves, carrying the distant cluck of Hershel’s chickens from their coop. Lori stood frozen a few feet away, her eyes wide and lips parted in surprise. Guilt and resolve had brought her out here, but now something else flickered across her face—something like shock, layered with confusion and a hurt that had nothing to do with what she’d come to say.

Sunlight spilled over the three of them, and in that charged silence, the fragile truce of relief began to twist into a new tension.

She felt Shane’s hand flex slightly against her back, as if sensing the upheaval to come. Swallowing hard, she looked to her mother, whose eyes were locked on the subtle, intimate way Shane hovered at her side.

Lori exhaled shakily, struggling to find her voice. “I… I was looking for you,” she said at last, her tone uneven. She tore her gaze from Shane’s hand and met her daughter’s eyes. Emotions swam there that her daughter couldn’t quite read, complicated shadows under the morning sun.

She opened her mouth to reply, to step forward—she wasn’t sure which—when Lori’s expression crumpled, just for an instant, with something like realisation or pain.

But… if they did come true. And there was no catch?

“I’d want the life I imagined for myself when I was a kid.” You leaned forward and took the straw of your milkshake into your mouth, sucking up a thin stream of half-melted chocolate milkshake into your mouth. “I’d be a successful writer who makes enough from their writing not to worry about bills or anything at all. I’d be married to somebody that loves me.”

The dream-wish became something a little more concrete as you built it, like a child stacking block-upon-block.

“I’d have at least one kid. My family would be alive to annoy me and come over every Sunday for dinner. We’d live close together, but not so close that they drive me nuts. My house would be old and beautiful--”

Your friend jabbed another ketchup-covered fry at you. “With servants stairs still intact?”

You bit back a grin. It was exactly the sort of thing you gushed about when you sent your friend Zillow listings of old houses in town that you would never, ever be able to afford. “Exactly.”

You stretched your arms, and in that moment couldn’t help but notice a pair of eyes were on you from across the cafe, watching as you spoke. It was a man, sipping a coffee in one hand and picking at a plate of fries with the other. He had blonde hair that fell just a bit over his face and large, thin glasses that made him look a bit like a barn owl. When he caught you staring at him staring, he offered a sheepish smile. You couldn’t help but smile back. Something about the expression was a little infectious.

And then you turned back to your friend, shrugging a little as the dream began to dissipate. Your body even sagged a little, like a deflated balloon. “I guess that’s what I’d wish for. If it could come true and actually make me happy.” But you knew it could never come true, and would never come true.

Not unless some magical fairy godmother or genie or wish-granting troll was listening.

--

The fastest way home to your cramped apartment cut through a patch of woods. A scraggly little remnant of the forest that used to be in the area before it was cut down to make room for apartment blocks and abandoned shopping malls. You liked it, and so the teenagers in your area, who often used it for smoking.

That fact is why you didn’t feel particularly unnerved when you got the sense that somebody else was walking in the woods. When you heard footsteps crunching leaves and branches underneath from behind you.

“Would the house be Edwardian or Victorian era? Or perhaps you’re looking for something even older? I do warn you, the staircases can be deadly.”

It took you a few moments to understand what was just said and it made you turn around fast, a feeling of irritation and anxiety washing over you. It was the stranger from the cafe who was staring at you. He was still wearing a smile, but it was confident rather than sheepish, and something about that raised red flags in your mind.

“You were eavesdropping,” is what you finally said, when words eventually come to your mind. “At the cafe.”

The man shrugged and didn’t look very apologetic. “It’s in my line of work. Now, about that house?”

You crossed your arms over your chest. Your pepper spray was at home, exactly where it didn’t do you any good. You weren’t a great runner, but if you needed to, you thought you could run fast enough to get out of the woods in case he tried something. What else would a stranger following you into this remote area want?

“I want you to leave.” You stood your ground. You hoped you looked like a threat. Or like too much trouble to deal with.

“I thought you wanted the perfect life you dreamed of as a child?” He said, and there was something wistful in his tone that made you want to listen to him. It was something you couldn’t exactly shake, and you didn’t know why. Like he was an old friend. Someone who would listen to you and not mock you. Someone who cared.

You shook your head. You didn’t know this man. What were you thinking?

“There’s no such thing.” You took a step away as you said it, hoping to edge far enough that you could leap into a sprint when the time was right. “Like I told my friend, which you should know since you were eavesdropping, there’s no guarantee I would ever be happy even if I got what I wanted.”

The man spread his arms out wide, and smiled so kindly that you got the impression he knew exactly what you wanted as a child and what you want now and that he wasn’t judging you. Someone else might click their tongue and shake their head at your childish dream, still there in your mind even though you knew it would never come true. But not him.

“I can give you that life. Everything would be perfect. You would be so happy.” And then his smile turned sympathetic. “I can even bring back your parents, too. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Your mom and dad were dead. Buried. Bones, dust, by now. You visited their grave less and less as the years go on, but the pain never stopped.

“You’re sick.” You turned, thinking to leave. But when you did he was suddenly there in front of you. Like he appeared out of thin air. And now you were scared and not just annoyed and not just hurt.

“What the hell?” There was a lump in your throat and your heart pounded fast. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

He pursed his lips. “Manners, please.” And It was then that you noticed the mist surrounding you. When did it get so foggy? It wasn’t even that late in the day. Not the proper time for mist at all. But there was, and there you were. And you had the sinking feeling that nothing would ever be the same.

“Now,” he continued, a smile back on his lips. It scared you, how kind that smiled looked.

She kept close to her younger brother, Carl, as they walked through the undergrowth. Her eyes scanned each shadow between the trunks, hoping for a flash of Sophia’s t-shirt or the sound of a child’s voice. Stay strong, she told herself, swallowing down the lump in her throat. Sophia was just a little girl, out here all alone. We have to find her. We will find her. The promise repeated in her mind with every careful step.

The entire group was spread out in a loose line through the woods. Her father, Rick, moved at the front, eyes sharp as he swept the underbrush for any sign of the missing girl. Shane walked a few paces to the right, shotgun in hand and jaw set with determination. Daryl and Glenn flanked the other side, carefully stepping over fallen branches and whispering Sophia’s name whenever they paused to listen. Even her mother, Lori, had pushed herself to join the search despite exhaustion, staying close to Carol in hopes of comforting Sophia’s frantic mother. They were all here, united by worry and the singular goal of bringing Sophia back safely.

By late morning, streaks of sunlight speared down through the trees overhead, bringing with them a muggy heat. The group slowed to a halt in a small clearing to catch their breath and re-evaluate. They had scoured a wide radius and found nothing—no footprints, no scraps of cloth, not a single indication of where Sophia might be. Anxiety and exhaustion were starting to show on everyone’s faces. Carol’s eyes were red from tears and lack of sleep; the poor woman looked ready to collapse at any moment. Lori gently rubbed Carol’s back as they all huddled together, trying to decide their next move.

Rick cleared his throat, breaking the tense silence. "We need to make a decision," he said, voice low but firm. "We can’t all keep wandering out here with nothing to go on." He turned to Carol, whose face was gaunt with worry. "Carol, why don’t you head back to the highway with Lori and the others, in case Sophia finds her way back there? Get some rest, okay? We’ll cover more ground ahead and meet back soon."

Carol opened her mouth to protest—her lips trembled, desperate to keep searching—but exhaustion had sapped her strength. Gently, Lori squeezed Carol’s arm and nodded. "Come on, Carol," Lori whispered softly. "Rick’s right. You should be there if Sophia comes back. You need to rest."

Daryl took a step forward, shaking his head. "I ain’t done lookin’ yet," he drawled, a stubborn set to his jaw. He clearly had no desire to quit searching. His steely gaze darted between Rick and Carol; he looked torn.

Rick held Daryl’s eyes. "I know. But I need you to escort them back," he said, gesturing toward Carol, who was unsteady on her feet. "Make sure they get to the highway safe. Please." His tone made it clear he wouldn’t trust anyone else with that job.

Daryl’s expression flickered—frustration warred with concern. Finally, he blew out a breath and gave a curt nod. "Alright," he muttered. He shifted his grip on his crossbow, moving to stand protectively near Carol.

As the plan took shape, Lori turned to her children, anxiety etched on her face. "Carl, honey, you’re coming with me," she said, reaching for Carl’s shoulder. "You’ve walked enough for one day."

Carl stepped back, eyes wide. "No! Mom, please," he protested, shaking his head vehemently. "I want to stay with Dad. I can help look for Sophia—I’m fine, I swear." His voice quavered on the edge of tears. "We can’t just stop now."

Lori’s jaw tightened. "Carl, it’s not up for discussion—"

Before Lori could finish, she stepped forward, unable to stay silent. "Mom," she said gently but firmly, sliding an arm around Carl’s shoulders. "I’ll watch him. I promise." Carl pressed against his sister’s side, looking up at their mother with pleading eyes. "We’ll stick with Dad and Shane, and I won’t let him out of my sight. Okay?"

Lori’s eyes shone with tears as she looked at her two children. Silence hung for a moment, heavy with her reluctance. Finally, she cupped her daughter’s cheek, her thumb brushing over a smudge of dirt there. In a swift motion, Lori pulled her eldest into a tight embrace. "You keep your brother safe," she whispered, voice thick.

Her throat burned with emotion as she returned her mother’s hug. "I will, Mom," she whispered back. "I promise."

Lori released her, then immediately gathered Carl into her arms. She held him as if memorising the feel of him. "You mind your sister and your dad, do you hear me?" she murmured into his hair.

"I will," Carl mumbled, hugging his mom fiercely.

Rick stepped closer then, touching Lori’s arm. "I’ll bring them back to you," he assured her quietly. The look they shared spoke volumes—fear, love, and trust all intertwined in a single glance.

Lori nodded, swallowing hard. She gently ruffled Carl’s brown hair one more time before forcing herself to step away. "Okay," she managed, voice unsteady. "Okay."

As the others prepared to depart, she felt a gentle tug on her wrist. Turning, she found Daryl standing there, his rugged face drawn in uncharacteristic worry. "You sure about this?" he asked under his breath. He jerked his chin toward the direction Lori and the rest had gone. "Ain’t too late to come with us, you know. These woods... not exactly a playground."

She gave Daryl a small, grateful smile. "I’ll be alright," she said softly. "They need me here."

Daryl grunted, clearly unsatisfied but not about to argue. He scuffed a boot against the dirt, then fixed her with a stern look. "Just be careful, alright? Keep that little brother of yours safe." His voice was rough, but there was a tremor of concern in it. "If things go bad, you run. Don’t try to be a hero. Promise me."

"I promise," she replied, touched by his concern. On impulse, she threw her arms around Daryl’s middle. He stiffened in surprise at the sudden hug. Daryl wasn’t a man used to gentle touches. But after a second, he let out a small huff and patted her back, awkward yet comforting.

When she stepped back, he cleared his throat gruffly. "Alright then," he muttered, eyes darting away. "Don’t make me regret leavin’ you here."

She shook her head. "I won’t. We’ll see you soon."

Daryl gave her shoulder one last squeeze. Then, with a final nod to Rick and Shane, he turned and followed Lori, Carol, Glenn, and the others as they made their way back toward the highway. She watched them disappear one by one into the sea of trees—her mother looking back with a worried wave, Glenn offering a thumbs-up of encouragement, Carol stumbling wearily at Daryl’s side as he kept a supportive arm around her. In a matter of moments, their friends were gone, swallowed by the green gloom of the forest.

The woods felt even quieter in their absence. She took a deep breath and turned to face the deeper shadows ahead. It was just the four of them now—Rick, Shane, Carl, and herself—alone with the endless trees and the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

They pressed onward into the woods, deeper than the group had ventured before. Sunlight grew sparse as the canopy thickened overhead. Rick led the way, methodically scanning the ground for tracks, while Shane walked a few yards off to the side, eyes sweeping their flank.

She stayed in step with Carl, letting him set a pace he could handle. Now that it was just them, the quiet between the siblings was heavy and intimate. After a few minutes of trudging through brush and ducking under low branches, Carl broke the silence.

"Do... do you think Sophia’s okay?" he asked in a small voice. He clutched the strap of the sheriff’s hat that sat atop his head—the hat Rick had given him—not meeting his sister’s eyes.

She squeezed his hand gently. "I do," she said, injecting confidence into her tone. "Sophia is a tough girl, and she’s fast." She tried to smile, hoping to encourage him. "She’s smart, too. If anyone could hide from walkers and stay safe, it’s Sophia."

Carl nodded, his eyes fixed on the ground as they walked. "I just… I keep thinking about her out here all night," he murmured. "She must be so scared."

Her heart clenched at the thought. She slid her arm around Carl’s shoulders as they walked. "I know. But that’s why we’re not giving up until we find her. Imagine how happy she’ll be when we do." She nudged him lightly. "We’ll wrap her up in Dad’s big coat, get her nice and warm. Maybe Glenn’ll find some snacks for her—he always finds something."

Carl managed a tiny smile at that, though tears still shone in his eyes. "Yeah... she’d like that. She loves those little chocolate bars."

"Then that’s what she’ll get," his sister replied softly. "Chocolate bars, and all of us fussing over her. She’ll roll her eyes at that—you know how Sophia is," she added, attempting a light laugh.

Carl sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "She always pretends she doesn't like hugs, but she does," he said, voice wobbling.

They walked on, her arm around him. The woods around them were quiet except for their own footsteps and the occasional rustle of a small creature in the underbrush. She kept her eyes moving, ever alert for any danger or any sign of their missing friend.

After a moment, Carl spoke up again, barely above a whisper. "I’m glad Mom let me stay. I want to help." He looked up at his sister, chewing his lip. "I feel like... like I have to do something. Sophia’s my friend."

She stopped and turned toward him, placing her hands on his shoulders. "Hey," she said softly, bending a little to meet his eyes. "You are helping, Carl. Just being out here, calling for her—that could be exactly what brings her out of hiding. She knows your voice."

Carl nodded, a little more resolute. "Yeah. Okay."

Up ahead, Rick glanced back over his shoulder. Even in the dim light, she could see the faint curve of a smile on her father’s face as he watched his two kids sticking together. The sight warmed her; even weighed down by worry, Rick seemed reassured to see his children supporting each other.

She gave Carl’s shoulder one more squeeze before they continued on. "We’ll find her," she repeated, as much for herself as for him. "We’re gonna bring Sophia back."

Carl stepped over a fallen log, his hand reaching for hers. "Together," he said quietly.

"Together," she agreed, gripping his hand and offering him a brave smile.

They had just pushed through a dense thicket when a flash of movement drew their attention. In the dappled light ahead, a large deer stood grazing in a small clearing, its coat a rich tawny colour. The animal lifted its head, ears twitching, and regarded them with wide, liquid-dark eyes.

All four of them froze at the unexpected sight. For a moment, in this lifeless forest, there was something gentle and alive before them. She heard Carl suck in his breath in awe. Slowly, Rick knelt down and placed a steady hand on Carl’s back, wordlessly encouraging his son forward to see the creature up close.

Carl inched out from behind a tree, mesmerised. A smile flickered on the boy’s face—the first genuine smile she’d seen on him since before Sophia disappeared. He took one careful step, then another. The deer remained still, calm, as if equally curious.

She stayed a couple of paces behind Carl, holding her breath. A soft, almost disbelieving laugh of wonder was bubbling in her chest at the serenity of it: this quiet connection between a child and a wild deer, in the middle of so much fear and chaos.

Then it happened.

A thunderous crack split the air.

The deer jolted violently and collapsed to the ground. In the same instant, Carl was thrown back as if punched by an invisible force.

For half a heartbeat, everything went silent in her head. She felt the earth drop out from under her. What just—?

Before the thought finished, Shane had slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. She hit the dirt hard, the impact driving the breath from her lungs. Her ears rang with the echo of the gunshot. Shane’s forearm pinned her against the forest floor.

She gasped a mouthful of dust, heart hammering. Carl. Where’s Carl?

Rick’s panicked shout answered her: "Carl!!"

She clawed at the ground, scrambling out from under Shane’s protective weight the second he eased up. Dazed, she staggered to her feet. A few yards away, the deer lay on its side, a dark red hole visible in its flank. It was dead. And just beyond it—

Her eyes found Carl and the world tilted sideways. Carl was on the ground, sprawled on his back. Rick was already kneeling over him. "No, no, no..." her father’s voice was breaking, trembling in a way she had never heard.

She ran, legs numb beneath her. "Carl!" she screamed. The sound tore out of her, raw and desperate.

Carl’s eyes were open but glassy with shock. He looked up at Rick in confusion, small hands pawing weakly at the growing red stain on his shirt. Bright blood seeped between his fingers.

"Dad…?" he choked out, voice thin and frightened. Rick had one hand cradling the back of Carl’s head, the other pressed desperately over the boy’s midsection. Carl blinked once, as if struggling to focus, then his eyes rolled back and his body went limp.

"No! Carl!" Rick cried out. He gathered Carl into his arms, pressing his palm hard against the wound on his son's stomach. Blood was pulsing out hot and fast, soaking into Rick’s sleeves and pooling on the forest floor.

She skidded to Carl’s other side, nearly collapsing as her knees hit the dirt. Her whole body was shaking. "Carl, Carl, hey, you’re okay," she babbled, not even knowing what she was saying. Her hands hovered helplessly above him, afraid to touch the injury, afraid to hurt him more. There was so much blood.

Shane was beside them a second later, rifle up and eyes wild as he scanned the tree line. "Who the hell shot?!" he snarled.

As if in answer, a frantic voice called from the distance, "Oh God! Oh God, no!"

Between the trees, a figure came crashing toward them—a heavy-set man in hunting gear, clutching a rifle. His face was ashen with horror. "I’m sorry!" the man shouted, chest heaving. "I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—"

Shane lunged to his feet, gun trained on the stranger in an eyeblink. "Drop your weapon!" he barked, rage twisting his features. The newcomer immediately flung his rifle aside and raised his shaking hands.

"It—it was an accident," the man panted, eyes wide with remorse. He gestured desperately toward the fallen deer. "I was aiming for the deer... I didn’t see the boy until—"

Rick’s voice cut through, ragged and furious: "You shot my son." He was still hunched over Carl, both hands pressing down on the boy’s blood-soaked shirt. Rick’s face was a mask of panic and fury.

The hunter—Otis, he managed to stammer out—took a cautious step forward, hands high. "I’m sorry," he repeated, voice cracking. "There’s a house nearby—my farm. I have a doctor there, Hershel. He can help the boy. Please, let me help you."

A doctor. The words pierced through her panic.

Rick seized on them instantly. "A doctor? Where?" he demanded, already shifting as if to move. He scooped Carl’s limp body into his arms with infinite care, cradling his son tight against his chest.

"Just through the woods, about a mile," Otis said quickly. "I’ll take you, I swear. Hershel’s a doctor. He can save him."

Rick didn’t waste another second. "Go! Now!" he shouted.

Otis turned and began running back the way he came, crashing through the brush. Rick took off right on his heels, carrying Carl as though he weighed nothing.

She forced herself up and sprinted after them, adrenaline surging like fire through her veins. Shane grabbed her hand as she stumbled, practically yanking her forward to keep pace. "Run!" he barked, urgency and fear bleeding through his usual composure. Then he dropped back, covering their rear with his shotgun as they tore through the woods.

Branches whipped at her face and arms; she barely felt the stinging cuts they left behind. She ran with everything she had, lungs burning, heart in her throat. Carl needs me. Carl needs me. The mantra pounded in her head in time with her ragged breaths.

Ahead of her, Rick sprinted with single-minded focus, leaping over roots and pushing through brambles without slowing. She could hear him urging Carl in a frantic, choked voice: "Stay with me, son. Stay with me, Carl!" Each plea was more broken than the last.

Otis wheezed out directions between gulps of air. "Th-this way—just a bit further!" The man was struggling, but Shane was right behind, practically herding him forward with sharp shouts to keep going.

Her vision narrowed to Rick’s back and the small dangling legs in his arms—Carl’s sneakers bouncing with each desperate stride. Every few steps, a crimson droplet of Carl’s blood pattered to the ground, marking their path.

She realised she was crying only when hot tears blurred her sight. She blinked them away fiercely. There was no time for tears. Carl was still alive; he had to be alive. He had to hold on.

Her foot caught on a snagged vine hidden in the leaf litter. She pitched forward, crashing to her hands and knees. Pain flared in her palms and shins as they scraped raw on rocks and twigs.

In an instant, Shane was there, hauling her upright by her arm. "I got you, keep moving!" he gritted out. He practically shoved her ahead, and she willed her numb legs to run again. The taste of copper flooded her mouth; she must have bitten her tongue when she fell, but she barely registered it.

Through the thicket of trees, patches of open sky began to appear. They were nearing the tree line. "How far?!" Rick shouted hoarsely over his shoulder, his voice taut with desperation.

"Almost there!" Otis gasped. The forest suddenly gave way to a rolling pasture, golden in the late afternoon sun. "There!" Otis pointed across the open field to a farmhouse that stood on a gentle rise, white clapboard shining like a beacon. "That’s Hershel’s place!"

Rick didn’t even respond; every ounce of strength went into covering the last stretch of grass as fast as humanly possible. She and Shane pushed themselves to keep up, feet pounding uneven furrows of earth.

As they neared the farmhouse, figures came racing out onto the porch—an older man with gray hair tied back in a ponytail, and two women, one blonde and one brunette, not far behind him. The man’s eyes widened at the sight of Rick charging toward them drenched in blood, carrying a child.

Rick bounded up the porch steps, voice cracking with urgency. "Are you Hershel?!"

"I am," the older man answered, already beckoning frantically. "Bring him, quick!"

Rick didn’t hesitate. He rushed through the door that Hershel held open, and she followed on his heels. Her mind was reeling: one minute they’d been in the woods, the next they were inside an unfamiliar house, an almost-normal living room flashing past as Hershel led them to a bedroom just off the hall.

"Here, lay him down here," Hershel directed, pulling back a patchwork quilt on a bed. Rick eased Carl onto the crisp white sheets, his hands stained red as he drew back.

She hovered a step behind her father, her heart thundering in her chest. Everything felt surreal—the cozy furnishings of the farmhouse, the family photographs on the wall, the way the blonde girl hastily cleared a side table to make room for supplies—all of it clashed with the horror of Carl lying so still, so pale, in the middle of it.

Shane and Otis burst in behind them. Otis was babbling apologies again, but Shane silenced him with a glare that could have cut steel. "Not now," Shane snapped. "Tell us what to do, Hershel."

Hershel was already in motion, snapping on a pair of thin latex gloves from a kit the blonde woman—Patricia—thrust into his hands. He knelt by the bed and carefully lifted the blood-soaked fabric of Carl’s shirt. The sight beneath made the colour drain from Hershel’s face: a small, ragged entry wound in Carl’s abdomen, still oozing thick, dark blood.

Hershel’s voice was steady, but urgent. "Patricia, get my sutures and antiseptic from the cabinet. Maggie, more towels—now." As the women sprang into action, Hershel looked to Rick. "Through-and-through?" he asked, meaning the bullet.

Rick’s throat bobbed. "No exit wound," he managed. His eyes never left Carl’s face.

Hershel grimaced. "Alright. We need to stabilise him first." He pressed a wad of clean gauze firmly to Carl’s wound. Even unconscious, Carl flinched at the pressure, a weak, strangled moan catching in his throat. The sound tore at her insides.

"Stay with him, Carl," Rick murmured, hovering beside Hershel, his hands trembling as if he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

Hershel turned his head slightly. "Patricia, start an IV. He’s lost a lot of blood." The blonde immediately went to Carl’s side, skilfully slipping a needle into the back of the boy’s hand. "Maggie, get the blood pressure cuff and—" Hershel paused, realising time was critical. He looked around at the gathered faces. "What’s his blood type? Does anyone know?"

"A-positive," Rick answered at once, voice tight. "Same as mine."

A flicker of relief crossed Hershel’s lined face. "That’s good. We’ll need a transfusion. How long since he was shot?"

"Minutes ago," Shane supplied, wiping sweat and grime from his brow with a shaky hand.

Hershel nodded curtly. "His pulse is weak. We need to get some volume into him. Sir," he said, meeting Rick’s eyes, "are you willing to give blood directly? It might be the fastest way."

"Take all you need," Rick said without hesitation, already yanking up his sleeve.

She stood at the foot of the bed, feeling helpless as the scene whirled around her. They were losing Carl—she could feel it in every panicked movement, every grim face. Do something! her mind screamed. Help him!

"I can—I can give blood too," she blurted suddenly, stepping forward. "Take mine!" Her voice came out higher and more frantic than she intended, but she didn’t care. If Carl needed blood, he could have every drop from her body.

Hershel’s daughter, Maggie, had just returned with an IV pole. She paused, looking uncertainly at Hershel. The room fell momentarily quiet at her outburst.

Hershel blinked, as if assessing her age and condition. "What’s your blood type, young lady?" he asked, already reaching for the supplies Maggie brought.

"I—I’m not sure," she stammered, pulse pounding in her ears.

Rick’s head jerked up. "No," he said sharply, a strange strain in his voice. "Not her."

She flinched, stunned by the force of his objection. "But I—"

"It won’t match," Rick snapped, softer this time but still firm. His eyes flickered to hers, anguish and something like regret swirling there. "I’ll do it. Just me."

Her lips parted, confusion cutting through her panic. Not a match? How could he know? Before she could dwell on it, Patricia gently tugged at Rick’s arm, guiding him to sit on a low stool by the bed.

Maggie quickly tied a tourniquet around Rick’s bicep and swabbed the crook of his arm. "Hold still," she murmured. A moment later, a thick needle pierced Rick’s vein. Rick barely hissed at the stick, too focused on Carl’s lifeless face.

She took a step back, feeling inexplicably like she’d been slapped. Shane appeared at her side and touched her shoulder lightly. "Let them work," he said under his breath. Gently, he steered her out of the direct flurry of activity around the bed.

Her mind was reeling. She pressed herself against the wall, hands clasped tightly under her chin as if in prayer. Rick’s words kept echoing: It won’t match.

On the bed, Hershel was cutting away the rest of Carl’s shirt with surgical scissors. Carl’s small chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths. Patricia hung a bag of saline on the IV stand and adjusted the flow into Carl’s arm.

A thin tube now connected Rick’s arm to Carl’s—father and son literally tethered by a lifeline of blood. She watched the dark red stream pump through the tube in horrified fascination, willing it to be enough. Please be enough.

Rick kept one large hand on Carl’s shoulder, as though his touch could somehow anchor his boy to life. He was deathly pale himself, but he didn’t flinch or waver.

Hershel worked with grim concentration, packing layers of gauze over the wound to stanch the bleeding. "The bullet’s still in there," he told Patricia in a low voice. "Likely fragmented. We’ll need to remove it soon."

Patricia’s face tightened. "Not here, not without more equipment."

Hershel gave a curt shake of his head. "No, not here."

Shane overheard and stepped closer. "What do you need? Tell me and I’ll get it." His voice was resolute, almost frighteningly so.

Otis, hovering near the doorway, spoke up hoarsely. "There’s a FEMA aid station at the high school. That’s where we got some medical supplies before. We… we didn’t grab everything."

Hershel looked between Shane and Otis. "The boy needs surgical equipment—an extractor, sutures, a respirator. Things I don’t have here."

Shane nodded sharply. "Then we’ll go." He squeezed Otis’s shoulder, not gently. "Show me exactly where, and we’ll get what you need."

Otis blinked in surprise at Shane volunteering to accompany him—the very man who had every right to hate him. But he nodded. "Yessir."

Their voices started to fade from her awareness. Her vision tunnelled on Carl and Rick, and the loop of tubing that connected them. Rick was giving Carl his blood, and still it didn’t seem like enough. Carl’s face looked so gray.

She wanted to scream, or sob, or both. Instead, she found herself sliding down the wall into a crouch, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her hands were sticky—she glanced down and saw Carl’s blood smeared across her skin from when she’d pressed on his wound in the woods. A strangled noise escaped her throat at the sight, and she scrubbed her palms frantically against her jeans, as if she could wipe away the horror of the last hour.

In a blur, Maggie was suddenly kneeling beside her, pressing a clean wet cloth into her hands. "Hey, take some deep breaths," Maggie said gently. "You’re in shock. Try to breathe, okay?"

She hadn’t realised until then how badly she was trembling. The damp cloth in her hands gave her something to focus on. She drew in one shuddery breath, then another. "Th-thank you," she whispered to the girl, her voice barely there.

Maggie offered a kind, sad smile. "Of course. I’ll be right back." With that, she stood and hurried off to assist her father.

The shock was wearing off, and now a crushing wave of emotion hit her all at once. Fear for Carl. Fury and guilt at being unable to stop what happened. And threaded through it all, a confused, insistent question: Why did Dad say my blood wouldn’t match?

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out everything for just a second. In the darkness behind her eyelids, she saw flashes—Carl laughing as they played tag on their grandparents’ farm back in the past summer, Carl concentrating as she helped him with homework by lamplight at the camp, Carl scared and calling her name as they hid from the walker herd under cars on the highway yesterday. Her little brother. Her responsibility.

Her eyes snapped open. Rick was looking at her from across the room. The transfusion had been going for a few minutes; his face was drawn, and beads of sweat were on his brow. He looked weaker, but he waved off Patricia when she told him that was enough for now. "Keep it going," he insisted faintly.

Hershel interjected, gently removing the needle from Rick’s arm. "That’s enough for the moment. We can’t have you collapsing, too." He handed Rick a cloth to press on his needle site and nodded to Maggie, who had returned with a glass of orange juice, which Rick absently refused.

Now that Hershel had done all he could immediately, and Carl’s bleeding was slowed by bandages and pressure, there was a lull. A horrible stillness filled the room, broken only by Carl’s shallow breaths and Rick’s ragged ones.

Otis hurried out after Shane, ready to lead him to whatever supplies were needed, leaving Hershel and Maggie to monitor Carl. Lori and the others hadn’t arrived yet; they still had no idea what had happened. In this quiet, the reality settled like a lead weight.

She pushed herself unsteadily to her feet, drawn toward her father. Rick had slumped back against the wall near the bed, one hand still resting on Carl’s blanketed leg. His eyes were fixed on his son, anguish and despair written in every line of his face.

She approached hesitantly and sank down to the floor beside him. "Dad...?" she whispered.

Rick turned his head as if startled; he’d been so deep in his worry that he hadn’t noticed her come over. The moment he saw her tear-streaked face, something in him broke. "Oh, baby," he choked out, and opened his arms.

She fell into them, burying her face in her father’s chest. His embrace was strong and fierce, and she clung to him just as tightly. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. In the background, Maggie quietly excused herself to give them a little privacy, pulling Hershel with her into the hallway.

In the safety of Rick’s arms, she finally let the sobs come. She trembled with the force of them, releasing everything she’d been holding in: the terror of seeing Carl fall, the frantic fear of the run, the helplessness of watching him hover at death’s edge. Rick’s hand cradled the back of her head, and she felt a wetness on her scalp as his tears fell into her hair.

"He’s gonna make it," Rick whispered fiercely, voice shaking. "He’s tough, your brother. He’s gonna pull through this." He said it like a promise and a prayer all in one.

She wanted to believe him. "I’m so scared," she managed, her fingers twisting into her dad’s shirt. It was stiff with dried blood—Carl’s blood—but she couldn’t let go.

"I know," Rick breathed, resting his cheek atop her head. "Me too." His chest hitched with a silent sob, and she realised she’d never seen him like this—so frightened, so human. He was always the strong one for them. But Carl’s blood still stained his hands, and he looked more vulnerable than she’d ever known.

They stayed like that, kneeling together on the floor, holding each other up. Her sobs gradually subsided, spent for the moment. Rick drew back enough to cup her face in his trembling hands. He wiped at her tears with his thumbs, his eyes searching hers.

"I’m sorry," he said suddenly, voice raw. "I’m so sorry, sweetheart."

She frowned, not understanding. "For what? You didn’t do anything wrong."

Rick shut his eyes, pained. "For... for everything. Carl... and you having to see this... and—" His voice caught. "And for what I said back there. About the blood."

At that, the knot of confusion and hurt tightened in her gut. She bit her lip, tasting salt from her tears. "Dad... why did you say my blood wouldn't match?" she asked quietly. Her heart hammered in her chest as she finally gave voice to the question that had been haunting her. "How could you be so sure?"

Rick’s eyes opened, and they were full of tears. Fresh grief washed over his face, different from the fear for Carl—a more personal pain. He looked away, jaw working. "Honey... we’ll talk about it later, okay? Right now, let’s just focus on—"

"Please," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "I need to know. I—" She took a shaky breath. "I heard you. You said I’m not a match. And you knew it. Why?"

Rick’s eyes brimmed. He swallowed hard, still cradling her cheeks between his hands as if she might slip away. "Because," he began slowly, "because I already know your blood type. It’s B-positive."

She blinked. "But... you and Mom are both A. And Carl is A." In school, she’d learned a little about blood types; she knew enough to know that didn’t add up. A tremor started in her limbs again. "So how can I be B-positive… unless…"

Her father’s face crumpled. "Unless you weren’t born from us," he finished for her softly, heartbreak in every syllable.

For a moment, the room spun. She felt like she might be sick. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, that’s not—there’s no way. I’m your daughter. I’m yours and Mom’s." The words sounded almost childish, plaintive and desperate.

Rick’s eyes overflowed. A tear streaked down his cheek and disappeared into the stubble on his jaw. "You are our daughter," he said fiercely. "In every way that matters, you are. Blood... blood’s never been what makes a family."

She made a small, wounded sound and pulled away just enough to wrap her arms around herself. Her mind was trying to catch up, to process what he was saying. "So it’s true?" she murmured. "I’m adopted?"

Rick nodded wretchedly. "You were just a newborn. We’d been trying to have a baby for a while with no luck. Then there you were, needing a home, and—" His voice cracked. "The moment we saw you, held you... you were ours. You are ours."

She stared at him, her pulse roaring in her ears. She didn’t doubt his love—one look at his face and she knew he was telling the truth about that. But the foundation of her world was suddenly tilted, pieces out of place. Not by blood. She wasn’t by blood Rick’s daughter, or Lori’s. Carl wasn’t her biological brother.

Carl. Her eyes drifted to Carl’s unconscious form. He looked deathly pale, but alive for now. She thought of how he had always looked up to her, how she’d always protected him. None of that was different. None of it changed because of a blood type.

A sob bubbled up, and she pressed her fist to her mouth to stifle it. Her father pulled her close again, wrapping her in the safest place she had ever known—his arms. "I’m sorry," Rick kept saying into her hair. "I’m sorry you found out this way. We never wanted to keep it from you forever. We just… We never wanted you to feel different. You’re our girl."

She could hear the fear in his voice—the fear that she might see herself as less a part of the family now, that she might feel betrayed or distant. Despite the shock and confusion storming inside her, she found her arms reaching around him, holding him just as tight as before.

"I’m still your girl," she whispered fiercely. "Nothing changes that for me. Nothing."

Rick let out a trembling breath that was almost a laugh of relief. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Thank you," he breathed.

They separated slightly, enough to look at each other. Her eyes were swollen and red, and she could see in Rick’s that he’d be haunted by this moment—by this inadvertent hurt—for a long time. She managed a weak smile for his sake, and he attempted one back.

"You and Mom... you saved me," she said softly, realizing it more fully with each passing second. If they hadn’t taken her in, who knows where she’d be now—or if she’d even be alive. A shudder ran through her at the thought.

Rick brushed her hair behind her ear, tucking it back with shaking fingers. "You saved us right back," he replied. "We always wanted a family. And we got one."

Her chin wobbled as she tried to hold back another sob. She leaned into her dad’s chest, listening to the familiar strong beat of his heart. That sound had soothed her nightmares when she was little; it soothed her now.

After a long moment, she cleared her throat. "I’m not upset that I’m adopted," she said quietly, and realised it was mostly true. Surprised, yes. Shocked. But not upset at that. "I’m upset that Carl..." Her voice died as her gaze went to her little brother.

Rick understood. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, and together they shifted to sit on the floor right beside Carl’s bed. Carl was still unconscious, but Hershel had hooked up a proper IV, and the transfusion had given his cheeks the faintest hint of colour. He almost looked like he was sleeping, if not for the tension of pain that furrowed his small brow even in unconsciousness.

Gently, she reached out and took Carl’s hand. His fingers were cool and utterly limp in her grasp. She bowed her head over them, fresh tears spilling silently onto the back of his hand. Rick’s arm tightened around her.

"We’re gonna get him through this," her father said quietly, as if stating an absolute fact. "He’s strong. Tougher than me, even."

She nodded, wiping her tears on her sleeve. "He is," she whispered. Carl had a courage in him that sometimes surprised her. He’d been so brave today, and now...

Rick leaned forward and carefully brushed a strand of hair off Carl’s forehead. "You know," he said softly, "when you were holding Carl’s hand out there in the woods, I was thinking how lucky he is to have you as a sister."

A tear slid down her cheek. "I didn’t protect him," she said, voice cracking. "I tried, I promised Mom—" She broke off, guilt flooding her. I promised I’d keep him safe.

Rick immediately turned and pulled her into a fierce hug, nearly knocking the breath out of her. "What happened to Carl is not your fault," he said, each word intense and deliberate. He drew back to look at her, hands firm on her shoulders. "You hear me? It was an accident. A terrible accident. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I’m the one who let him come along."

She shook her head vigorously. "No, Dad—"

"Yes," Rick insisted. "I keep thinking, what if I had sent him back with Lori? But I didn’t, and..." He swallowed hard. "But we can’t change what happened. We just have to be here for him now." He thumbed away a tear on her cheek. "And you were protecting him. You were right there with him, and you’re here with him now. That matters."

She let out a trembling sigh and rested her head against her father’s shoulder. "I love him so much," she said, voice small. "I can’t lose him."

Rick’s arm encircled her, warm and solid. "You won’t," he murmured into her hair. "We won’t. We’re right here, and we’re not going anywhere."

For a while, they sat in silence, holding vigil. The sunlight that filtered through the window was turning golden as evening approached. Hershel and Maggie drifted back into the room quietly, checking Carl’s vitals and adjusting a bandage here or there. They spoke in hushed whispers, respectfully giving the Grimes family their space.

She stayed curled into Rick’s side, and he kept an arm around her. Neither had any intention of letting go. Her mind was exhausted, emotions raw, but a fragile peace was settling over her heart. Yes, the world had shattered today. Sophia was still missing. Carl was grievously hurt. And the truth of her parentage was laid bare under the harshest of circumstances.

Yet here, in this small room on a stranger’s farm, she felt the unshakeable bond of her family stronger than ever. It wasn’t in the blood they shared—because, she now knew, they truly didn’t all share blood. It was in their love, their loyalty, their willingness to give everything for each other. That was something no bullet could ever destroy.

She felt Rick shift, and realised he was looking down at her with concern. "You okay?" he asked gently, brushing a thumb over a bruise on her cheek she hadn’t noticed—likely from when Shane tackled her.

She managed a faint smile and caught his hand, squeezing it. "I will be." And she meant it. Not right this second, not with Carl still lying unconscious. But she had her dad beside her, and she had hope.

Rick nodded, understanding. He kissed the top of her head softly. "Me too."

A soft, wheezing sound came from the bed. Both of them snapped their attention to Carl. He hadn’t woken, but his face twitched, a grimace of pain passing over it as his head lolled to the side. A tiny whine escaped his throat—fragile, but it was a sound.

She and Rick were on their feet in an instant, leaning over Carl. Hershel stepped forward as well, checking Carl’s pulse and pupil response. Carl settled again, whatever agony had pricked him receding as Hershel’s sedatives did their job.

But that brief whimper had been like a spark. Carl was still fighting. He was still here.

She reached down and smoothed his hair, which was sticky with sweat. "We’re here, Carl," she whispered. "We’re right here."

Rick stood at her shoulder, one hand on her back and the other on Carl’s arm. "We’re here, son," he echoed softly.

In that quiet farmhouse bedroom, as the sun dipped low and the first shadows of dusk gathered, they held onto each other. Father and daughter, side by side, watching over the boy they both would give their lives for.

So much had been lost, so much had changed in a single day—in a single heartbeat—but one thing remained unbroken: their family. However fate had assembled it, by blood or by chance, it was theirs. And they would not let it go.

She leaned into her father, and Rick pulled her close, their shoulders supporting each other. Her fingers curled around Carl’s, and she felt a faint answering warmth there. They would stay as long as it took. Together, they would face whatever came next.