Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

A/N: This is marked A/U for a reason – I played the 'what-if' game, fiddled with Daryl's backstory, and this is what resulted. Though I use some of Daryl's revealed history from later episodes, this runs A/U from the first night after Sophia ran off. Hopefully, y'all manage to enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Warnings: Contains a multitude of 'bad language', canon-typical violence, and probably other things that some might find offensive. Daryl Dixon is the main character, after all, and he might have a soft'n'gooey center, but damn if it ain't covered in gravel and ground glass! If any of this offends, fuck off and find something else to read. Life's too short to get upset by something you've found on the internet – particularly something in a fanfic.

Divergence

Daryl glanced up at the group getting ready to bed down for the night. He could just make out their faces – all grim and stressed and fearful – in the rapidly-fading twilight. Tearing a strip of duct tape off the roll, he quickly finished fixing the lens of a car's tail-light over a powerful halogen flashlight he'd found in the bed of an abandoned pickup truck. The resulting red beam wouldn't screw with his night-vision – which was, in fact, why car's tail lights were red to begin with, or so he'd always assumed. When he was finished, he packed away the other supplies he'd need into a scavenged black backpack of the sort he'd used once upon a very long time ago to haul around school books.

The pack contained a half-dozen bottles of water, a couple of cans of beef stew and fruit cocktail, a small first aid kit that had been in the glove compartment of the same pickup where he'd found the flashlight, a hobo tool (1), and a navy blue fleece throw. Content with his supplies, he turned his attention to his crossbow and its bolts. Once it had been checked over, his hands drifted to the nine-millimeter tucked into the back of his jeans, then to his hunting knife, and lastly to the jackknife in his pocket. 'Bout as ready as possible.

He watched the group for a moment. Carol was leaning heavily on Lori's shoulder. Despite the skin-blistering heat bouncing up off the pavement and parked cars, Daryl shivered, thrown back into the memory of pacing between the house and the start of the driveway, ass-deep in snow, with it still falling. Diana said they'd be back by nine. It's already midnight. Where the hell are they? Radio had said they'd closed US-20 out of Cody as of eight o'clock. And it was midnight with no word.

Forcibly shaking himself out of the flashback, Daryl turned and headed into the forest. Not gonna happen. Not again. Nobody's gonna be stuck wonderin' fer months what happened to that girl. He followed his and Grimes' tracks back to where Sophia's trail had faded. He waited until he was well clear of the interstate before switching on the flashlight, then stepped up his pace. Not even a half-hour later had him reaching the walker they'd butchered to make sure it hadn't been chowing down on the girl.

From there, it was a simple matter of following Grimes' backtrail. His own had faded too much to see – habit had made him step lightly when they'd spotted the walker. It wasn't long before he reached the point where Sophia's trail had disappeared. Beginning with the last tiny impression that came from the heel of her right sneaker, he cast about in concentric circles, taking care that not a single inch of ground was missed by his high-powered flashlight. With full dark on him, the heat of the day had managed to fade some, though the cloying, sticky humidity only increased as the air grew cooler. His ears kept a firm lookout, as did his nose, but the only sounds he heard were crickets and cicadas and mosquitoes overlaid with frogs and the far-off yipping howl of a coyote. His nose picked up the normal scents of the forest, threaded through with the foul stench of decay he'd learned to live with – it would only alarm him if the stench grew strong enough to indicate a walker was nearby.

Don't care how long this takes. Ain't gonna be left wonderin'. Not again. An' if she's been bit, I'll take care of it. But we ain't gonna be left wonderin'. No way in hell.

A satisfied smirk appeared on his face when, after nearly three hours of meticulous scanning, he spotted a single oak leaf crushed in the worn waffle-tread pattern from the girl's sneakers. A few feet further on and he found a downed tree trunk, covered in springy moss, that bore a fading impression of both feet and her right hand.

A thrum of satisfaction set in. Was right ta head out again. Sign woulda blown off or been gone by mornin'. He pressed onwards, idly swatting a mosquito that landed on his exposed bicep before it could bite him.

A scrap of blue and a couple of brown-blonde hairs caught at the edge of a blackberry briar were his next indication that he was on the right track. A couple of feet later and he found a mass of her prints. Scanning the bushes, he found a distinct lack of berries within arm's reach of a twelve year-old girl. Good girl, he thought. Beyond the bushes, her tracks became more visible again. He was about to follow them when a sudden rustling had him freeze.

The flashlight beam swung to the source of the noise without any input from Daryl's brain. A small red fox poked her head out from under the briar, let out a low growl in Daryl's direction, then quickly disappeared. Don't worry, ma'am, he thought at her retreating tail. I ain't after you. He took a slow, measured breath, then fished out a bottle of water. Taking a couple of swallows, he continued with his self-appointed task.

He lost the trail again when the creek swung around. It took him almost until dawn before he found it again – the girl had splashed through the brook for nearly a mile and a half upstream before exiting on the far side. Dunno if she did it knowin' it'd help keep them walkin' pussbags offa her if they track by smell, but if she did she's the smartest one of the whole damn group so far.

The sun was just breaking over the horizon when he emerged from the forest and into a small overgrown clearing surrounding a ramshackle house that had been falling apart for far longer than the world around it. Daryl could hear the slow, shambling shuffle inherent to walkers coming from the far side and ruthlessly suppressed the urge to shout for Sophia.

Silently, he slipped around the house's walls and spotted the walker – he'd once been an older man, dressed in grimy bibs and a tattered flannel that revealed numerous bites on both arms – halfway between the house's back door and a small building that Daryl was pretty sure was an outhouse. He brought his crossbow up and fired. The bolt went through the walker's temple and it slowly collapsed to the ground.

Daryl strode over and retrieved his bolt, cleaning it off with a handful of dewy grass. He reset the crossbow with the same bolt, then cautiously made his way into the house. His ears were on high-alert in the gloom within the building, but no alarming noises filtered through the cicadas and crickets and morning birds. Farmer John musta been the only one here.

He shouldered his bow. "Sophia!" he called out, using a strong whisper that was sure to carry. He waited a moment before repeating it.

Some faint rustling, followed by a low whimper came from somewhere off to his left. Daryl's pulse picked up and he followed his ears. "Sophia! It's Daryl. You here, girl? Yer ma's worried sick abou'cha."

Another small whimper, then a low groan – not at all like the groan of a walker, more like the groan of someone with stiff muscles – sounded. Daryl cautiously approached a small door set into the wall of the grungy kitchen. "Sophia," he said, using a low tone of voice, "that'd better be you and not one of them damn pussbags."

"Daryl?" Sophia's voice reverberated slightly through the thin door.

Relief flooded through Daryl and he re-sheathed his knife – he wasn't sure when he'd grabbed it. He reached out with his other hand and opened the pantry door. Sophia blinked blearily up at him from a nest of ratty blankets tucked under the bottom shelf. "Is Mom with you?"

Daryl shook his head. "No. She's back with the others. Had ta track you all fuckin' night ta find ya. Get on outta there."

Sophia began to crawl out, then paused and looked up at him with a panicked expression. "The back yard! There's a walker out there!" she almost shouted.

"I got that sumbitch," Daryl assured her. "Now, c'm on. Let's get on back ta the others."

The girl clumsily extricated herself from her nest and winced as she stood upright. She shook first one foot, then the other, grimacing as she did so. "Pins'n'needles?" Daryl asked.

Sophia nodded. "Yeah."

"Small price ta pay for a safe sleepin' spot," he said, shrugging out of the backpack. He sat his loaded crossbow on the rickety kitchen table and dug through it. "Hungry?"

"Yeah," this time the word was a bit more enthusiastic.

He handed her a pop-top can of fruit cocktail. "Best eat quick. Din't tell the others I wasn't stickin' 'round camp all night. They're gonna be wonderin' where I got to pretty soon."

The girl nodded, popped the top off the can, and chugged the syrup off the fruit in one go. Daryl followed her example with the second can of cocktail, then used his jackknife to spear chunks of pear out of the can. "Don't ya like peaches?" Sophia asked, noticing that he was carefully picking his way around them with his knife.

Daryl shook his head. "Nope," he said. "Know how a peach is fuzzy?"

"Yeah."

"Well, the damn things taste fuzzy ta me. Ain't never liked 'em any." He speared a grape and a half a maraschino cherry with his knife.

A tiny smile flitted across Sophia's face, partially obscured by the can. She wasn't bothering with picking out pieces – she was simply letting the chunks fall into her mouth. Daryl spotted the smirk out of the corner of his eyes. "What?" he asked.

"Nothin'," Sophia said, the smile disappearing at the slight irritation in Daryl's voice.

"C'm on – what was the smirk?" He picked out another couple of pear chunks. He made sure to try to keep his voice from reflecting anything other than curiosity. Girl's been through enough a'ready. Sure havin' a pa like Ed weren't no picnic, an' gettin' chased like that yesterday pro'ly sucked, too.

"Nothin'," Sophia repeated, focusing on the rapidly-dwindling contents of her can.

"Weren't nothin', else ya wouldn't be smilin'," Daryl didn't have to reach too far to find the old teasing tone he hadn't used in close to six years, and it surprised him a little.

"Just…" Sophia glanced at Daryl and saw the faintest of smiles tugging at the corners of his face. "Well – they're gonna hafta revoke your Georgia citizenship, you not likin' peaches an' all."

The comment startled a laugh out of Daryl. "No nevermind on that, girl – I done revoked it m'own damn self. Ain't lived in Georgia since I turned eighteen."

Sophia quickly polished off the last of her breakfast and sat the empty can atop the empty tin of kippers she'd had for supper the night before. "You live in Wyoming now, doncha?" the question was quiet, but it was said with a tone of certainty that meant she already knew the answer.

"Now how'd ya know that?" Daryl asked, poking through his remaining fruit to see if anything edible remained. When he saw that it only contained peach chunks, he handed it to Sophia.

The girl ate a mouthful of the fruit before answering. "Your truck – it had Wyoming plates on it. I know everyone else either didn't notice, or thought ya picked it up after things started comin' apart, 'cause ya still got a Georgia accent."

Definitely the smartest damn one of the bunch, he thought. "Fair enough," he said aloud. He waited until she'd finished wolfing down the rest of his own breakfast, and then asked, "You ready ta head on back?" as she tossed his can to lie with hers in the rubbish bin.

Sophia nodded – the pins'n'needles had faded. "Yeah," she said. Daryl returned the backpack to his shoulders, then picked up his crossbow. Just before they were about to leave, the girl asked, "What I can't figure is what you were doin' back in Georgia. Were ya on vacation? Visitin' family?" This question wasn't as quiet as the last one, and it told Daryl that she was starting to realize he wasn't about to start thumping on her for running off.

Daryl shrugged and said, "Sorta. Merle just got outta prison 'bout two weeks before the shit hit the fan. I come down ta try an' talk 'im inta goin' back ta Wyomin' with me. He wouldn't even listen any, though. So I agreed ta stick around a coupla weeks, just 'til he found a place ta stay. Was gonna head back home the day the emergency news broadcasts started up." He opened the door and poked his head out to check for walkers. Seeing the coast was clear, he motioned for Sophia to go first.

Sophia hesitantly stepped outside and looked around. She let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding on seeing the overgrown yard was walker-free. "An' ya got stuck here," she said as Daryl joined her on the rickety porch.

"Yeah," Daryl agreed. "I got stuck here." He took a quick look around and double-checked that the area was free of walkers, then said, "Stick close, girl. An' if we come 'cross any walkers, keep yer trap shut. Might be able ta sneak around 'em."

Back at the disabled RV, the rest of the group was beginning to wake up and get ready for the day. Daryl's disappearance went unnoticed until most of the way through breakfast. Once it became clear that he was nowhere to be found, tempers – already on a hair trigger from the general circumstances of the world in which they now lived – flared white-hot.

"That damn good-for-nothing rednecked hick!" Shane ranted. "Just takin' off in the middle of the night! Thought you told him you wanted him to help find Sophia?" he shouted, leveling a look at Rick that said this is what you get for thinking you can lead.

"The motorcycle is still here," Rick calmly pointed out, "I'm sure he'll be back soon." Privately, he thought it unlikely – the man's weapons were all missing. "Yeah, we'll miss his tracking ability, but I'm sure the rest of us can compensate for its loss. Now, who's got the maps? We need to stop wasting daylight and see if we can't find Sophia."

After figuring out where they were on the map, where Daryl had last spotted the girl's tracks, they agreed to begin their search by following the creek. And like most people when out in the forest and coming across a running body of water, they followed it downstream.

Daryl consulted his mental map of the area – yeah, sure, it'd been nearly nineteen years since he'd last been to this part of Georgia, but the route the interstate took hadn't changed in all that time. Instead of following the backtrail, he decided to shortcut through the woods directly to the road. Can make better time on the road than we can hoppin' logs an' climbin' hollers. After about ten minutes of picking a relatively clear way through the forest, he asked, "How come ya din't just run back ta the group? I saw yer tracks outta that pool by the root-cave. You was headin' the right way, then ya veered off."

"Saw a walker," Sophia replied. "It had its back to me, but I could tell it was eatin' somethin'. I hoped it'd be too busy with whatever it already had to come after me."

Ah – that'd be the one me an' Grimes found. "Good job on walkin' through the creek, then. Dunno if them pussbags c'n hunt by scent or not, but if they can, ya did good. Didja know the creek'd wash yer scent away by walkin' in it?"

Sophia shook her head and wished she hadn't dropped Daisy – her doll – the day before. "Not at the time, but now ya said so, I remember seein' somthin' about that on one of the videos they showed in my science class."

"How come ya were in the creek then?" Daryl asked, glancing sideways at the girl. She was constantly twisting her head around, looking at the forest, and startling slightly at every little noise, with her arms wrapped around her chest like she was hugging herself. Day she had yesterday, though, ain't nobody can blame her for bein' a mite twitchy.

"My feet hurt," Sophia explained. "The water was cold – it made them feel better. But now my sneakers are all squishy inside."

"Ya din't take 'em off when ya were sleepin'?"

"Wanted to be able to run if I had to," Sophia said, leveling a look at Daryl that clearly said do you think I'm an idiot? and hinted at the teenager she was about to become.

"Fair enough," Daryl replied.

They walked on in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Sophia asked, "So… What did ya do in Wyoming? I know they got a buncha natural gas wells out there – learned it in geography. Or didja work on a ranch?"

"Neither one," Daryl replied, pausing to dig a water bottle out of the pack. He twisted off the cap and handed it to the girl as they stood next to a ginormous old oak tree. She took a quick swallow, and leveled a questioning look at him. "Worked in Yellastone Park," Daryl grudgingly admitted, handing her the bottle cap and pulling a second bottle out for himself. "Park ranger there for the last fourteen years."

Sophia took another drink, then screwed the cap back on the bottle. "That how come ya know so much 'bout the forest an' huntin' an' stuff?"

Daryl tossed his half-empty bottle back in the pack and motioned for her to follow him as they headed back to the road. "Nah. All that started 'cause I got lost in a place like this – Georgia forest, I mean – back when I was a kid."

"How old were you?"

"Eight," Daryl replied. "Lost on m'own for nine days. Lived offa raspberries an' learnt the hard way what poison oak looks like. Eventually found my way back home. First thing I did was head ta the kitchen an' make m'self a sandwich." That had been the last time Merle'd been in juvy; when he turned eighteen and was released, he immediately joined the army.

"S'pose I can see why ya wanted to learn 'bout it all, then," Sophia said, sidestepping a moss-covered root.

They continued on without any further conversation for about another hour. The underbrush took a sudden upswing, and Sophia spotted a satisfied smile lurking around Daryl's eyes. Though she'd been scared of the Dixon brothers back when they'd first shown up at the quarry camp, neither one had bothered her any. Merle had preferred making rude comments to the women, and Daryl hadn't interacted with anyone much aside from Merle – he'd just take off into the woods every couple of days and come back with meat, or fish, or mushrooms, or an entire backpack full of wild carrots, onions, and other fresh veggies. They had been loud… Well, Merle had been loud. But neither of them had ever laid a hand on anyone at the quarry. She'd also seen them both give her dad dirty looks that day Mom had shown up with a split lip – Mom had accidentally dropped the last bottle of beer, making the contents foam out all over the floor of their tent. She'd decided long before they'd left the quarry behind that though they weren't good li'l church-mice like Mom, they weren't really scary. Not like how Dad could be scary.

Now, having been found by Daryl when she'd been so horribly, horribly lost, she was finding that her assessment was correct – Daryl might not be a church-mouse, but he wasn't a bad guy. She looked at that eye-smirk once more. "What is it?" she asked.

"Road can't be too far from here. See all the bushes? Means this part o'the forest's gettin' more light." He began looking for a relatively easy path through the brush.

It took them a solid twenty minutes to fight their way through the tangle of vines and bushes that blocked the last few yards. Emerging into the bright noontime sunlight glittering off of the glass and finish of the vehicles blocking the interstate, they both took a moment to stare. "Think this is the same damn jam," Daryl muttered, then looked in the direction the cars had been heading. Sophia twisted her head to look, too, and spotted a little green sign up ahead. It was a mile-marker, and it indicated they were about five miles from where the RV had broken down yesterday.

Daryl stifled a yawn, then sighed. Sophia chewed on her lip for a moment, then said, "You gotta be tired – you was up before any of us yesterday, an' ya spent all night lookin' for me. Sorry 'bout that, by the way. I really tried ta get back to the group."

Daryl shook his head and said, "Don't you worry none about it. One of the ironclad rules of life's that shit happens. Yesterday was just one o'them times. Important thing's that I found ya. But you ain't wrong – I'm damn near beat. An' we ain't gonna be makin' as good of time as I wanted, not across all this." He gestured to the miles-long traffic jam.

"I didn't sleep good, neither," Sophia said, her eyes drifting to a white semi truck that was stopped along the shoulder along the median. The familiar blue font of 'WalMart' stood out starkly against both the truck and its trailer. "A nap might be a good idea for both of us." She began picking her way through the cars to the parked Freightliner.

"Hold up, girl," Daryl hurried after her. He caught up to her next to an '84 Suburban with blood smearing what was left of its windows. "I think a nap'd be a good idea, but it ain't like we got nobody to stand watch."

Sophia grinned at him. "Won't need none."

"Huh?"

She pointed to the WalMart truck. It had a sleeper cab, just like Dad's. "If it's unlocked, we can sleep there." She didn't mention that it'd need to be free of anything dead, too. She figured that went without saying in this new world of theirs. "Dad was a driver. Used ta take me out with him durin' the summers sometimes."

Daryl looked at the truck and scratched the back of his neck. The truck was tall enough that any walkers that might happen by wouldn't be able to just glance in and see them. Kid's definitely got a better head on her shoulders than anyone else in this damn group. He shrugged. "Won't hurt nothin' ta check it out, I s'pose."

The Freightliner was unlocked – in fact, its keys were still in the ignition – and the cab was clean and neat. A small grocery bag hung from the passenger chair's armrest, half full of soda bottles and fast-food wrappers, with a fluorescent orange vest hanging off the back of the seat itself. Behind the seats, there was a column of cabinets on either side, then a set of bunk beds. The lower bed was all made up with sheets, pillows, and blankets, but the upper bunk was only covered in a faded green sheet.

A steady knocking had Daryl reaching over and opening the passenger side door. Sophia climbed up and grinned at him. "What?" he asked.

"It's real hot in here," she said. "But, if the batteries're still charged, we might be able to have some AC, too."

"Can't risk runnin' the motor," Daryl said, shaking his head. "Be loud 'nough ta draw any walkers within earshot."

"No – this one's got an APU. It's kinda like an air conditioner. It hardly makes any noise at all," Sophia said – she'd seen the black mesh grate that the truck had instead of a passenger-side sidebox as she had climbed up the passenger steps.

"Well, hell," Daryl flopped onto the lower bunk and began unlacing his boots. He gestured absently to the dash. "Do what ya gotta." Hard ta believe Fuckwit Ed an' Rabbit Carol are her folks. Maybe Carol jumped the fence? Sophia sure don't look much like neither of them… He brushed the thought aside and focused on freeing his feet from his boots.

Sophia maneuvered around the gearshift lever and settled herself on the driver's seat. She twisted the key to the 'aux' setting and grinned as the radio lit up and static poured from the speakers. She quickly turned the radio off, then slipped back to the bunk area and peered around Daryl. "Couldja reach back and twist that temp-knob to the cold setting? And turn the fan on, too."

Daryl looked over his shoulder and saw a small stack of controls in the corner of the bunk behind the driver's seat. He did so, then looked at Sophia. "That it?"

"Should be. This is just like Dad's truck, 'sept his was blue. It takes a minute to kick on." Even as she was finishing up explaining, a low hum started up from underneath the passenger side of the bunk. Air began cycling through the rear vents, hotter than the air outside at first, but rapidly cooling down. Sophia toed out of her wet sneakers, then climbed over Daryl and into the upper bunk. There weren't any blankets, but a black duffle bag, half-full of dirty clothes, sat at one end. Sophia snagged it to use for a pillow.

"You gonna be alright up there?" Daryl asked, shrugging out of the backpack. He sat it on the passenger seat and locked both doors, then sat his crossbow on top of it.

"Yeah," Sophia replied. "You might wanna check the cabinets – under the bunk, too. Might be something we can use."

Definitely the smartest damn one of the bunch, Daryl thought, examining the bed he'd been sitting on. A small latch held it closed. He released it, then lifted the bed. Pneumatic cylinders helped in getting the damn heavy thing upright. The space under the bed was crammed with tools on one end, the black box of the AC unit on the other, and the middle space was packed with an empty canvas suitcase and half a flat of Red Bull. Wrinkling his nose at the Red Bull, Daryl pushed the bed back to its normal position. "Nothin' underneath that we can use right now. When we leave, though, 'mind me ta grab the crowbar." A sturdy pry-bar made a formidable weapon against walkers.

Sophia scooted to the edge of the bed and began poking around in one of the cupboards. "This one's fulla clothes. Might be somethin' that'll fit ya," she said, then slid across to examine the upper cabinet on the passenger side.

Daryl ducked under the still-open door and rifled through the clothes. There wasn't much worth taking – it was mostly t-shirts and jeans, all of which were several sizes too big for him. He did grab the unopened package of socks, though. It didn't matter that they were for the next size-group larger than he wore – clean socks were clean socks, and all of his had holes in them. He shut the door, then bypassed the next door down – it was a glass-fronted mini-fridge, and he could see mold growing within. No sense subjectin' ourselves ta the stink. Underneath the fridge was a cupboard holding a couple of pairs of boots, a pair of flip-flops, and a blue backpack similar to the black one he'd been carrying. He pulled out the pack and rifled through it. It contained a rolled-up towel, a shaving kit, two combs, and a bottle of three-in-one that smelled a bit like sawdust and pine. He glanced up at Sophia as he closed the cabinet, setting the pack on the driver's seat with his crossbow. "Anything good?"

"Lotta DVDs," Sophia replied, closing the door. The vast majority of the movies featured photos of naked women on the covers. "If this guy carried any food with him, then he must've kept it there," she pointed to the one unexplored cupboard remaining.

Daryl opened it up and they were rewarded with half a case of bottled water, several cans of off-brand ravioli, soups, and fruit, and a half-eaten bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Daryl split the find equally between both backpacks, then picked up one of Sophia's sneakers. It was still wet enough inside to squelch when he flexed the sole. "These're damn near wore out, girl."

"I know, but Dad said they had to last me until school started up again in the fall. They're getting too small for me, too. Rubbin' blisters into my heels and between my toes."

The distant sound of a church bell interrupted them. After a moment, Sophia said, "Think that means someone else is still alive?"

Daryl shrugged. "Could be. Hope it keeps up, though. That noise's loud enough ta draw most of the walkers in the area to where it's at, an' they won't be botherin' us none." He sat Sophia's sneaker back on the floor, then stepped next to the bunks. "Lemme see these blisters of yours," he said.

Sophia peeled off her pink socks and tossed them towards her sneakers. One landed on the dashboard, and the other landed on the gearshift. Daryl winced at the condition of Sophia's feet. Both of her heels had blisters the size of silver dollars, with similarly-sized blisters on the balls of her feet. The skin between her two smallest toes on her right foot was irritated and pink, and the same place on her left sported another blister. "Damn, girl – how come ya didn't say nothin'?"

Sophia shrugged. "What couldja have done about it?" she asked.

Daryl was forced to admit she had a point – short of carrying her, there hadn't been much that he could have done. But we ain't walkin' nowhere for at least a coupla hours. He retrieved the blue backpack and rifled through the shaving kit it contained. Retrieving a cheap plastic safety-razor and a tube of generic clotrimazole (2), he then got the first-aid kit out of the pack he'd brought with him. He used his jackknife to pop apart the plastic razor, then used an alcohol wipe to sterilize the blade. "Sit still, 'Phia," he said. "Promise this won't hurt none."

"There's a box of Kleenex," the girl volunteered, pointing to the cabinet where she'd found the movies.

"Thanks," Daryl said, retrieving the mostly-empty box from its place.

Using the razor, he carefully sliced the blisters on Sophia's feet open and let the fluids drain out into the tissues. Once that was finished, he slathered both of her feet with the anti-fungal cream, and then pulled a pair of the laughably-oversized new socks on. "Dunno what mighta been growin' in the creek," he explained, seeing the girl's curiosity about the cream. "Woulda rather used Neosporin, but we don't got any."

"It feels squishy, but not in a bad way," Sophia said, wriggling her toes inside the socks.

"An' when we get goin' again, you're gonna leave them damn too-small sneakers b'hind," Daryl said. "Don't care if I gotta carry ya for a spell. Shoes what don't fit are worse than no shoes at all."

He gathered up the things he'd used, putting away what was still usable and tossing the rest in the garbage bag on the passenger seat armrest. Sophia amused herself for a bit by seeing how far up she could pull the socks. The heels fit nicely over her calves, and the tops could have pulled all the way up to her underwear, if her capris hadn't been in the way. Daryl ignored her and flopped on the lower bunk. "You want one of these pillows or a blanket?"

"Nah," Sophia replied, smushing the duffle into a better shape. "I'm good."

The air from the vents was starting to cool the cab down, and Daryl stretched out and closed his eyes. He was asleep within moments.

Sophia tried to sleep. She was tired and her feet were finally starting to feel better now, but all she could do was stare at the ceiling. Sighing, she tried lying on her stomach, but that didn't work either. After about ten minutes, she gave up and lightly climbed down. Daryl was snoring softly and she grinned at the faint whistling noise. She moved the new pack to sit on the floor in front of the passenger seat and settled herself behind the steering wheel. She smiled at a memory from the beginning of summer – Dad had taken her with him on a run to Houston. They'd gotten there early, and his truck had been unloaded almost immediately. While waiting for his next load, Dad had taken her to a truck stop that had been all but deserted and had let her drive the big rig around the lot for a little while. "Whacha say, Sofa," he'd asked, the nickname enough to tell Sophia that he was in a really great mood, "you gonna get yer permit when ya turn twenty-one an' co-drive wi' yer ol' man?" She'd agreed, of course, not wanting the good mood to die. It had, though, right about the same time they'd gotten back to Palmetto.

Wonder why Dad always got in a sour mood any time he an' Mom were together? She sighed. Not like it matters any more, now does it? I really miss you, Dad. Even when you were in a bad mood or gone on a trip… She sighed again and forcibly turned her attention to something – anything – else. She noticed a thick manila envelope on the dash and picked it up. I bet it's the bills for whatever this guy had been haulin'. Wonder if there's anything good? She pulled a thick stack of print-outs from the envelope and began reading. Back-to-school stuff already? It's barely June! Lemme see, there's a buncha baby stuff, too. Ah – clothing. Shoes! Maybe there's a pair of shoes that'll fit me. Batteries might be worth checking out. Laundry soap. Fireplace matches! Might want to take some of those, too. I know the group's gettin' low on matches an' lighters.

Once she'd read through the papers, she returned them to the envelope, then climbed back into the upper bunk. She'd spotted a book in among the DVDs and hoped it would be something that didn't feature naked boobs. It wound up being a western by an author she didn't recognize. By the end of chapter two, she realized she was reading the book that they'd made Dad's favorite John Wayne movie from. She was asleep before she could finish chapter three.

Daryl pulled his parka tighter around himself and squinted through the snow. It was falling thick enough that he could barely see the porch light on the house from the corner of the garage. Diana, where the fuck are ya? he thought. You got Jo with ya, too, an' y'all damn well know better than ta make me worry like this. The snow just fell onwards, piling up in drifts that were well over his head. His boots slipped on a hidden patch of ice and as he picked himself up, he saw the Cherokee half-buried under melting snow. Its front end was crumpled around a lodgepole pine and the roof was caved in flush to the seats within. Strong arms held him back. "Lemme go!" he shouted. "Damn it, Mike! 'At's Dian's Jeep! Lemme the fuck go!"

Mike just held on tighter. "No, Dix, you don't need to be seein' what's left," he said, not letting go.

Daryl gave a mighty lurch and wrenched free of the sheriff's grip. "Diana!" he shouted. "Jolene!" Stumbling over rocks and ice and exposed roots, he hurried to the months-old wreck. He peered through the thin slip of space where windows used to reside and reeled back at the scent of human decay.

Diana and Jolene reached out with hungry hands and pulled him into the shadows within the wrecked Jeep.

Daryl woke with a shuddering jerk, his pulse hammering in his ears. Once he managed to get his breathing back under control, he let out a quiet, "Fuck." As if the nightmares weren't bad enough before them fuckin' dead cannibals started roamin' the streets.

"Who's Diana?" Sophia whispered. "Jolene?"

Daryl swung his feet off the bunk and sat there, scrubbing a hand across his face in lieu of answering. "I wake ya up?" he asked, his voice choked with gravel.

"Yeah," Sophia admitted, still whispering. "I don't mind, though. Sounded like a bad dream." Her voice was laced through with sympathy – she'd had her own nightmares since the world had started falling down around them. "Was about ta climb down an' wake you up when ya woke up on your own."

Daryl looked out the windows. The shadows indicated they'd slept about two hours or so. It'll hafta do. "You ready ta get back ta yer ma?"

Sophia climbed down and stood between Daryl's feet. "Yeah," she said. "But you didn't answer me – who's Diana an' Jolene?"

Daryl knew that even though Sophia was only twelve, that particular expression on a woman's face meant she wasn't about to be deterred from her line of questioning. He sighed and dug his wallet out of the inside pocket of his vest. He flipped it open to the plastic-covered photographs and held it out to Sophia.

Sophia gingerly took the wallet. The photo it was open to showed Daryl wearing a blue-and-black checkered flannel shirt, standing next to a pretty blonde woman wearing a yellow sundress, with a girl of about five or six – wearing a dress that matched her mom's – between them. "Diana was m'wife," Daryl said. "Jo was our li'l girl. They died in a car wreck 'bout five an' a half years ago. Jo woulda been about yer age," he finished in a tight voice.

Sophia looked at the photo for a solid minute, then carefully folded the wallet closed and handed it back to him. "What happened? Was it a drunk driver?"

Daryl shook his head and returned the wallet to his vest pocket. "Nah," he said. "They was doin' some Christmas shoppin' in Cody an' one hellacious winter storm blew in. Closest the cops could figure was that Dian' hit a patch of black ice an' went through a gap in a guard-rail – someone else'd crashed through that same spot 'bout a week earlier. Din't find out what happened 'til the spring melt, though. Was nearly th' end of April afore I found out what'd happened ta them."

To Daryl's surprise, Sophia wrapped her skinny arms around his shoulders and gave him a hug that damn near choked the stuffing out of him. "Sorry," she said.

Daryl didn't know if she was apologizing for what had happened or for asking in the first place; he didn't think it mattered. He patted her back, only a little awkwardly, and simply said, "Thanks."

When Sophia let him go, she stepped back until the backs of her legs hit the gearshift, and said, "Let's find me a pair of shoes an' get back to the group, yeah?" She shoved his boots over with her sock-clad feet.

Daryl swallowed hard past the lump in his throat that showed up any time he talked about his lost girls, and quickly pulled his boots on. "Sounds like a plan to me," he said, grateful for the change of subject.

"'Cordin' to the papers, the truck was haulin' a buncha stuff that might be useful," Sophia commented as he laced his boots. "Matches and batteries… and shoes."

"Convenient," Daryl said, tying his left boot. The right was already done. "Hope they got somethin' that'll fit ya. Should try an' hurry back before the rest of the group gets anxious ta leave."

"Think they'd leave without us?" Sophia asked, moving to sit on the driver's seat. She looked hard out the windows and used the mirrors to see if any walkers were about.

"Nah, I don't think they would, but Grimes an' Walsh were in a hell-fired hurry ta get to Fort Benning," Daryl replied, retrieving the flashlight from the backpack and slinging his bow over his shoulder. "Coast clear?"

Sophia nodded. "Far as I can tell," she said, opening the door and climbing down.

It took about ten minutes to get the trailer's door open – it'd been locked, but among the tools the driver had on hand were a pair of bolt-cutters. An hour later, and Sophia had herself a brand-new pair of hiking boots, two pairs of jeans, a package of underwear, and four t-shirts. Daryl had managed to locate the box of fireplace matches and had used his hunting knife to cut them all down to normal match length, packing as many as would fit into a pair of the cylindrical boxes they came in. The batteries, however, were all odd sizes meant for things like hearing aids and watches, and so were generally useless. Before they set out again, they took the time to repack both backpacks. Sophia took the blue one, and in addition to her clothes, carried one of the cylinders of matches and about one-third of their found food. Daryl had the shaving kit, first-aid kit, and the rest of the food, as well as the flashlight and fleece throw blanket.

"Ready?" Sophia asked, adjusting the straps on her pack.

"Are you?" Daryl countered.

She grinned at him. "Yeah."

"'Kay," he replied, then handed her the crowbar. "You best be watchin' my back, ya hear?"

She took the iron pry-bar. It was heavier than it looked, but she figured she could still handle it. "If you watch mine," she said.

Daryl gave her a real, honest smile. She returned it, and they started on their way.

After the best part of three hours of scrambling over and around stalled cars, many of which would have been candidates for a wrecker service if such things had still existed, Daryl glanced at the lowering sun. The last mile-post they'd passed had indicated the group was still a solid two miles away, and the last of his nap had worn off. He could tell Sophia wasn't doing so well, either – she was limping on both feet, not badly, but enough that he knew those blisters weren't doing her any favors, and he had seen her stifle a yawn a half-dozen times in the last half-hour.

"Hey, hold up," he said as the girl made to climb over where an empty horse-trailer was hitched to a station wagon. A single hoofprint in a tarry patch on the road told Daryl how the occupants of the wagon had escaped the jam.

"What's up?" Sophia asked, shifting slightly from foot to foot.

"I don't think we're gonna make it back by dark, an' I dunno 'bout you, but I know I don't wanna be tryin' ta make this trek at night." He gestured to the mass of vehicles.

"So… Where're we gonna sleep?" she asked.

Daryl shrugged. "If it was up ta you, where would ya go?" he asked, scratching a mosquito bite on the back of his neck.

Sophia frowned, then chewed on her lip. "Hmm…" She shrugged off her backpack and handed it and the crowbar to Daryl. "Hold these for a minute, will ya?" Daryl took them, but sat them at his feet. He wanted his crossbow readily available, just in case. He watched in silence as Sophia carefully climbed atop the station wagon, then up onto the horse trailer. She shaded her eyes and turned in a full circle. "There's a trailer just ahead. Couldn't see it from the ground, cause that Ryder van's in the way."

"What sorta trailer?" Daryl asked.

"The camper kind. Like Dale's RV, but the kind that's hauled b'hind a pickup."

"What if it's got a body in it?"

Sophia dropped her hand and stared down at Daryl. "You think it might?"

He shrugged and spat at the ground. "Never hurts ta have a backup plan, Sophie."

She echoed his shrug, then returned to scanning the area. "Well, there's another big truck on the other side of the camper," she said. "It ain't got a trailer, but is a sleeper cab like the one from earlier."

Daryl gave a nod. "Okay. Sounds good enough to me. Come on down from there."

Sophia sat down, scooted to the edge of the trailer, and said, "Catch me?"

"You got up there on yer own. You can get down on yer own."

Sophia sighed, rolled her eyes, then turned onto her stomach and blindly felt with her feet for the 'windows' along the side of the trailer. A couple of minutes later, she was back on solid ground and pulling her backpack back on. They'd just started heading towards the camper when a distant gunshot halted them in their tracks.

"What d'ya think happened?" Sophia asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Ain't none of the group's guns," Daryl reassured her. "Sounded like a thirty-aught-six huntin' rifle. Ain't nobody in our group's got one of them. Pro'ly some dumbass takin' potshots at a walker, not realizin' the shot's gonna call in any in hearin' range."

They reached the camper just as the sun touched the western horizon. Its door was locked. Daryl didn't want to just break it open – the entire point behind choosing it as their place to sleep was the ability to lock the walkers out if the need arose – and so circled it twice, peering in through the windows. "Don't think nobody's home, so-ta-speak," he said.

"How're we gonna get in?"

"That's the easy part," Daryl replied, then climbed up onto the pickup's bed, then atop the trailer, much in the same way that Sophia had scaled the horse-trailer. "Toss me the crowbar, then get up here."

She climbed up onto the bed of the Ford pickup, then threw the crowbar at Daryl. He nearly fumbled it, but managed to catch it before it slid off the camper. He then gave Sophia a hand in climbing up onto the roof – it was taller and smoother than the horse-trailer had been. Daryl used the crowbar to pry open the bathroom skylight, then used it to pop the screen and fan out of the way. "Think you can fit through there?" he asked.

Sophia looked at the small square and nodded. "Easy-peasy."

Daryl lowered her through the opening, then handed the crowbar down to her. Just in case. It was a needless precaution, however, and in just a moment, Sophia had the door open.

The camper was a little newer than Dale's RV, but was also somewhat messier. From the stuff scattered about, Daryl was pretty sure the thing had been owned by a woman – there was no sign whatsoever of a man's presence. The camper's batteries were proven to have lost their charge when he tried turning on a light, but the stove still worked. He used a small pan from the cupboard to heat a couple cans of ravioli, then dug out a pair of bowls and some silverware. Sophia cleaned off part of the table while he was 'cooking', and had their dishes laid out with a pair of bottles of water.

Despite how hot and sweaty the day had been – save for those blissful hours within the air-conditioned Freightliner – the hot food tasted heavenly. The exertions of the past two days soon surfaced in Sophia. The girl nearly face-planted into her bowl before she was done eating.

The camper had a small bunk housed in the area that extended over the bed of the pickup truck, and Sophia tiredly climbed up into it. She didn't bother with using any of the blankets it contained, and was asleep before Daryl could blink. Daryl himself was definitely feeling the need for another nap, but went around the camper and closed all the blinds, making sure the windows couldn't be forced open, and ensuring the door was securely latched and locked. Once that was done, he borrowed the camper's bathroom, then headed to the bed at the rear.

Oddly, it wasn't as comfortable as the twin had been in the Freightliner, but was still better than sleeping on the ground. Disturbing dreams plagued him for a while, then they went away and he enjoyed a peaceful, dreamless rest.

Sophia woke in the middle of the night needing to use a bathroom. It took her several confused minutes to recall where she was and how she'd gotten there. Once she remembered, though, she began worrying about her mom. She padded silently to the bathroom and scowled up at the broken skylight – it was raining, hard, and the light was centered right over the little cubicle of a room. Nothin' for it, Sophia, she sternly told herself. Ain't like you're gonna melt, after all.

She did her business as quickly as she could, then used a hand-towel hanging off the teeny oven in the kitchen to dry off. A faint whimper came from the bedroom at the back of the trailer as she was about to head for the front bunk. Did Daryl get hurt? she wondered, then headed to see if there was anything she could do. When she entered the room, it took a moment for her eyes to adjust – out in the main camper, the blinds were thin enough that there was still some faint grey light filtering in from outside, but in the bedroom there were thick curtains as well. Once she adjusted, she saw that Daryl had to be dreaming.

She heard him mutter something that could have been 'Jo' or 'no', and suddenly felt guilty for having asked about them earlier. She carefully climbed onto the bed next to the man and gently laid a hand on his head. His hair is really soft, she thought, then slowly stroked her fingers through it. This always helps me when I have bad dreams. Hope it does the same for him, too.

Daryl's restless sleeping slowly settled, but he didn't wake up. Sophia grabbed the pillow he wasn't using and laid down next to him, still petting his surprisingly soft hair. The repetitive motion calmed a part of herself, too, and she soon found herself slipping back to sleep.

Daryl opened his eyes in the gathering gloom of pre-dawn. The drop in humidity was enough to tell him that there'd been at least some rain during the night. A warm ball was pressed up against his back. Slowly, he sat up and looked, though he was pretty sure he knew what that warmth was. Sure enough, when he looked, he saw the faint outline of Sophia curled up on the other half of the double bed. Musta had a bad dream, he thought, then pulled on his boots, unaware that the sentiment was correct, but directed at the wrong individual. He twitched aside a curtain and peered out.

The sky was spattered with some slowly-fading stars and the eastern horizon was beginning to show signs of sunrise in the not-too-distant future. Wet pavement and puddles confirmed that it had rained. Hope it was enough to cool things down for a couple of days. Leaving Sophia to sleep, he headed into the combined kitchen/dining/living area of the camper. He dug the flashlight out of his pack, turned it on, and sat it so that the red beam was aimed at the ceiling, giving him more than enough light to work with, then set about checking the cupboards to see if there was anything useful.

He found several items which, if not useful in the long-haul, would at least make breakfast a good deal more satisfying than it had been in over a month. A box of just-add-water pancake mix held just enough powder to make food for him and Sophia, and a brand-new bottle of Mrs. Butterworth's had been stored right next to it. In the next cupboard, he hit what he considered to be 'paydirt' – a percolator and a half-full can of Folgers Classic. He set coffee to brew, then mixed up some pancake batter. Sophia blearily stumbled out at about the same time breakfast was ready.

"Sleep good?" Daryl asked as she sat in 'her' seat at the table.

Sophia yawned and nodded. "Yeah. It rained last night."

Daryl sat a plate of pancakes in front of her. "Saw that. You ready ta head back ta yer ma?"

Sophia peered at the plate in front of her. "Water molecules?"

"Was aimin' fer Mickey," Daryl replied, somewhat sheepishly. "Jo… She was always wantin' Mickey Mouse pancakes."

Another stab of guilt shot through Sophia. "I'm a little old for Mickey, but water molecule pancakes are cool, too," she said, drowning them in syrup.

Daryl scoffed. "C'm on, girl – ya ain't never too old for Mickey Mouse."

Sophia quirked an eyebrow at him. "Tell ya what," she said, slicing a hydrogen atom off the top molecule, "you make me a Bugs Bunny pancake an' then we'll talk."

Daryl snorted hot coffee into his sinuses. "Shit!" That hurt. A lot. His eyes watering a little from the sting, he sneezed into his shirtsleeve. "You are somethin' else, Sophia. Ya know that?"

Sophia gave him her very best 'who me? I'm a certified angel' expression. It was only slightly ruined by chewing. She swallowed, then grinned brightly at him. "Dad says – said – the same thing."

More than just a bit uncomfortable with the comparison to Ed, Daryl sidestepped the line of conversation that Sophia's comment had opened, instead choosing to focus on his own pile of Mickey pancakes. The coffee was a treat beyond imagining, too – he hadn't had coffee, let alone good coffee, since the morning he picked Merle up at the state pen.

"These're good," Sophia said around a mouthful of syrup-saturated pancake. "Be even better if we had some blueberries."

"Girl after m'own heart," Daryl replied. "Strawberries'll do in a pinch, though. Not bananas, though."

Sophia wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Gross. Who puts bananas on pancakes?"

"My ma loved 'em with bananas cooked inta them," Daryl said. "Never could figure how she could stand 'em that way – always thought the bananas made 'em slimey."

"Chocolate chips," Sophia chimed in. "My favorite are chocolate chip pancakes."

Daryl drained his coffee and refilled the mug. "Yeah, right up there with M'n'M pancakes."

"M'n'Ms in pancakes?" Sophia sounded scandalized.

Daryl mopped up the last bit of syrup on his plate with the last bite of pancake and washed it down with coffee before explaining. "After our ol' man took off the last time, Merle stepped in. His special Saturday breakfast was M'n'M pancakes, topped with Hershey's syrup an' whipped cream." Daryl smiled to himself. "Those were some good times. Was seventeen at the time, an' Merle'd just gotten outta the army – he was twenty-six." He didn't bother mentioning that his older brother had been dishonorably discharged for whaling on a superior officer. "After breakfast, Merle'd take me out an' teach me 'bout bikes an' cars an' stuff. If there was still daylight, we'd do some huntin' or fishin' on the way home." That was before Jessica and her brother, Lucas, and their party-hearty attitude stepped in and ruined things with laced pot that rapidly had Merle escalating from sometimes sharing a joint with Daryl to doing lines of coke and meth and – one particularly memorable time – LSD. None of that, though, was anything Daryl thought appropriate to share with a twelve year old girl.

Sophia had a hard time imagining the rude, crude Merle not only cooking pancakes, but making desserty-style pancakes. Something of her skepticism must have shown on her face, because Daryl leveled a light glare at her. "M'brother weren't always the raving dickhead y'all met at the quarry, ya know."

"What happened to make him… that way?"

Daryl shrugged and toyed with his half-full mug for a moment. "Some of it were our ol' man, some of it was his time in the army. He'd been sent ta Iraq. Desert Storm. Come back a li'l fucked in the head if ya ask me. Always had been a troublemaker, though, an' stead of straightening his shit out when he got home, he got in with a coupla fuckwit dealers. Shit just wound up goin' hella-downhill from then. I'd hoped his last stint in prison – he got busted for possession with intent – woulda been a wake-up call. But then the walkers showed up…" he trailed off with another shrug.

Sophia had talked around her dad's less savory habits for long enough that she could tell when someone else was doing the same thing. I'm bettin' his dad and mine weren't really all that different. Except maybe his was worse. Dad at least had good days. Like that trip to Houston, or the one where he took me with him down to Miami. Sophia quickly finished up her breakfast. "Was there anythin' worth takin'?" she asked, pushing her own empty plate to rest next to Daryl's.

"Dunno, din't really look," Daryl said, polishing off the last of the coffee. "Gonna be takin' the percolator, though. Don't care if I gotta tie the damn thing to m'pack, it's comin' with us."

They spent a few minutes checking through the camper for anything useful. Sophia didn't find much that they could carry with them, but Daryl met her back in the living area with his hands full. He handed all three items he'd located to her. There was a thin black leather belt with a simple goldtone buckle, a fillet knife in a brown leather sheath, and a brand-new hairbrush still in the package. "Ya might wanna do somethin', girl – yer lookin' a bit like a thistle-blossom."

"A what?" she asked, blinking at him.

"A thistle-blossom. It's got this round head with purple petals that stick up in all directions. Would it make more sense if I tolja ya looked like ya stuck yer finger in a light-socket?" Daryl grinned at her amused/affronted expression.

She stepped into the bathroom with the brush in hand and looked at her reflection in the mirror over the miniscule sink. She grimaced. He was right, she thought, pulling her headband off. She winced as it pulled a few strands of her rat's-nest hair out with it. I look like I'm tryin' ta be Albert Einstein, for cryin' out loud! The brush soon had the tangles all smoothed out, and she put her headband back on.

"You right-handed or left-handed?" Daryl asked when she rejoined him at the kitchen table.

"Right, why?"

"Then yer gonna wanna thread the knife onto your belt on the right side, so it hangs just behind the belt-loop on that side, between your front an' back pockets. That way, it's outta the way, but ya can still get to it if ya need it," Daryl explained. At her somewhat surprised expression, Daryl quirked an eyebrow at her. "Ya think I'm gonna letcha run 'round wi' only the damn crowbar? An' yer s'posed ta be watchin' my back, ya know."

"If that's the case, ya gonna teach me ta shoot?" Sophia asked, threading the belt the way he said to through her new jeans – her capris were bundled up at the bottom of her backpack with her other dirty clothes.

"That's up ta Carol," Daryl said. "When we get back, I'll talk ta her. Can't promise nothin', though." He waited until she had the belt buckled and then asked, "How're yer feet, by-the-way?"

Sophia wriggled her feet inside her hiking boots. "Still a li'l sore, but they don't really hurt. Not like they did yesterday."

"You lemme know if they start buggin' ya, 'kay?"

Sophia nodded. They then packed up their things and Daryl poked his head outside, crossbow in hand, to make sure the way was clear.

It was.

Sophia sat on the hood of an old yellow Mustang, her backpack and Daryl's piled next to her against the windshield. Daryl's crossbow and handgun were lying atop them. She had her knees hugged tightly to her chest and was rocking slightly, in time to the sounds of crashing glass and crunching metal.

Daryl was using the crowbar to beat on every abandoned vehicle within range, indiscriminately shattering windows and tearing holes in fenders.

She knew he was angry – beyond angry, beyond even furious – that much was obvious. And she was scared. More scared than even when those walkers had chased her into the forest.

But she wasn't scared of Daryl. Not even with him as mad as a wet cat as he oh-so-obviously was.

She was scared for: Her mom. Carl. Andrea. Even Deputy Walsh and Mr. Grimes.

They weren't waiting for them.

The group had left them behind.

Sophia rocked just a little harder, not noticing that thin tears had streaked down her cheeks. No, she wasn't scared of Daryl. She wasn't even scared that the group had left them – her – behind. She was scared of what might happen now that Daryl wasn't protecting her friends any more... Though she did have to admit, if only to herself, that if she had to pick one person to be left behind with, it would've been the hunter. No, he's not just a hunter, Sophia. He's a park ranger, or was. He's one of the 'responsible grown-ups' that the teachers were always tellin' us to find if we ever got lost on a field-trip. I'll be okay. He'll make sure of it.

Daryl gave one last thwack to a station wagon, then dropped the crowbar with a clang onto the pavement. Panting, he leaned over, his hands braced against his knees.

"Better?" Sophia called out, her rocking motion ceasing.

Daryl heaved a great sigh and straightened after scooping up the crowbar. "Yeah. Fuckin' bastards."

"They think I'm dead, don't they? An' that you went off ta look for your brother."

Daryl ambled over to the Mustang, carefully setting the crowbar down on the hood as though it were a poisonous spider looking to bite. "Yeah," he said, not meeting Sophia's eyes. "That's damn well what I'm sure they fuckin' did." He leaned his elbows against the hood of the car and held his head between his hands for a long minute. Once he was breathing easier, he sighed and looked Sophia straight in the eyes. "I'm certain yer right. They pro'ly figured ya couldn't survive this long on yer own, an' that I took off after Merle, an' they headed on ta Fort Benning without us. Whaddaya say we catch up ta them?"

Sophia slid off the hood of the car. "Well, we won't catch up if all you're gonna do is stand around beatin' on cars."

"Don't be a brat," Daryl chided, though his tone was closer to teasing than any sort of reprimand.

Sophia stuck her tongue out at him and handed him his crossbow. "So... Gonna teach me to shoot before we catch up?" she asked, gently picking up Daryl's nine-millimeter and handing it over.

"Might not be a bad idea," Daryl admitted, tucking the gun back into the rear waistband of his jeans. "I'm countin' on you ta help keep me alive, after all. Wanna find a suppressor, first, though. I ain't about ta go ringin' the dinner-bell for every fuckin' pussbag in hearin' range."

Sophia handed him his backpack and picked up her own. "So... Which way?"

"Well, we know they ain't goin' down I-85, else we woulda passed 'em on the way. I'm bettin' they backtracked to that side-road China-boy marked. It was about three miles back. Highway 154, I think."

Sophia picked up the crowbar and began walking back the way the caravan had come before getting blocked in by the traffic jam. Daryl's fury had abated as quickly as it had come. Now, he was simply exhausted. Girl's got the right idea, though. Let's keep on. Hopefully, we can catch up ta the rest of them before too long. He whistled to get the girl's attention. "Hey, 'Phia – plan on walkin' the whole way?"

She halted, turned, and leveled a 'you-have-got-to-be-joking' look at him. "Um... Yeah? 'Less ya think one of these," she gestured to the victims of Daryl's temper-tantrum, "will run."

Daryl let out an exaggerated sigh and stepped back and to the left a bit, revealing Merle's motorcycle parked right where he'd left it. "Dunno 'bout them, but I know this'll run."

He'd never seen anyone actually face/palm before. He had to admit that it was a rather amusing gesture. "Forgot about your bike," Sophia admitted, dropping her hand and looking at him. "But... I ain't never been on one before."

"It's easy," Daryl said, situating himself on the bike. "Just put yer feet on them pegs, hold on tight to me – mind m'bow – an' lean the same way I lean. It'll help, at least at first, ta keep yer eyes closed."

After the first few terrifying minutes, Sophia pried her eyes open. It was more fun that way.

A/N2: I wrote this mostly to get it out of my head. I can continue it – I have notes for additional stories within this 'verse, but what you've just read is what'd been bugging me to distraction lately. If I do wind up writing more for this, it'll be posted as additional chapters, not as stand-alone stories (just so y'all know what to keep an eye out for, of course).

1) A hobo tool is sort of a Swiss-Army-knife-esque pocket thingie that has a fork, spoon, knife, and can opener. I've also seen them with corkscrews.

2) Clotrimazole is the active ingredient in over-the-counter athlete's foot treatments like Lotrimin AF.

Kindly lemme know what y'all think! Thanks in advance.