It wasn't a prison anymore; it was a small city. There was water and food and teams and clipboards and people she had never even met. There were days when she didn't see Judith or Beth or Rick. There were nights when she was called to help someone sick whose name she hadn't learned.

One night it was a girl. A little younger than Sophia had been when she died. She was feverish and vomiting. Carol worked with another of the women who had been a nurse; they changed sheets and brought fresh water and brought the girl outside into the fresh air, wrapped her in cold sheets. Medicine was scarce and rare and had to be rationed, even in this city they had built.

It wasn't cold out, but the girl shivered. The nurse lady went to see Herschel about some herb thing he had; Carol hadn't wanted to wake him but allowed the nurse would know better.

She sat in the courtyard, looking at the razor-wire topped fences. It was a small one, far from the yard. She held the girl across her lap and sat on a long bench, where people sometimes came to sit and watch others play basketball.

In this city, people could do that. Play basketball, or watch it. Mostly kids, and not all the time. But still was a kind of success.

And there were stars up there, beyond the wire on the fence. Way up in the night Georgia sky. That hadn't changed. It was quieter than it had been and the dark night was soaked with stars. More than she had ever noticed.

She'd been a woman who sat out on the back stoop late at night, looking at stars. With a crying baby to keep from waking Ed. With her face swelling from bruises or tears. With a glass of sweet tea if she had a minute, after cleaning up. After everyone else was in bed.

There were stars and they looked small. But they were actually gigantic, enormous, whole other worlds. And though they were full of fire if you could ever get close enough, they were pretty to look at.

The little girl moaned, chewed at her lips. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Carol dabbed it with a bandanna from her med shift smock.

"What's your name, honey," she said to the girl's closed eyes.

But she didn't answer. Just swallowed and shivered and shook her head.

Carol waited for the nurse lady. Told herself she'd ask the woman's name. Get acquainted, even though that wasn't always worth your time these days. Rubbed the little girl's shoulders, felt the heat radiate off her through the damp sheet. Looked at the stars.

The nurse lady's name was Abby and when she came back with Herschel's herbal stuff, Carol could already feel the girl cooling down and she had become a little more aware, asking Carol questions - "where are we? is it the middle of the night? does anyone know we're here?" - and Carol felt bad for having to make the girl drink down the herbal gunk in a cup of hot water.

Abby held the girl's head up and lifted the cup to her mouth, slowly tilting it to get her to sip it, while she grimaced and frowned and gagged. Carol remembered Sophia throwing up one night after a birthday party at a friend's house, how she held her tight and positioned the silver mixing bowl in her lap and pulled back her daughter's soft, soft hair.

When Abby had given her the whole cup, the girl started crying, but it was the soft crying of defeat. Carol murmured in her ear while Abby wrapped her in a fresh cool sheet: "It's all right, just let it settle, that's right, you're going to be okay. Just wait; the medicine's in you, already starting to work..."

Both women huddled around the girl until they could hear her regular sleeping breaths; then Abby swaddled her up and stood up.

"You take her to sleep," Carol said. "I'll handle the rest of the shift." She patted the walkie-talkie on her hip and nodded at the matching one on Abby's hip. "I'll hand them both off in the morning."

Abby didn't ask if she was sure; just handed off the walkie and slipped inside. Carol turned off the walkie so she didn't drain the battery and then sat for a while in the courtyard. Stars, again. Her clothes were damp from the sheet and the breeze was cool. She took off the smock and draped it over the bench to dry a bit.

"What you doing up?"

Daryl. In the courtyard. Holding a rifle and an apple.

She almost stood up but then he sat beside her, the gun between his knees. She explained about the little girl, whose name she'd never gotten, and how Abby had taken her to bed.

"Who?"

She laughed. "Other person on med duty," she explained.

"Oh." He bit into his apple. Then he looked a little sheepish, like he should have offered her some.

She shook her head. "I've just dealt with vomit, Daryl," she said. "I don't feel that hungry."

He nodded. Kept eating. But he felt unsure, she could tell. They weren't hungry, not anymore. But neither were they overfed like before the turn.

"Dunno how you handle those sick people," he said at last, tossing the core into the brush on the other side of the fenceline. "That shit just annoys me. Freaks me out, too. Little kids crying."

She shrugged. Looked up at the stars. It'd been a while since she'd actually seen him; the little city they inhabited was that big now and their work was constant. She wanted to remind him of the days he'd fed Judith. Of how he'd taught Carl to throw a knife and make an arrow. How he'd cleared cellblocks of walkers and corpses so they could move in more people, especially kids. The council wanted kids; they wanted to give them training so they could be trusted. Adults were harder to handle, though they took in plenty of them, too.

"Always been good at taking care of people, I guess," she said. "Should have been a nurse. Was thinking on it, if I hadn't gotten married. My sister used to say that I was cool under pressure. Everyone else would lose their minds when someone'd get hurt but I'd just be calm."

He looked at her, shook his head. She knew he wanted to say something against Ed but she'd already shut him down on that score long ago. She didn't like to go back to those days. Not with anyone. What was the point?

"Good way to be," he said.

"My sister said that having low blood pressure and heart rate in times of crisis was the mark of a psychopath."

"Bullshit," he said. "Depends on the crisis."

"Well, what did she know," Carol said, brushing off the worn knees of her pants. "And who cares now? Maybe I am a psychopath."

"Maybe you are," Daryl replied, sounding a little like he was smiling.

"I know someone else who's pretty calm under pressure himself," she said, kicking his boot with hers.

He stood up, palmed his rifle. He didn't want to acknowledge compliments; it embarrassed him. He couldn't get over that he was held in high esteem now; he'd never said what he'd been in the other life, but she guessed it wasn't anything to be proud of.

"Well, if you're a psychopath, then you're a very pretty one," he said. "Gotta get back," he added, and then slipped away into the darkness.

The nurse lady Abby became a friend. She was originally from Florida, knew some of Carol's relatives down there. They discussed the Florida relatives as if they might still be alive. It was funny to think of people as always being dead, and it was also tiresome. If they could turn a prison into a city here, then her aunts and cousins in Florida might have done it, too.

The little girl was named Jeannette. She had a sister named Tanae who'd been out on an extended supply run who came back and thanked Carol and Abby both. A small city it might have been, but taking care of sick children warranted a word in person.

Abby. Jeannette. Tanae.

New names. The weather getting warmer, the air getting thicker. Planting for spring. Piglets being born. The creek outside the prison swelling in rain.

Carol out in the courtyard where she'd taken Jeannette that night, counting stars. Looking at the turrets manned by the watch crew. Listening to the banging on the fence, a kind of wind chime in her mind, something you heard and learned to ignore.

"Well, if you're a psychopath, then you're a very pretty one."

It'd been weeks since Daryl has said that. She'd seen him here and there. Never stopped to talk. Never had time.

But she was ashamed to say she thought of it a lot. Often. Almost all the time.

Carol didn't think of herself like that. Pretty: that was a young girl's game. Pretty was for things that hadn't been spoiled, stamped down, worn in and rusted out. And while she was still here, and was proud of surviving, it still felt like yet another loss, the idea of being beautiful.

She didn't think Daryl had much time for anything pretty. She hadn't imagined it to be a word he'd use.

And then there they were, weeks and weeks after they'd talked in the courtyard. Abby had died on a supply run - a car accident, not walkers. Jeannette was often seen bobbling around in the yard, playing with other little kids. Tanae was training to learn medical shift stuff.

And she and Daryl were sitting beside the creek, on the other side of the fence, their feet in the water, waiting until Rick's group made it back with fencing they'd found outside a hardware store. Their job was to clear the area of walkers so the fencing could be set up right away around the creek, keeping it clear of dead animals, and walkers. The water source had to be protected; there was talk of eventually building something permanent.

Daryl wouldn't take his boots off at first. They'd already dragged off the walkers that were rotting near the creek and the grass was wet and soft on her bare feet.

"Feels good in bare feet," she said. "Quieter, too."

"I'm quiet enough," he said. But he took off his boots and stuck his toes into the water. It was hot. Summer high in the sky. She didn't know what month it was, but did it matter? It felt like July. Maybe it was June? Did the name of the month matter?

She heard a branch snap and instantly he froze, looking. She stood up, finger to her lips, motioning that she'd take one side while he took the other. His crossbow was on his lap. All she had was a knife. She wasn't a good enough shot to bother with guns. Plus, he had a gun on his hip. She trusted him to watch her back, and his, too. Daryl was that good. She hated that he had to have that burden; she wondered if he didn't like feeling so much responsibility. But there was probably no one else she'd go out of the fence with. She had felt safe with him from the first.

He was the one who ended up taking the walker down. It only had one working leg, so it wasn't a big deal. But they dragged it toward the tumble of blown-down wood they'd collected so they could burn it with the other walker bodies they'd cleared.

Then, more waiting. Birds flittering through the trees. Sun high and bright. Nothing on the walkie from the crew. Daryl bent over and washed his hands in the creek water. She couldn't resist; with her toe, she tapped his ass and he almost fell into the water.

"Hey!" he yelled.

She laughed. He shook his head at her. Then, when she wasn't looking, he swiped a bunch of water at her.

She screamed and then covered her mouth at how loud the sound carried. She smiled.

He laughed. "Serves you right."

"Jackass," she muttered. Then the walkie squawked and she heard Rick saying they were almost there.

She sat down, put on her boots, acting wounded, while Daryl replied on the walkie. Then she splashed him again, right in the face, just missing the walkie.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelled. "You...!"

He chucked the walkie into the grass and then they were splashing each other like little kids. Soaking wet. Mud everywhere. Her boots were wet, and she'd only buckled one on. He was still barefoot, his feet squelching into mud. She was laughing, wiping mud out of her eyelashes, scrambling to get away from him while also trying to get him back.

Then he slipped and she knocked him over and landed on top of him, his head near the creek bank, his hair flopping into the water. He gasped, like he was hurt, and she pulled back off him. But only a little. She saw how blue his eyes were, his hair out of them for once.

"You're a sneaky lady," he said. His hands clutching at her back stiffened. Then softened. Flattened against her back. His eyes narrowed toward her mouth. Her lips. She quit smiling. They were just inches apart, wet clothes between them. One of her bare feet in the cool grass, the other in its boot, braced in the mud.

She could feel his chest rising and falling, quick breaths, pressing against her.

Right here. They could be doing this. For real.

If there were fencing. If there were no walkers. Right here, this could happen.

But then he looked away, the walkie squawking again, and she jumped to her feet, away from him. Handed him the walkie, which he replied to.

She put on her other boot, squeezed water from her shirt, shook out her hair, retied the scarf that kept it out of her face. She didn't look at him for the rest of the time if she could help it, from the moment the truck arrived with the fencing and they started unrolling it and setting it up, digging post-holes, plotting out for the future.

If there were no med shifts. If there were no watch crews.

Right there, she thought, over and over, avoiding him, yet knowing where he was the entire time they set up the fence around the creek. Every step into the mud and the soft grass, she felt it beat through her heart.

Right there, a man and a woman could be together like God intended.

If he wanted it. If she was brave enough. If she were pretty.

That night, at dinner, she saw him sitting by Beth. Laughing, eating the same shitty rice and beans stew they made all the time. Nothing about dinner time was exciting unless there was booze. And booze was limited and restricted to certain times and certain people. This place was still a prison in that regard, city or no.

She watched him with Beth until she couldn't stand it any longer, and then got up to bring her plate and cup to the wash crew.

That night, she wandered back to the courtyard. It was cloudy; the stars weren't out. She had med shift and should be sleeping in case someone called; it was best to get rest when you could. But she kept seeing Beth and Daryl laughing.

Beth, so pretty. So young. Long hair, smooth face. Lips full. Not thinned out from years of frowning and disappointment. Body probably tight and perky, not lined and sagging from childbirth and long nights.

There was something very sad about it all, this night with no stars. There was something very sad about a grown woman in this life they were stuck with, wishing for the moon, wishing she were pretty. There was something obnoxious about feeling lonely in a virtual city, surrounded by people everywhere who could be a friend. Or maybe more. People did that, in this little fenced-in world. Shared cells. Shared beds. Shared clothes and work crew duties and smiles and a lot more. You could hear the sighing and soft laughing late at night, tacked-up sheets over the bars or no.

It was sad to begrudge people happiness in this world. It was mean and petty. Life was even shorter now; jealousy was a waste of time. A form of disrespect. Soon they'd have babies coming. The city would grow. Become stronger. She needed to find generosity in her now. She could even have another baby. She was a little old, but still. It was still possible.

But why? Just to see it die, too? Ed hadn't touched her since Sophia was born. Told her she made him sick. The feeling being mutual, she'd been relieved. But that didn't mean she still didn't look at herself after a shower, see her body as it was, and wonder if it was all gone. The time of freshness and beauty, all used up and tossed away. Time to settle on practical tasks. Time to pass by the mirror and not stare. Time to work and prove her value.

There wasn't time to be pretty.

But pretty wasn't the only thing of value she had, she thought, standing up and heading toward the wing where Daryl's cell was.

She cupped the flashlight she carried for med shifts so the light wouldn't wake anyone. She tried to walk softly; people slept so brokenly, even here, even now.

His was the only cell without a sheet or a tablecloth tacked over the bars. She was surprised at this, at first, until she thought about it. Who would go into his business, anyway? He was still stand-offish. He was still tight-lipped. And he was known for his skill in taking people out. With fists or weapons, it didn't matter.

For a minute, she hesitated to go closer. She thought for sure he'd be awake. It was hard to imagine Daryl sleeping. Daryl, vulnerable.

But she took another step and saw that he was asleep in the cell, on his stomach. His boots unlaced on the floor, feet bare. Crossbow sticking out a bit from under the bunk.

A pile of rags on the floor that were his clothes. A canteen on a chair. Nothing else.

Her own cell wasn't decorated, either. She didn't share with anyone; she didn't have to, being on the council. But she had candles and her shower kit and books and her sewing things. She had a little table she used as a desk. A notebook for a journal. She wrote down her thoughts about her days; she didn't always star-gaze when she felt bad.

But Daryl's cell was nothing but him. She thought for a moment of leaving, turning back. The idea of him owning nothing frightened her for some reason. Made her feel heavy and burdensome.

She clicked off the flashlight just at the exact moment his eyes opened.

"Carol," he said, lifting up on his elbows. "What's wrong?"