I knew that Daryl would never care for me the way Glenn cared for Maggie, or the way Daddy did for Mama. I knew he cared, though. In his own Dixon way. I knew from his touch-callused fingers filled with genuine warmth. I knew by the way he made sure to always forge ahead of me wherever we went, constantly making sure I stayed safe. I knew because even when I could hear his stomach making the weirdest popping and growling noises he still gave me the last bit of his food, whether it was cold baked beans or stale crackers.

I loved him because he never accepted my thanks. A weird way to phrase it, I know, but he was honorable and modest in an immoral and dying world. He could've killed me because I was weaker than him, and a burden. He could've left me to die and turn and run off by himself to find the others.

He cared instead.

"Watcha lookin' so hard at?"

I smiled as I ran my finger over the back of the CD case. The flashlight's lowbeam highlighted all the scratches on the plastic. "Found somethin' worth listenin' to."

Daryl didn't reply except for the raise of his eyebrows. I turned around the case to show him the title, to which he grunted in is normal fashion.

"Ain't much of an Elvis fan."

"Aw, c'mon," I teased as I leaned across the console to pop the CD in the player. "Everybody loves Elvis. He's, like, the classic of classics."

"Naw." Daryl toyed with the unlit cigarette in his mouth, keeping his eyes on the empty road stretching ahead of us. "Hendrix's a classic. Elvis is just 'nother pussy pretty-boy."

It was evening and the sun was dying for the day. We'd found the Subaru SUV, or the "piece a'shit prissy pants station wagon" as Daryl had put it, stranded in the middle of the road. I was just happy to find something that ran, didn't contain a walker or a half-eaten corpse, and had nearly a half tank of gas. I could almost hear Daddy saying that it was a blessing God had planted right there for us.

I exhaled a giggle as the first song's chords began, only for me to press the next button until the player settled on Track 12. Slow, sweet, and melancholy, Elvis crooned out his yearnings over the speakers, filling the car and what felt like the woods around us with something other than death and silence.

Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go . . .

"Aw, hell no," Daryl grunted, he slammed his hand down, shutting out Elvis' voice. "I ain't listenin' to this romantic shit."

I yanked his hand off and protested, "You always pick the music. Can't I for once?"

He took his eyes off the highway long enough to give me a long, hard glance and grunt again. He tightened his fingers back around the wheel, giving me his quick go-ahead chin dip. I kept looking at him as I started the song over and left the volume low, only so I could hear snatches here and there.

"I used to dance to old music like this," I whispered. I hated the quiet between us; missed the easy conversation I'd always had with Maggie and Carol. "Daddy won't big on technology, you know. Heh. He was funny about us getting cable. Never let us go see a PG-13 movie, either. Mama found an old record player in the attic one day and some records, too. We kept it in the kitchen, so when we were bakin' and cookin' we'd turn on Elvis or Ella Fitzgerald, or even Yellow Submarine."

"Always knew you were a flower child," Daryl huffed. He shifted in the driver's seat, adjusting his sodden jeans around his thighs. We hadn't had clean clothes since before we left the prison. If I hadn't been used to the stench of dried sweat and crusted blood, I would've probably been pinching my nose.

"Mama always said I was a bad dancer."

He stayed hushed.

"Said I looked like a baby deer with a gimpy leg," I laughed. I brushed my fingers along the side of my seat, found the lever, and pulled it up while simultaneously pressing my shoulders into the seat to recline it. Once I was settled back, I pulled my knees up to my chest and turned to face Daryl. "I bet you did silly things with your mama, too, when you were little."

That got another glance out of him—this one had sour-pursed lips and deeper, grit-filled lines around his eyes. I watched his Adam's apple as he swallowed.

"Yeah."

We drove the piece of shit prissy-pants station wagon for several days. It was odd; normally we'd ride for a while, stop and make camp, and leave the car behind the next day to trek on through the woods. But Daryl said we should rest some. I couldn't disagree. My feet were blistered and angry with ache; my neck had several cricks in it from using too many rocks as pillows. Sometimes it dawned on me that I forgot what my bed at the farmhouse felt like. Big, soft and yet firm, with warm old quilts and lots of pillows.

Two days later, we came across a town named Woodstock.

"Hmph. Sounds like you'll fit in here," Daryl teased. "Little miss hippie chick."

We parked in front of a completely rummaged pharmacy, being careful not to make much noise as we gathered our packs and weapons. There wasn't a walker as far as I could see. Usually we encountered at least a few shuffling around. Woodstock truly was a ghost town.

Daryl pointed lazily at the pharmacy doors. "Doubt there's much to scavenge in there."

I shrugged. "You never know. Could be some medicine or a first aid sure could use it."

Daryl sniffed disdainfully. He walked ahead of me, stopping by the front doors and tapping three times on the glass with his knuckles. When nothing came immediately, he rested his back against the faded brick wall and kicked up a foot behind him to prop himself upright. He wiggled his shoulders to loosen them, preparing for a fight.

I made sure my knife was at the ready. We waited five minutes, then ten. Finally Daryl straightened up and jerked his head towards the entrance. "Sounds like it's clear."

He still kept his crossbow up at his shoulder as we split off to check out different sides of the tiny pharmacy. I listened to his rummaging for a while as I scavenged for Motrin and ointment and gauze, only to find I'd ended up in the minute make-up section. It was the only untouched part. Almost every other shelf had been cleared or toppled and soiled.

Daryl found me staring at a two tubes of lipstick, sitting on the floor with half a dozen other choices of powders, mascara, and eyeliner. My pack sat in my lap, open.

"Hey, c'mon. Got what I could. Place's been sacked before. Hardly any meds in the back but I found some water and—" he loomed over me. "What's all that mess?"

I rubbed my thumb over the slick plastic tube in my hand. "Make-up. It's funny, huh? How stupid stuff like this mattered before but nobody even gives it a second thought now?"

His mouth hung open in the way it did whenever he wasn't sure what to say, or if he should even say anything. I'd caught on to almost all of Daryl's motions and fidgets since we left the prison, though there were still plenty of moments where I had no idea what he could be thinking.

"I dunno. Ain't never cared about no face goo."

"Maggie bought make-up even when she wasn't supposed to," I continued. Talking so much about my family made my inside hurt in a very unpleasant way. "Used to steal it from her and try it on. Mama always told me I didn't need it. But I still wanted it."

Daryl shifted his pack uncomfortably on his shoulder. "Your mama was right."

I smiled up at him. That was the closest it got to a compliment for Daryl. I stood and put the other things back in their rightful, dusty places and slung my bag across my back. Holding out the two different tubes, I inquired, "Which color?"

"Huh?"

"Which one you think would look better on me?" The weirdest of sensations tickled my gut as Daryl's harsh gaze settled on me. His expression was slightly more pissed than usual, yet his mouth was soft and smirking.

"Don't matter t'me."

"C'mon," I pleaded. "I can't decide. And I ain't got anyone else to ask."

I jostled the tubes back and forth, urging him to help. Daryl only stared harder at me and sighed. "Dunno. Look, sun's startin' to go down. We need to get somewhere and make camp. Get dinner."

He strapped his crossbow over his back and strode out without me. In a split second decision, I grabbed both colors and the tube of mascara though I had a feeling that it was dried out. Still, when I hopped into the passenger seat and tossed my pack into the back, flipped down the visor mirror, and tested my newfound beauty things, my new good mood didn't leave me. Daryl could grunt and grumble all he pleased over my stupid face goo.

The red lipstick was my favorite, the pink was too gaudy for my skin. The mascara was dried out, but I revived the formula by dropping in a bit of water and pumping the wand a bit. When the Elvis CD started playing again, I felt like Marilyn Monroe on the way to a big movie premiere, not a farm girl with no farm, possibly no family, and a surly redneck as my only friend.

We found a house a couple miles from where the car ran out of gas. This was the quietest the woods around us has been. Not a single walker came stumbling forward or from behind. This unnerved me more than being attacked by a herd.

"Awfully quiet," I muttered at Daryl's back.

He hmmed. "Think I see a house up ahead."

"You wanna stay there tonight?"

"If you want to."

The house was walker-free as well. It was cleaner than most abandoned homes we came across, with a crocheted blanket still folded neatly across the slightly sagging plastic covered couch.

"Looks like an old bitty used to live here," Daryl mumbled as he stepped cautiously, one foot softly over the other, to check the upstairs. "I'mma scout up this way."

I headed for the tiny kitchen; each wall and chair had cutesy signs with quotes or Bible verses, and the deadened fridge was covered in magnets. One picture was on the fridge under a Loony Tunes magnet—two smiling little boys, one missing both his front teeth.

Daryl startled me from my reverie. He sauntered into the kitchen, his crossbow strapped across his back once more, and immediately started rifling through the cabinets adjacent to the fridge.

"All clear upstairs?" I inquired. I moved the magnet to pick up the photograph, peering at the date. It had been taken not long before the outbreak.

"Yeah."

"I know it freaked you out too that we didn't encounter a single walker all the way through the woods."

He hummed a low reply as he stacked several canned goods, even coming across a giant can of yams. "Maybe they're goin' into hibernation or sumthin."

"Maybe. Yuck," I commented. "Yams are gross."

"Yuck keeps your stomach from grumblin, girl." He tossed me a half-empty liter of ginger ale. "Taste that."

I slipped the picture into my back pocket and unscrewed the cap and take a swig. "Expired," I coughed, leaning over the sink to spit it out. I wiped the back of my hand over my mouth. "Find anything else?"

"Check that tap, see if we got water. I'm gonna go tie up some cans around the house."

"We're stayin?"

Daryl nodded. "Just for tonight."

Again, I did as he said. I messed with the knobs on the sink, and after a minute of dirty brown water, the tap ran clear. I smiled in relief when the hot water actually worked too. Daryl would be outside for a little while, and since the house was secure, I went on the hunt for a shower.

I found an old clawfoot bathtub in the bathroom up the stairs. After checking to see if the hot water worked there too, I locked the door, slid the small wooden chair under the knob just in case, and stripped. There was a jackpot load of bubble bath and loofahs and soap beneath the sink. My best guess was that this old woman had grabbed her necessities and ran to her grandchildren.

I selected the lavendar and rose petals bubble bath and dumped it in as the water filled the tub. Once it was completely brimming with foam and steaming water, I shut off the tap and slid in.

I didn't dawdle. Using one of the loofahs, I quickly washed my legs, arms and torso, dunking under to scrub my hair till it felt like it would fall off at the roots. The towels hanging on the rack—as if the woman had left them there for a guest—were laden with dust and grime, so I shook them off the best I could and dried my body. I knew there was no point in searching for clothes in this house, so I pulled my least dirty clothing from my pack and grabbed the forgotten hairbrush. I could hear Daryl rummaging around below, so I unlocked the door to go join him.

He only raised his head for a second when I entered the living room.

"You been primpin' again?"

I smiled. The feeling of a brush combing through my hair was familiar, calming. "We got hot water and plenty of soap. I was filthy." I crossed my legs beneath me as I sat on the plastic couch, the material screaming with my every move. "You should wash too."

He pursed his lips. "Naw. I'm alright."

"I could wash your clothes for you," I offered, hoping not to cross a line. I never knew when I would overstep his boundaries. "You have extras, right?"

Daryl continued to sharpen his knife without further comment. He'd pulled all the cans we'd found into the living room and scattered them all over the coffee table. I set my hairbrush aside and tiptoed into the kitchen to find utensils. Usually we ate with our hands, but if we had the chance to be civilized, I would seize it. The yearning for a shred of normality ached more than my empty gut.

"Hey." I dropped the pair of forks and spoons on the table by the cans. I'd noticed the fireplace upon entering. "I'm gonna go gather some firewood. I don't know bout you, but I'm tired of eatin' cold cornbeef."

Daryl didn't speak up until I was halfway to the door with my knife in hand.

"Be careful."

I shot him a small smile. "I'll scream bloody murder if I need you." Which was the wrong thing to say, because his jaw only tightened.

I swung open the door to find a woman with an arm full of twigs and a gun pointed at my head. Daryl was on his feet with his crossbow sighted on her temple the minute she cocked her pistol and settled her finger firmly on the trigger.

She growled, "Who the hell are you?"