Glenn leads the way down the highway, whooping and hollering as the Challenger roars along, alarm hollering. I'm glad at least one of us is having fun.

Morales lingers between Rick and I, watching the road ahead and gripping our seats to keep himself upright, occasionally giving us curious looks. I'm still waiting for everything to hit me; that I'm out of Atlanta, that I'm with a group of strangers, that if they hadn't been there I would be dead.

I think of Merle, stuck there all alone, and I can't help the guilt that grips my heart.

"Best not to dwell on it," Morales says. I look up at him, but he's looking at Rick. "Merle got left behind. Nobody's gonna be sad that he didn't come back...except maybe Daryl."

"Daryl?" I ask.

"His brother," Morales answers.

Great, there's two of them, I think. If Daryl is anything like his brother, I don't want to spend any time near him.

"Are you sure it's alright that we're coming to your camp?" Rick asks, motioning to me as he says it. "I'm grateful, but—"

"Hey, you saved our asses," Morales says, smiling a bit. "I'm sure the group won't mind. We may just have to move some sleeping arrangements around."

Rick nods in thought and Morales dips into the back. For a moment, I let the silence remain.

"So...you're not their leader?" I ask.

Rick scratches his jaw. "Nah. I met them today, same as you."

I let out a sheepish laugh. "Well, you've definitely won their good graces," I say. I swallow back the urge to self-deprecate, to add in a, "Me? Not so much."

A few more beats of silence.

"You didn't ask for a weapon," Rick says. He glances at me briefly. "I could've given you one."

"Oh, it's okay. I'm...not a huge fan of..." I gesture vaguely in front of me. "I don't know. Violence?"

He smirks a little. "That must be tough to deal with," he muses. "You seemed just fine kicking the walkers away from you earlier. You're lucky you didn't get bit."

I blink a few times. "I guess? I mean, it would suck, but we could always find some bandages and alcohol to clean it up. I could stitch it, maybe, if it was bad enough." I look at him and he's staring at me like I've got a screw loose. "Um...what?"

"You don't know?"

My face flushes with shame. "Know what?"

"If you get bit, or even scratched, you die. That's how you turn," he says. My blood runs cold and Rick's gaze becomes almost sympathetic. "You get a fever that burns right through you, then you come back. You really didn't know?"

"I'm sorry," I say. "I've avoided them at all costs. Today was the longest I've been outside in weeks." I swallow hard and add, softly, "I...don't even know how to kill them."

Rick focuses back on the road, gripping the wheel harder for a second. "I've had the most luck when I hit the head. I think it's the brain that does it."

I wish I could curl up and hide, I feel so stupid.

After a second, he adds, "It's okay. We all have to learn somehow."

It only makes me feel slightly better.

----------

The rest of the ride is quiet, awkward, and I'm still too embarrassed to try and strike up another conversation with Rick. At the very least, it's nice knowing that I won't be the only newbie in camp. I wish the radio played more than static or that there were any CDs in the truck, because I would really enjoy some music. Long car rides, or even short ones, are better with music.

We drive far outside the city, up into the rocky hills dotted with forest, and I can't help but marvel at the simple fact that the ground isn't flat. Whenever I mentioned my home province to anybody in Atlanta, more times than not I'd get a confused look, and then I'd get to say that Saskatchewan is easily the flattest place on the planet. Not a hill to be found. Out there, I bet you could see walkers coming for days. At least you'd have plenty of time to get away.

At the thought, my heart breaks all over again as my parents cross my mind. I picture them on the front step of the farmhouse, staring out at the prairies as a hoard of dead shambles towards them, and my stomach flips. Maybe Canada wasn't hit so hard.

"Turn here," Morales says, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.

Rick turns the truck and slows to a stop behind a grey mini-van. I spot a Winnebago RV parked a short ways away, out in the open with a chair and umbrella perched on the roof, and Glenn's Challenger is already parked next to a few other vehicles, including a motorcycle. There's a small group of people gathered around the now-silent Challenger, all staring at the truck.

"Come meet everybody," Morales says.

The back of the truck opens, letting in more outside noise, and I hear Andrea call out, "Amy!" A young blonde woman rushes from the group and they reunite in a crushing hug. I keep watching as Morales meets up with a woman and two children, sharing hugs and kisses. Rick pinches the space between his eyes, sighing.

"You okay?" I ask.

He leans back. "Yeah, I will be."

"Ready to go?"

Outside, Morales's voice reaches us. "Hey, helicopter-boy! Come say hello!"

Rick gives me a look. "That's our cue."

It sounds like his cue, but I nod and reach for the handle. The air outside is beautifully fresh, such a far cry from the deathly stench that hung over the city that I can't help but take a moment to just breathe.

"The guy's a cop, like you," Morales says to someone I can't see.

I move out and around the front of the truck just in time to see Rick stop in place for a moment. A few feet away, a thin woman with long, dark brown hair kneels in front of an adorable little boy, a preteen at most, and they both look up as Rick comes into view.

It takes a second. Rick's expression crumples as he whispers out, "Oh my God."

He starts to jog, overwhelmed, and the boy's face lights up with a smile that could rival the sun. The woman looks like she's seen a ghost, like she doesn't believe what she's seeing.

"Dad! DAD!" the boy screams as he breaks into a sprint towards Rick. The woman follows.

Rick and the boy collide, collapsing to the ground as Rick hugs him close, sobbing. "Carl. Oh, Carl."

He stands back up, carrying Carl with him as he kisses his cheek, his forehead, and approaches the woman. I see the belief enter her eyes as she stumbles forward and the three of them embrace.

I shrink back and my heart squeezes, tears springing to my eyes before I can force them back. His family. By some miracle, they're here. For a moment, I allow myself to look around at the others, as if I'll see a tall, lean man with a farmer's tan and a greying goatee, or a stout woman with short, loose brown curls just like mine, like somehow they came all the way to Georgia looking for me.

But I know it's a lost cause and the grief hits me like it's fresh. I turn away from the group, covering my mouth against a sob. I'll just go get my stuff and try to look busy, so I can cry in peace.

"Um, who's she?"

I freeze. I hurry to wipe my eyes and nose, wiping my palms on my jeans before turning back around. Skeptical looks follow me from anyone who wasn't at the store.

"This is Hope," Glenn says. "We found her in the department store."

I lift my hand and wave. "Hi."

A few people nod. Morales's kids wave back and my heart warms a little.

A man nearby clears his throat. He's fit, with thick black hair and a strong jawline, rugged in a word. He wears a denim blue shirt with half the buttons undone. "Alright, everyone, let's break it up. Keep an eye out for walkers. That car alarm could still bring them here."

There are a few nods and the crowd disperses. I stand by the truck, hugging myself, trying to think of what to do next. I take a step back, still thinking I can retrieve my stuff, when the rugged man approaches me. I eye the shotgun in his hand, swallowing back the lump in my throat.

"Shane Walsh," he greets, extending a hand to me. I take it, giving him the firmest handshake I can muster. "Found in the department store, huh?" His eyes roam over my face and I suddenly remember how bruised I must be. In the adrenaline rush of our escape, I forgot my headache (or the ibuprofen did its job, more likely). "Looks like you took quite a beating."

"That...was my fault," Glenn pipes up. He moves closer to Shane, followed by an elderly man in a bucket hat. "She popped into the stairwell and I clocked her with a bat." He rubs the back of his neck. "I hesitated, so she didn't end up dead, but...yeah."

Shane's eyebrows lift. "Ah, I see." He gives me another look. "Ground rules here, we all work together. Try to do what's best for the group. If you can't be a team player, then..."

"I can be a team player!" I blurt. He stares at me and I flush. "I...I mean, I understand. I can do that."

"You got any skills that could be useful? Weapon knowledge, hunting, anything?"

"I...was a vet student. I could help with basic first aid?"

Shane purses his lips, then nods and hoists the shotgun onto his shoulder. "Good enough." He turns around. "Dale, why don't you, uh...get her situated somewhere? Figure it out."

"Yeah, sure," the older man replies. He's got a greying, mostly white beard and intense eyes beneath bushy brows. Shane walks off and I watch him go, wondering where Rick was whisked off to, but Dale grabs my attention back. "Welcome here. Sorry for the strange response, I don't think anyone was expecting Lori's husband to come back from the dead."

"Metaphorically," Glenn clarifies. I smile a little and he returns it. "You're in good hands with Dale, and I've gotta handle a few things, so...I'll see you later? Just wanted to apologize for hitting you."

"It's all good," I say, and he runs off with a brief nod and a smile.

Dale adjusts his shotgun. "How about a tour? We've got a couple hours of sunlight left."

"I don't want to be a bother," I say. "If you have something else you need to handle..."

He shakes his head. "No, no, I insist. Follow me."

He says to follow, but he stays beside me, matching my steps. We're almost the same height—I'm maybe an inch shorter, but my legs are longer and he takes quick steps to keep the pace. He shows me around the camp, pointing out his RV (the main lookout point), the fire pits, the drying racks for laundry, and plenty of tents scattered among the trees. There are a lot more survivors than I originally thought, mostly adults and only a few children. Aside from Morales's kids and Rick's son, I only spot one other child in the whole camp—a preteen with a dirty-blonde bob cut, huddled beside a grey-haired woman who must be her mother.

"We ended up gathering here after escaping the initial outbreak," Dale explains as we head down a rocky path. "The trees make for good cover from the elements, and the quarry...well, it was a no-brainer."

We emerge onto a sandy bank that stretches into some of the bluest water I've ever seen. I've never been to a quarry, only read about them in stories or seen pictures here and there, and it's so much cooler in real life. The water stays enclosed on all sides by high cliffs of raw marble. For a moment, I stand in awe of it.

"There's plenty of fish, so that helps supplement our supplies. I don't know if you know anything about fishing," Dale says. I shake my head. "Andrea and Amy usually take care of that. Their dad was a fisherman."

"It's beautiful."

"It is," he agrees. "Oh, if you need a drink, we have buckets. You've got to boil the water before use, okay? We don't need anybody getting sick." After a second, he adds, "Although, if we have a medic now..."

I wave my hand a bit. "Hardly," I insist. "I'm no professional. I honestly kind of sucked at school but, hey, C's get degrees, they always said."

"That's true. Still, it'll be good to have someone with some knowledge around here." His eyes widen, brightening a little. "Tell you what, I'll show you where the first aid kit is, and you can make a list of essentials for us to keep an eye out for on our next supply run."

I nod. "Yeah, sure, anything!"

On our way back, we cross paths with Rick's wife. She keeps staring off into the distance, still possibly in shock, but Dale calls out to her and she lifts her head. She gives a tiny, barely there smile.

"Lori, quick question," Dale says.

She meets us halfway, hands on her hips. "Sure."

"Shane asked me to get Hope situated," Dale explains. "I was thinking of putting her in the RV, but it's packed in there already. Do we have any extra tents?"

Lori shakes her head, lips pursed. "We barely had enough to go around as is. Most people brought their own," she says. She meets my eyes, squinting for a second, then looks back at Dale as she runs one hand through her hair, pushing it off her forehead. "I think the only empty tent right now is the Dixons'."

"Dixon?" I repeat. My skin crawls a little. "Like...Merle and Daryl?"

"That's them," Lori says. She must notice the distaste clear on my face and her expression becomes apologetic, although she focuses on Dale. "With Merle gone..."

"I don't think Daryl would take too kindly to us assigning him a roommate," Dale says. He looks around, bushy eyebrows furrowing. "Where is he, anyway?"

"He went hunting, said he wouldn't be back for a while," Lori admits.

"I can sleep elsewhere," I say, although I'm getting the sense that there isn't an "elsewhere" to speak of. "Really."

Dale sighs, shaking his head. "If Daryl won't be back until tomorrow, there's no sense letting a tent go unused."

I kind of feel like I'm being talked around, but I try to be understanding. Rick is an easy fix because he can just join his family. I'm an anomaly, a random outsider no one planned for.

"I'm really sorry, Hope," Lori says, "but if you're comfortable, that tent is probably your best bet. It'll be empty, at least."

I have to admit, having my own space for a night wouldn't be too bad, and it is the apocalypse. Beggars can't be choosers. I mentally prepare for what I may find in that tent.

"You're sure it'll be alright?" I clarify.

Lori sighs. "It's not like they're here for us to ask. We'll play it by ear, see if Daryl comes back before bedtime."

And then what? I hate the uncertainty of it all. I open my mouth, but Dale claps me on the shoulder and smiles.

"It'll be fine," he says. His smile seems tense, like he's trying to assure me when he doesn't believe it himself. "So, how about that first aid kit?"

I thank Lori softly before following Dale to his RV.

----------

"Here it is."

I adjust my bag, eyeing the tent before me. It's a basic camping tent, nothing special, and the main thing of note is that it's right on the outskirts of the camp, as far from everyone as possible. At this distance, the bustle is faint, and I'm not sure how to feel. On the upside, privacy, but on the downside, if a walker shows up...

"There are cans set up along the perimeter, just in case," Dale says, as if reading my thoughts. He motions with his gun to where, sure enough, there are a bunch of empty cans strung through and dangling between the nearest trees. "It's no home security system, but it'll do."

"Thank you," I say, "for everything." I grip my bag again, tighter. "You're too kind."

He scoffs, good-natured. "We're all in this together now. Settle in and feel free to come join us at the fires later tonight. I'm thinking you and Rick have some stories to share."

Not really, I think, but I nod and smile. "Of course."

Dale tromps off back to the main camp and I take a deep breath, taking it all in. Here I am, outside a stranger's tent. I should've asked for a weapon, but maybe there'll be something in the tent I can borrow if the worst comes to worst.

I stoop and unzip the tent. The first thing I notice is the scent of tobacco, earthy and slightly sweet, but with this strange undercurrent that makes me gag for a second. The tent itself doesn't have a whole lot inside. There are two bags, both with clothes spilling out, and there are a few other clothing items strewn around the floor. I grimace at the sight of a sweat-stained pair of boxers with a hole in one buttcheek. Other than the clothes, there are two cots, two sleeping bags with pillows, and no extra weapons.

It's probably, definitely crossing a boundary, but I decide to tidy up. I need to keep myself busy because otherwise, I'll stew in my thoughts and break down crying again. I set my bag down, roll my shoulders, and get to work, humming as I go.

It's not nearly as difficult as tidying my apartment. There's a lot less stuff here. I try not to think about the men who live here, but I can't help it. I keep trying to picture Daryl in my mind. I imagine him like Merle, although I'm not sure if he's older or younger. I hope Daryl's younger, because imagining an even older, more racist Merle makes me want to take a long walk off a short pier.

Best case scenario, they find another place for me tomorrow and I never have to think about it again.

I veer away from doing any smell checks on the clothes, instead gathering anything that isn't folded inside the bags and putting them in a pile near the tent flap. Judging by the scent of sweat and blood, a wash won't hurt any of them. I find what I think is an open can of baked beans underneath one of the cots, but one whiff tells me that it's all used chew and that I've found the source of the tent's...aroma.

I take the can outside and chuck it into the woods. I'll ask for a new one tonight after dinner to replace it.

I unzip all the windows, letting the place air out, and I unpack what few belongings I have. I look between the two cots, then pick one at random. I lay my sleeping bag from the department store on top of the existing one, hoping for extra comfort, then tuck my clothes and other belongings neatly beneath the cot.

I'll just have to pack it up again, but I want to feel settled, even if it's just for the night. With my backpack empty, I stuff the dirty clothes into it and zip it up. I sit back, looking about the tidy tent, and I can't help but feel proud.

I cast a quick look at the sky. I've got time left in the day. I'm guessing that all washing has to be done by hand now and I have no idea how long that would take. My best move will be to wait until tomorrow, when the hot sun can dry the clothes after I'm done washing them, instead of leaving them out in the cold overnight.

The risk is that, tomorrow, Daryl might be around and it's a toss-up whether he'll appreciate the gesture. I have no way of paying him in return for staying in his tent, so labour it is.

I flop down on my temporary cot, patting my thighs, looking about myself as it sets in that I just spent time cleaning up a stranger's tent, and not only that, but I'm planning to wash their clothes. The world ended and I fell so easily into the so-called "woman's role" that I'm embarrassed for myself.

I sigh and push myself back to my feet, grabbing my hoodie and pulling it on. The RV seemed pretty full of supplies, so maybe Dale has some extra books lying around that I can kill time with. If I had known the world would end, I would have brought something better to stave off boredom.