"Dad? What's goin' on? Where's everyone else?" I ask quickly, my voice up high. The group left with Rick, Carl, Lori, Shane, Andrea, Glenn, Dad, and Carol. The only people here now are Glenn, Andrea, Dad, and Carol. Everyone else is missing. That can't be good.

"Carl was shot," Glenn says in a rush as he climbs over the guard rail. And my heart stops beating for a moment because Carl is dying and Sophia is missing and that leaves me all alone.

"Shot? What do you mean shot?" Dale asks, and his eyes are all wide with disbelief.

"I don't know, Dale. I wasn't there. All I know is this chick rode out of nowhere like Zorro on a horse and took Lori," Glenn explains as fast as the speed of light. I don't know who Zorro is, but I'm panicked all the same.

My dad climbs over the guardrail next and I'm looking at him for an answer, but he's not looking back at me. "You let her?" Dale asks him, because in his eyes, Dad's in charge of the small group that came back from the woods just now.

"Climb down outta my asshole, man. Rick sent her," Dad says. I can tell by his voice and by the way he's walking that he's way past irritated. Probably because he went out there with a big group to find Sophia, and now he's come back with no Sophia and four more people gone. Plus, he's got dirt and grime all over him. Looks like it must've been rough. "She knew Lori's name. And Carl's," Dad mutters, walking off.

When he passes by me, I look up at him with wide, confused eyes. I still don't understand what's happening. How could Carl have gotten shot? By who? Who was helping him now? Dad doesn't answer my questions. He puts his hand on my back and starts pushing me along with him.

"C'mon," he murmurs. And I go with him because no way I'm disobeying him now. I already got smacked today. I ain't getting spanked, too. He walks us down to the car we stayed in last night.

"You didn't find-?" I start to ask about Sophia, but Dad knows me too well. He knows what I'm gonna ask.

"I don't wanna talk about it, June," Dad says. He puts his crossbow down in the backseat of the car.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, just in case my question had annoyed him.

Dad looks at me weird. "For what?" he asks. I'm sorry for a lot of things. I'm not even sure what I'm sorry for this time. I don't have an answer. Dad doesn't say anything for a moment, and then he looks away, digging around in the back seat. "You say that too much," he tells me.

"I have to," I tell him. What am I supposed to do? Not say sorry when I do something wrong?

But Dad scoffs at that answer. "Why?" he asks.

"I do things wrong too much," I say, shrugging my shoulders.

He scoffs at that, too, and he stops digging around in the back seat to look at me with a look of disbelief on his face. "Since when?" he asks.

"Since forever. I always get in trouble," I murmur, tugging on my shirt.

I got in trouble when those people took me away from my dad for having stuff in my backpack that wasn't supposed to be in my backpack. Maybe if I would've just answered the teacher's question, she wouldn't have gone in my backpack. And then she wouldn't have found the medicine, and I wouldn't have been taken away, and my dad would still love me like he used to.

"I did just earlier today," I remind him, just to prove my point.

Dad rubs his hand over his face, pressing his fingers into his eyes. "There's a difference between gettin' in trouble and learnin' a lesson. You said somethin' bad, now you know not to say it again. You learned," he says. He sounds like he don't wanna be saying it, though.

"It feels the same. Hurts, either way," I murmur. I don't know if he really wants responses right now. I don't know if he's just looking to teach me not to say sorry so much. People say that saying something too much makes it lose its meaning.

For a moment, Dad stares at me, thinking real hard like he sometimes does. Then, he sighs and says, "I'm sorry for hittin' you, earlier. You know I don't like doin' that." And he really doesn't. He says it every time. "Just don't like hearin' you talk like that. You're just as important as Sophia. Don't wanna sound like an asshole, but you're even more important than her, in my eyes. So I don't like that talk 'bout you dyin'."

Then we're both silent. I'm too nervous to say anything.

"You said Carol needs her. So, what, you think I don't think I need you?" Dad asks me, raising his eyebrows.

I know better than to not answer my dad's questions, so I work up the courage to give him a real answer and say, "Not that much."

Honestly, I thought my dad liked it better when I wasn't around. I don't think he'd cry, either. I think he'd miss me some. But not like Carol misses Sophia.

"How's that?" Dad asks quietly after a long moment of silence.

"Carol loves Sophia lots. She still treats her like a baby, just 'cause she loves her that much. Loves her more than anythin' else in the world. I heard her say it, back at the CDC, when we all thought we were dyin'," I explain, picking at my nails anxiously.

"And you don't think I feel the same way 'bout you?" Dad asks. I look up at him to meet his eyes for a moment, and he looks mad and sad at the same time and I think I've done something wrong.

"I don't know," I murmur. Really, though, I do know. But I'm not sure what to say to avoid him getting mad. Dad still won't say anything, though. The silence goes on for so long that it feels like it's ripping me apart on the inside. So I gotta say something. "Ya don't say it. Not unless you're drunk," I tell him. Still, it's silent. He won't say anything at all. So, "I'm sorry," I say.

I know my dad loves me. I know he does. I just don't think he does as much as he used to. I don't blame him. Kids get harder to deal with as they get older.

Still, Dad stays quiet. He's staring at me, and then he's staring at my shoes and I can't quite see his face. After a moment, he just walks past me. I look at his back and see him lift his arm to wipe his face with his sleeve. Probably because he's got dirt all over him.

"C'mon. Let's figure out what the hell we're doin' tonight," he says without looking back at me.

I follow without any hesitation because what else am I supposed to do? Stand there and do nothing? Nope. Better to listen. So I do. I follow behind Dad's back until we get to the rest of the group, and then I stand by his side. I'm the only kid here now. Eliza and Louis left with their parents, Sophia's gone missing, and Carl's been shot. Gosh, those last two things sound unreal.

"I won't do it. We can't just leave," Carol is saying as me and my dad walk up. They've already started this conversation without us, clearly.

"Carol, the group is split. We're scattered and weak," Dale says, leaning up against the RV. Wasn't it him who, just earlier, was saying that he'd like to put off the needs-of-the-many-versus-the-needs-of-the-few arguments?

"What if she comes back and we're not here? It could happen," Carol says, her voice shaking with fear and worry.

"She's right. We can't leave Sophia. We can't," I chime in. I'm sure my voice is full of fear and worry, too, but that's ok. I am fearful and worried. But I know adults don't care what some kid has to say. They'll care what my dad has to say, though, so I turn and look up at my dad with pleading eyes. Please, Dad, please let us stay, my eyes are asking.

"Ok," Dad says, nodding his head. He puts his hands on my shoulders, squeezing them as he looks around at the rest of the group. "We gotta plan for this. I say tomorrow morning is soon enough to pull up stakes. Give us a chance to rig a big sign, leave her some supplies. Me and June can hold here tonight, stay with the RV," Dad says.

"If the RV is staying, I am, too," Dale says, giving Carol a reassuring nod.

"Thank you. Thank you both," Carol says to them.

Dale and Dad look to Andrea for an answer. She lifts her hand a little as she says, "I'm in."

"Well, if you're all staying then I'm-" Glenn begins to say, but is cut off by Dale.

"No. Not you, Glenn. You're going. Take Carol's Cherokee," Dale says.

Glenn breathes out a laugh that doesn't sound like a real laugh. It sounds more like an are you kidding me? type of laugh. "Me? Why is it always me?" Glenn asks, annoyed.

"You have to find this farm, reconnect with our people, and see what's going on. But most important, you have to get T-Dog there. This is not an option," Dale says. T-Dog was on the verge of passing out earlier. He didn't, but he's only getting worse with every passing second. "That cut has gone from bad to worse. He has a very serious blood infection. Get him to that farm. See if they have any antibiotics. Because if not, T-Dog will die, no joke," Dale explains.

Just as Dale starts talking about T-Dog's wound, Dad let's go of my shoulders and starts walking back towards where Merle's motorcycle is parked. He snatches some rag off of the bike and sends Dale a glare. And then he pulls a little plastic baggy off of the bike. It's got a few orange pill bottles in it. I thought most of Merle's stash got destroyed in the CDC. Guess my dad had some of the bottles on him. Probably because of his headache.

Dad tosses the rag at Dale's chest. "Keep your oily rags off my brother's motorcycle. Why'd you wait 'til now to say anything? Got some a' my brother's stash," he says. He reads the labels on the bottles. There's four of 'em. There used to be more. "Crystal. X. Don't need that. Got some kick ass painkillers," Dad says.

He tosses the painkillers to Dale. I think those must've been what I was supposed to find for him, but couldn't. Maybe if I was better at reading.

"Oxycycline. Not the generic stuff neither. It's first class. Merle got the clap on occasion," Dad says, tossing the second bottle to Dale.

I don't know what the clap is. I also don't know what crystal or X is. Or ox-e-sike-leen. I'll ask those questions later, 'cause only one of my questions seems most important.

"Why d'you still got these, Dad?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.

"Just do," Dad tells me as he puts away the rest of the medication. I bet he misses Merle more than he wants to admit. He likes to act like he's too strong to feel as sad as I do sometimes, but I know he must feel sad, too, because everyone's gotta sometimes. But Dad's extra strong because he doesn't cry all the time like I do.

"They didn't explode at the CDC?" I ask.

"Had some in my pockets. My head was killin' me. Was tryna find the painkillers. Doesn't matter, June," Dad says, putting his hand on my shoulder again.

"You can all stay in the RV tonight. I'll keep watch," Dale tells us, being all kind like he always is. He looks at Carol. "You can take the bed."

Dad puts his hand on my head, smoothing my hair over. "You do any more lookin' around when I was gone?" he asks as he begins pushing me along, back to the car.

"A little. I was keepin' watch, mostly," I tell him, shrugging.

"You find any clothes?" is his next question. We get to the car and Dad gets out the pink backpack before giving it to me.

A small smile find its way onto my face. I hold the backpack to my chest. "I found some Spider-man jammies," I tell Dad.

I think he almost smiles, too, but I can't tell. I unzip the bag and take out the Spider-man pajamas before handing the bag back to Dad. I'm about to go to the RV to change, but then I remember all those questions I have.

"Daddy, what's the clap?" I ask first.

He freezes for a moment before telling me, "It doesn't matter, Juni. Just means he got... sick. That shit's just medicine."

"Oh. What's crystal and X?" I ask him next.

"Enough with the questions, June," Dad says, rubbing his face, exhausted. Once he's done getting his stuff out of the car, he starts walking back towards the RV, and I follow him. "You eat anythin' else since I left?" he asks me.

The real answer is no, but I learned my lesson about that this morning, so I say, "Yeah. A little."

"Yeah? What?" Dad asks me, quirking his eyebrow up like he doesn't believe me. I don't blame him. Because I'm a liar.

"Pretzels," I tell him.

"Ok. I want you to eat a lil' more 'fore bed. Hear me?" Dad tells me.

"Yes, sir," I promise. We go up into the RV and I head back to the bathroom.

It's real small in the RV bathroom, but it's better than trying to change in the backseat of a car. I take off the dress I've been wearing for the past two days and replace it with the Spider-man pajamas. They're a little big, but I still like 'em. I just gotta keep pulling up my pants.

When I come out of the bathroom, Dad's sitting on the bench and Dale's opening up a cabinet. They both turn and look at me once I close the door.

"They fit alright?" Dad asks me. I nod, even though I have to pull the pants up after every step I take. He laughs lightly at me. "Don't look like they do," he says.

"Well, I'm sure I've got some safety pins. I can pin it down to your size, if you'd like," Dale offers, just as kind as he always is.

"Yes, please," I say, nodding my head once again. Dale smiles and opens a new cabinet. He pulls out a clear box that's got some yarn and string and needles and safety pins inside. Looks like a sewing box, if I had to guess.

Dale takes out one of the safety pins and beckons me over to him. I start going toward him, but Dad's arm shoots out to grab mine. "I got it," he says, pulling me closer to him. He holds his hand out and Dale gives him the safety pin. "Stay still," Dad tells me as I stand in front of where he's sitting.

Dad bunches up some of the stretched elastic around my waist, on my back. Once he puts the safety pin through, it stays just fine. Tight enough that it'll stay up on its own.

"Thank you," I tell both Dale and Dad.

"Of course," Dale says with a smile before leaving the RV to continue on keeping watch.

Once Dale's gone, Dad scoots over on the bench by the table and pats the seat next to him, telling me to sit down, so I do. Then I see he's got a little bag of animal crackers on the table and I groan. "Those make my stomach hurt," I tell him as I slouch down in the seat.

"We don't got much else," Dad tells me, pushing the bag closer to me.

I push the bag right back toward him. "We got pretzels," I remind him.

He just shakes his head. "We're all out, June. And ya gotta eat. Please don't make this difficult when it don't gotta be," Dad says tiredly, pushing the crackers back towards me.

"It's always difficult for me. It ain't fair," I complain. I don't wanna make him mad. I really don't. But he just doesn't get it. Even if I'm starving, eating something I don't wanna eat makes me feel like I'm gonna throw up. It's like my hands won't pick up the food, even though I'm telling them to, and my teeth won't chew, even though I'm telling them to, and my throat won't swallow, even though I'm telling it to.

Dad is exhausted with me. I can tell. I don't blame him. I'm hard to deal with. But I can't control it at all. He sighs and rubs his eyes. "June, please just-"

"Dad, you're not listenin'. I can't," I huff, covering my face with my hands. Even if I try, it's almost impossible. Maybe I can eat a few. One, two, or three. I don't know. It's just really, really, really hard.

"If you don't eat, you're gonna get sick, Juniper," Dad says. He's not getting mad at me, which is good, but I can still feel the pressure. The pressure weighing down on me in every moment of every day, telling me, do what he says or he'll hate you, do what he says or he'll hate you. I don't want him to hate me.

I bury my face in my arms on the table. I can't cry. I've done enough of that. "I don't know what to do," I murmur, my voice muffled by my arms. Then, I feel my dad's hand on my shoulder for just a moment, and I'm scared he's gonna pull me up and start yelling. I quickly sit back up and scooch away from him. "I'm sorry. I'll eat it. I'll try," I tell him.

Dad retracts his hand quickly, staying quiet for a second as I reach for the animal crackers. I open the bag and look at the crackers inside, trying not to let my disdain for them show on my face. "At least half," Dad tells me.

And I nod. I don't wanna, but I start eating the crackers. I gotta use all the strength in my body to get myself to chew and swallow, and it's tiring. It's so, so tiring. I just wanna go home. I wanna go home where we have Goldfish crackers and Cheez-Its. Those are easy to eat. But not these. Not these stupid, terrible, thick, powdery animal crackers.

Even though I hate every single second, I don't complain. I'm not nearly brave enough to complain.

After having about five of the crackers, I feel like throwing up. "Dad, is that enough?" I ask, trying to get the leftover bits of cracker out of my molars.

"Three more," Dad tells me.

"But it's already half," I say.

Maybe I shouldn't have said it, but Dad doesn't get mad at me. "Three more," he says again.

With all the effort I got, I manage to eat two more animal crackers. And then I stare down the third. It's in my hand and I'm staring at it, but I can't put it in my mouth. My stomach is already hurting. It's bubbling up, making it feel like my insides are twisting and turning around until it bubbles all the way up into my throat.

Now, I can feel it. I can feel the burning in my throat and the nausea in my belly. I bolt out of the RV and just manage to make it to the grass before throwing up all the animal crackers I just ate. Soon enough, I hear my dad approach behind me and he starts pushing my hair out of my face.

"I'm sorry. I tried, Dad, I swear," I tell him, trying not to start crying. I told him it made my stomach hurt. I did. He just doesn't listen. And now I bet he's gonna be mad at me. He's gonna make me eat the rest of the bag, and I'm probably gonna throw that up to, and my throat will be burning all night long and I'll never feel any better and-

"It's ok. It's fine," Dad says in his gentle, careful voice that he was using with Carol just yesterday. I can't- I don't get it. I don't understand him. He's staring at me, his eyebrows furrowed, but not with anger. With concern. With confusion. Then, he puts his arm 'round my shoulder and starts leading me back to the RV.

"Please don't make me eat anymore, Daddy. I'm sorry," I plead, pulling myself away from him. I don't want to. I can't.

Dad grabs my wrist, stopping me from backing away from him. "Stop. I'm not gonna make ya eat anymore. Just calm down, June," he says. He's still looking at me with that concerned, confused look and I hate it. Part of me wishes he would be mad because this is just weird.

"I'm sorry," I say again, because I can't calm down. My heart is beating much too fast and my dad's hand is squeezing my wrist and it's scaring me. I want to go home.

"Stop actin' like you're scared a' me. I'm your dad. You're fine. Just- you just-" Dad's stumbling over his words because I've started squirming, trying to get my wrist out of his hand. It's just making me nervous. It's making my head feel panicky. I can't help it.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," I say again. I don't know what else to say. I just don't know.

Then, out of nowhere, Dad lets go of my wrist and wraps his arms 'round me, picking me up off the ground. At first, I start fighting him, pushing my hand against his chest and trying to get away. But then I see that he's not walking anywhere with me. He's not taking me into the RV to make me eat more or taking me away to where no one will see him giving me a spankin' or smacking my face again. He's standing still. He's just holding me close to him, rubbing his hand up and down on my back.

I think I'm finally crying. I was trying so hard not to all day long, but I can't help it anymore. Today, Dad hit me, and Carl got shot, and Sophia wasn't found, and our groups all spread apart, and I feel like I'm all on my own.

"Stop. I'm not mad. You tried. That's all I wanted, babygirl," Dad whispers, hugging me close. I don't hug him back. I'm like dead weight, but he's still holding me. I don't understand. Not even a little bit. I don't understand him at all.

"I don't get it. I don't get it, Dad," I manage to mumble in between my cries.

But he doesn't answer me. Just, "Shh. Sh. Stop cryin'."

"Dad, I just- I don't-"

"Shh. You're fine. Breathe, baby," Dad tells me.

I push myself away from him again, trying to get him to put me down. "I wanna go to bed, Dad. Please. I wanna go to bed," I say, pushing on his chest.

"Ok. Ok," Dad says, putting me down. We both go into the RV and lay myself down on the bench with my back facing the aisle. Dad kneels down on the ground next to the seats, and he tucks my hair behind my ear. I wish he'd go away. "You good? You don't want anythin' else? Water?" Dad asks.

"No," I say with my shaky, weak little voice.

"Ok. Goodnight, Juni," Dad whispers. I don't say anything. I close my eyes, pretending I'm at home, in my own bed with my blankie. I can still feel Dad's presence. I hear him take a breath, like he's about to say something else, but then I hear him walk away, out the door.

The windows are open. I can hear the crickets chirping. Then, I hear my Dad's voice again.

"Jesus. Don't know what to do with that kid," Dad mutters to someone.

Then, I hear Andrea's voice. "You could try being a little less of an asshole," she says with a scoff.

Dad sighs before murmuring, "I'm tryin'." Not hard enough.