I didn't sleep much at all last night. I was pretending to, and I seemed to have Dad fooled. He walked past me once, when he was leaving, and brushed his hand over my hair. I bet that if I really was sleeping, I would've woken up. But he left with Andrea last night, looking for Sophia. He was only gone for a little while. I heard him come back into the RV. Carol's crying was keeping me up. That and all of the thoughts in my head. 

He's one real confusing person, my dad. It's always back and forth with him. Because one second, he's slapping me on the face, and the next, he's holding me and calling me baby. I don't know if I'll ever understand him. 

It's easier to just be angry at him, but I try hard not to get angry at people. I've always tried real hard not to get angry at people, just because I know how it feels to have someone angry at you. Someone was always angry at me, back at home. Whether it was Merle because I'm too annoying, or Grandpa because I cry too much, or Dad because I don't always mind him. Someone was always mad and it made my heart hurt and my stomach churn. 

I don't want to make people feel the way I did- or still do, sometimes- so I try not to be angry with people. I try hard to think about it. Why they're being how they're being. Why they're doing what they're doing. There's always a reason. 

Right now, I'm trying to think of my dad's reason for being how he's being or doing what he's doing. I think he is how he is and he does what he does because he's still trying to feel better about his own dad. 

I've been thinking about it all night. And I've come to the conclusion that he's trying to be good, but it's hard when things have been so bad for him for so long. The only example Dad's ever had on how to be a father is Grandpa, and Grandpa wasn't very good at it at all. 

So I'm trying so, so hard to be understanding. I'm trying so, so hard not to hate my own dad. 

Yes, I keep telling myself, I love my dad. I love my dad very much. 

"Mornin', Dale," I say, climbing up the RV ladder. 

The sun is just barely coming up. The sky goes in layers. Where the sun is peeking up over the horizon, it's all yellow, like a sunflower or a dandelion. Then, the next layer is orange, like a carrot or, well, an orange. After that is pink, like a bubblegum lollipop or a big, fluffy stick of cotton candy. And after that, it's all purple, like the morning glories that wind up the railing of my old neighbor's front porch.

"Good morning, June," Dale says, giving me a polite, good morning smile. Sometimes, in my head, I like to imagine that Dale is my grandpa instead of my real grandpa. I bet a lot of my problems would go away if Dale was my grandpa.

My Momma would still be gone, though, because Momma getting taken away has got nothing to do with Granpda, surprisingly. What it's really gotta do with is me. Dad says it ain't my fault. He's told me that about a billion times. But sometimes I still think it is my fault. I can't help it. 

"How are you this morning? Feeling any better than you were last night?" Dale asks me as I take a seat at the edge of the RV, letting my feet dangle over the edge.

The truth is, I feel even worse today than I did yesterday. There's a little monster in my belly, clawing at my insides, trying to dig its way out. And there's a balloon inside of my skull that is slowly but surely feeling up with air, putting all sorts of pressure on my skull and making it so my eyes hurt real bad and, when I stand up, I get dizzy at first.

But I don't want to worry Dale, so, "Yeah, I'm feelin' better," I say.

"I'm happy to hear that. Your dad was very worried," Dale tells me. I'm sure he's lying, just to make me feel better. My dad was just tired of having to deal with me. I don't blame him. It's just as exhausting for me as it is for him. 

I'm sick of talking about my dad or all the problems I've got with eating, so I decide to change the subject. "When are we goin' to that farm?" I ask. I hope it's soon. I want to see Carl. I want to make sure he's alright. It's killing me, not knowing. 

"As soon as everyone wakes up," Dale answers. 

"What if I wake 'em up?" I ask, raising my eyebrows. The only reason I'm asking is because I know Dale will say not to. I really hate waking people up because some people get real annoyed about it and I hate when people are annoyed with me. 

"No, we better let them get some rest. They were up late looking for Sophia," Dale says. I don't tell him, but I already knew that.

"Yeah. Bet they're tired," I say. But I'm tired, too. It's just hard to sleep with everything that's going on, and especially with the added hunger on top. I'm so, so hungry, but every time I think about eating, it makes my stomach feel sicker.

I spend the next half hour up on the roof of the RV with Dale. I'm reading that bird book again, and Dale doesn't mind helping me with the words I don't know. It goes by fast. Before I know it, Dad's up, too. Then Andrea, and then Carol. And then they start setting up the sign and supplies for Sophia, I think. I'm real focused on the book. 

Dad calls up to me, telling me to come on down, so I do. When I get down there, he puts his hand on my shoulder and starts pushing me along towards Merle's motorcycle. "What're we doin'?" I ask him, furrowing my eyebrows. 

"Meetin' the others at that farm," Dad says. He's got my new, pink backpack slung over his shoulder, but then he takes it off and straps it to the bike. 

I'm just confused now. If we're leaving, why'd he make me come over here with him? And then he straps his crossbow onto the bike and gets on, and it finally dawns on me. My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I get to ride with you?" I ask, trying not to get my hopes up too high. 

Dad looks back at me. "D'ya want to?" he asks. Eagerly, I nod my head up and down. Dad almost smiles, I think. But he doesn't. "Hop on, then," he says, holding his hand out to help me up. 

He's so, so, so confusing. But he's being nice now, so I guess I can just try to ignore it. I focus on the good things, like riding on Merle's motorcycle and reading books with Dale. When I get onto the motorcycle and hug my dad tight, I hear the RV's engine rumble to life behind us. I hear another car's engine start up, too. 

"You holdin' on tight?" Dad asks, twisting his neck around to look at me. He can already tell I'm holding on tight because it's him who I'm holding onto, but I tell him yes, anyway. And then we start riding. 

I used to go on motorcycle rides with Merle or Dad sometimes. I always had a helmet, back then, and it was real heavy. It was like wearing a bowling ball on my head. I like riding the motorcycle much better without the helmet. I can feel the wind in my hair and in my lungs and it makes me forget about the monster in my belly and the balloon in my skull, for just a little bit. 

We drive like this more maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. I'm not sure. Telling time is another thing I'm not very good at.

Anyway, after a while, I see the most beautiful farmhouse I've ever seen in my entire life. The driveway is the longest driveway I've ever seen in my entire life. And they've got a big, beautiful porch that my momma always said she dreamed about having. 

Momma grew up on a farm that had an alright porch, and she always said that someday, we were gonna have enough money to buy our own farmhouse that had an amazing porch. She said she would sit on a rocking chair on the porch and drink a nice cup of coffee while watching me and Dad do something like fixing a car or building something together. Like in all of those cheesy movies she'd watch on the Cinemax channel. 

But then she got taken away, and when I asked Dad if we'd ever get that farmhouse she always wanted, he said not unless we won the lottery. Because, apparently, ex-cons can't get any well-payin' jobs. 

I have to force myself to stop thinking about Momma. I do miss her lots. I just hope that she's safe, wherever she is. When the sickness first started spreading, Dad left me at home with Merle and drove all the way to see Momma and find out what would happen to her if things went bad. But the people who worked there wouldn't let him in.

We tried going there to get her after everything fell, but the roads were all jammed up with people trying to get out of the city. 

Really, though, I bet she's alright. I bet she's just fine. She's strong. 

"C'mon," Dad says, grabbing me and helping me climb down from the motorcycle seat. 

Each and every one of us stares at Rick and Lori as they start walking down the big, beautiful front porch steps. Dale's the only one who has the courage to ask the question that we're all thinking. "How is he?" he asks. 

A smile grows on Lori's face as she's holding her hands on her hips. "He'll pull through, thanks to Hershel and his people," she explains, nodding her head over to the new strangers that stand behind her. 

"And Shane. We'd have lost Carl if not for him," Rick adds. 

I look over at Shane, who's standing out of the way. He's dressed in overalls that are much too big for him, which is weird. But that's nothing compared to the fact that all of his hair is gone. What the heck did he do? Where'd it all go?

Dale steps forward to hug Rick, Carol to Lori, and Andrea to T-Dog. T-Dog's arm is all bandaged up, still, but the bandages aren't so bloody anymore. Guess they were able to help.

"How'd it happen?" is Dale's next question. I've been wondering this, too. How on Earth could Carl have gotten shot? How could someone mistake a little kid for a walker? Or was it not that? Maybe it was something else.

"Hunting accident. That's all- just a stupid accident," Rick answers. A hunting accident? Someone was hunting and accidentally shot Carl instead of their target. That's some pretty bad luck, if you ask me. 

"We were just about to start our funeral for Otis, if you'd like to join us. He contributed to bringing back the medical supplies that we needed to save the boy's life," an old man tells us. I think he's Hershel. That's what Lori said, I think.

It's hard to focus right now. My head feels foggy. Slow moving. 

I don't know much about who Hershel is, or who Otis is, but I feel bad. They lost someone. So when the group starts walking with Hershel and his family, I grab my dad's hand and start pulling him along with me. I can tell that he doesn't want to go to this stranger's little funeral service. But he goes with me, anyway, because he knows I care, even if he doesn't.

As we stand around Otis's grave, I lean against my dad, feeling dizzy. It's weird wearing Spider-man pajamas at a funeral, and it feels a bit disrespectful, but no one seems to mind. I'm listening to Hershel speak about Otis. Hershel says that Otis gave his life to save Carl's, and I've decided that, even though I didn't know Otis, I miss him. I wish I could have met him. He sounds like a good man. 

Hershel also talks about God and Heaven. I've never been to church. My momma doesn't believe in God. She says that when we die, we get reborn as a different baby. Whenever I asked Dad about it, he said it doesn't matter because I ain't dying anytime soon. I just want to know what he thinks. I don't know why he doesn't want to tell me. 

Once Hershel's done, he asks Shane to say something about Otis. Shane doesn't want to. He's not good at it, he insists. But after some words from a woman who was apparently Otis's wife, Shane gives in. 

Shane hates talking about it. I can tell. He's struggling to say it. But he says it. If not for Otis, he would have never made it out alive. And Carl would be dead. Otis saved them both. That's what Shane says. He says Otis's death had meaning. It's making the monster in my belly act up again.

But I stay strong for the whole thing. I can't be rude. So I stay and I listen, despite how bad my stomach's churning and my head is throbbing. 

As soon as the funeral is over, I hide my face against my dad's shirt. Suddenly, the sun feels like lasers pointed right into my eyes. "Daddy, I'on feel good," I murmur. He's got his arm around my shoulder and usually that would make me feel better, but not this time. This time it feels like hot lava, making my head feel worse. 

"It's 'cause you aren't eatin' enough. I told you," Dad tells me. And he did say it. He said I'd get sick if I didn't eat. But sometimes I get sick if I do eat, too. I lean against him more, squeezing my eyes shut. 

"Dad-"

"I know. Let's get some food in ya, huh?" Dad says. He starts pushing me along towards the house, but just as I start walking, everything starts spinning. I stop walking and start holding my hands out to my sides. 

"Daddy, I can't-" I start to say, grabbing onto my dad's arm. 

"You're ok. Just gotta eat, June," Dad tells me, keeping me walking. I feel like I'm gonna pass out. We get up to the front porch steps and a woman with short, brown hair holds the door open for us. 

"Is she sick?" the woman asks, furrowing her eyebrows.

"Nah. She hasn't eaten nothin' in the past few days," Dad says, ushering me through the door. That's only half true, though, because I have eaten. I just kept throwing it up. 

"Well, I can make her a sandwich. We've got ham and cheese, PB&J, grilled cheese-" the woman starts to list off things she could make. All of those things make me feel like throwing up. 

"Nah. She needs somethin' small or she'll just puke it all up," Dad tells the woman. He sits me down at the dining room table and I bury my face in my arms. "Got any crackers or somethin'? Not animal crackers," Dad clarifies. Gosh, just thinking about animal crackers makes me sick. 

"Yeah. Yeah, of course. I think we've got some Ritz crackers. I'll get some," the woman says. She starts going towards the kitchen and Dad follows her. "I'm Maggie, by the way," I hear her say. 

"Daryl," Dad replies.

"And her?" Maggie asks next.

"Juniper. June," Dad answers. 

"I have peanut butter, if she likes peanut butter crackers," Maggie says. I hate peanut butter.

"She won't eat peanut butter," Dad mutters.

"That's ok," Maggie says. 

Maggie comes back into the dining room a moment later, holding a small plate with some crackers. She puts it down on the table in front of me. "Here you go, June. I'm Maggie, by the way," she says. I give her a weak smile. She returns it. "You want anythin' else? Water? Juice?" she asks.

"Apple juice?" I ask hopefully, raising my eyebrows.

"Sure," Maggie says. She disappears for a moment, leaving only me, Dad, and the crackers in the room. I grab the first one and start picking at the edges. Dad's staring at me. I'm not looking at him, but I can feel it. It weighs down on me. Maggie returns with a glass of apple juice. Without even a moment of hesitation, I pick up the glass and start drinking. 

Apple juice is always good. No matter what. Except for when you get those stupid Honest Kids apple juice pouches. Those taste like what I imagine pee tastes like. Bad. But this is good apple juice.

"Thank you," I say, after a few sips. 

"No problem," Maggie says, giving me another smile. 

"Make sure you eat the crackers, too, June," Dad tells me. He's still staring at me. I haven't eaten a cracker yet. "I'mma go see about startin' a search for Sophia. Eat as much as you can, alright?" Dad says, pointing at me and raising his eyebrows in that stern way he does. Usually, he'd tell me how much to eat, but I guess he learned his lesson about that last night. 

When Dad leaves the room, Maggie follows him. They're out of the doorway now, but I can tell they're still there. I can still feel Dad's stare. Then, I can hear them talking real, real quietly. I think they think I can't hear them, but I can. 

"Is she ok?" I hear Maggie ask in a higher voice. 

"Don't know," Dad murmurs. I'm still picking at the crackers. Eating one feels impossible.

"Has she always been like that with food?" I hear Maggie ask. 

"Guess so. It's gettin' worse, though," I hear Dad say. They're both staring at me. I can feel it. They both stay quiet for a moment. Then, I hear Dad sigh. "Think somethin's wrong," he mutters. Then, it's silent. 

Dad's footsteps fade away until I hear the screen door shut. Maggie sits down at the table with me. She tells me she likes my Spider-man jammies. I tell her thanks. I stare at the crackers. She offers some cheese to go with them. I tell her I don't like cheese unless it's on pizza or burgers. Or when it's made into snacks, like Goldfish and Cheez-Its. 

Maggie sits with me and she doesn't tell me to hurry up. She doesn't put a timer on the microwave. She just talks to me and, eventually, I start eating some of the crackers.