I feel like a baby again. While everyone else goes off to kill walkers, either shooting them from the towers or popping them from behind the gate, I get to sit on the ground and fidget with the rocks in the dirt. Heck, even Lori is shooting down walkers from behind the fence. But not me. I can't shoot guns anymore. Rick says the kickback will knock me on my butt, and if it doesn't knock me on my butt, it's because it broke me in two instead.

All that just means that I'm weak and everyone else is strong. They try to be nice about it, but I know.

It takes only a little while for them to clear the yard, and once they do, Lori takes my hand and pulls me up to my feet. We join the others on the inside of the fences, pretending not to see all the dead bodies around.

I've been in a prison before. Not in a jail cell or anything like that, but I've been inside a prison. Whenever I went to visit my momma, I was technically inside the prison, even if it was away from all the other prisoners and I was safe. My momma's prison looked a lot like this one. It could be this one, for all I know. Prisons all look the same, really.

Walking all the way across the field is tiring, and when I finally reach my dad, I have to lean on him because I'm getting all dizzy again.

"You a'right, Junebug?" Dad asks me when I press my face against his side to hide my eyes from the sun. I'm getting those black spots in my eyes again; the ones that morph around into different shapes and colors.

"Mhm," I murmur, even though I'm not sure if I am alright. Sometimes I think I'm not alright but I really just need to lie down for a little while. Other times, I think I'm fine, but then I either pass out or almost pass out. Lately, though, Dad's been getting better at being able to tell whether or not I'm actually gonna pass out. "You sure they're gonna have food in there? That I'll be able to eat?"

"They had enough food to feed hundreds a' these prisoners, so they oughta' have at least somethin' you can eat," Dad tells me, ruffling my hair a little.

There's a feeling I get that always makes me think I'm gonna pass out. My eyes start to feel like they're a million pounds, and my whole body suddenly feels like it's burning, and I get this panicky feeling right where my ribs meet my stomach. I feel like it's hard to breathe or the air is thicker and my throat is too small or something. And when I get that feeling, I know I have to sit down and take off whatever hoodies or jackets I'm wearing.

And, lucky me, I start getting that feeling right at this very moment.

So I let go of my dad's arm, which I was clinging onto like a little baby, and I sit down in the grass. Dad kneels down right next to me and pulls his jacket off of me.

"I told you ya shouldn't be wearin' that," he says, placing the jacket down on the grass next to him.

He likes to pretend the reasons I'm sick aren't only because of food. I think it's because he doesn't want me to feel bad about it, or maybe he doesn't want me to feel even more stressed about food than I already do. But I know it's all about food because, before, when I had all the food I needed, I wasn't like this, even when I was wearing too many layers.

I lean my arms against my knees and my head against my arms, and I take deep breaths for a little while. Eventually, the air stops feeling so thick. Once I'm feeling a little better, Dad bumps his arm against mine. When I look over at him, I see a water bottle in his hand. Reluctantly, I take a few sips from it.

"Hey, Dad?" I say after a little while. Originally, when I went over to him, it wasn't just because I wanted to be by him. It was because I had a question.

"Yeah?" Dad responds.

"Do you think Momma could be in here?" I ask him. Really, I can't tell the difference between prisons. I know my mom probably isn't in here, but there's a little part of me that hopes she is, even though there's probably no way she is. I just miss her, is all.

Dad frowns, twisting his lips to the side for a moment. "Nah. This is a men's prison. Your momma would be in a women's prison," he tells me quietly.

Whenever he talks about Momma, he always talks a little more quietly than usual. I don't know why. Maybe he doesn't want other people to know my mom is in prison, and if that's the case then... oops. But I think the real reason he talks quietly when he's thinking about her is because he misses her, too. Just as much as I do. And maybe he's worried about her, like I am.

"Do you think she's ok?" I ask him, my eyebrows pinched together. I don't want to make him sad, but I am worried about my momma and I want to know what he thinks.

"I don't know. Mom's strong. You know that. She might be ok," Dad tells me, picking at the grass absentmindedly.

"How come you don't talk about her that much?" I ask him next. He might not like that question, so I asked it carefully. He doesn't look too happy, honestly. But he never really looks happy. Except for sometimes. He mostly just looks sad or angry or worried.

"Just because, June. Enough with the questions," Dad huffs irritatedly.

I think he really loved my momma, but he doesn't like when I ask about it ever.

Everybody always said that I was too sensitive and that Dad needed to toughen me up. When I was really little, I was such a nervous little kid that I barely strayed from his shadow. I was always five or fewer steps behind him, and if it was storming outside, I wouldn't let go of him at all. I'd hook my finger into his belt loop and follow him around like a lost puppy dog.

So everyone would always say I was too nervous or sensitive or dependent. We'd go to his friends' houses or they'd come to ours, and they would laugh at me for jumping up to follow Dad every time he stood up off the couch. When I was really, really little, I would even wait outside the bathroom door whenever he went in. I'd sit on top of the closed toilet lid with a coloring book while he showering behind the curtain. I was really, really clingy. That was before pre-school, so you can't really blame me. I was only three-ish years old. Of course, I wanted my daddy.

You need to stop coddlin' her, Daryl, Merle always used to say. How's she gonna go to pre-school if she can't stand you bein' outta her sight for five seconds?

Momma thought it was cute, though. She always took pictures of us on a little camera, but we never had enough money to go print them out, so they were just kept on the camera.

The reason I'm saying all this is because I think Dad is a little bit like me, just in a more grown-up way. He's secretly sensitive, too, and he's clingy and he doesn't want to be away from the people he loves. That's why he doesn't like talking about Momma, I think. He just misses her too badly.

I think me and Dad are more alike than he'd ever like to admit.

The sun is starting to dive deep down below the horizon. Almost everyone is gathering around the center of the prison yard, setting down blankets and bags, making themselves comfortable. Rick is pacing around the perimeter of the yard, making sure every walker is dead and checking for any small openings in the fence.

Me and Dad, though, are just sitting here off to the side together. He's fidgeting with a blade of grass between his fingers. I think he wants to go do something productive because he's never been one for sitting back and relaxing.

It's hard to tell, though, because sometimes he gets fidgety when he's worried. And right now, I'm sure he's worried about me. I haven't eaten a single thing in three days, and when I did eat three days ago, it wasn't much. But he might just be antsy to go do something else. He's hard to read in some ways, but so easy to read in others. I think he needs something to do to distract himself.

"Daddy?"

"Hm?"

"Do you think this place is safe?" I ask him.

"Once we take care a' all the walkers and close any gates, yeah. I think so," Dad tells me. But that wasn't exactly what I was asking.

"I mean, the yard. Is the yard safe? Right now?" I ask, looking over at him.

"Yeah. 'Course it is," Dad says, nodding his head.

He starts chewing on his thumbnail, though. He needs something to do. I know he does.

"Well, can someone keep watch? Just in case?" I ask, my eyebrows pinched together. Really, I trust that we don't need anyone on watch, considering all the walkers are dead and Rick has already checked and is rechecking for gaps in the fence. I just think my dad would probably like to keep watch.

Dad looks at me, and he looks less anxious than before. He gives me a teeny-tiny, almost unnoticeable little smile. "Sure. You can sit with the others and I'll go keep watch for ya," he tells me. I'm asking him to keep watch more for him than I am for myself, but I don't correct him on it. He stands up with a sigh, muttering a complaint about his old man bones, and then holds out a hand to pull me up, too.

Me and Dad walk together to meet the others in the center of the yard. I sit down next to Lori. Me and her have gotten a little bit closer ever since we've been on the road. We're both the ones who have to wait behind while everyone else does the hard work because she's pregnant and I'm sick.

I keep saying sick like I have a cold or something, but that's not it. It's just that nobody wants to say what's really happening to me, so they'll say I'm sick. It's easier to say it like that.

Anyway, I sit next to Lori and Dad gives my hair a ruffle. "You good now, Junebug?" he asks, looking down at me. I nod and hum out a yes. Then he looks at Lori. "Will you make sure she eats?" he asks her.

They brought in whatever Dad and Rick caught when they went out hunting. It's probably a squirrel, but I'm not supposed to think about that.

"Dad," I grumble, tucking my knees up to my chest, furrowing my eyebrows, and hiding my face.

"Just a lil' bit, June. That's all I'm askin'," he says in his tired and teeny bit irritated tone of voice.

I don't uncover my head or even acknowledge that I heard him. I know he just wants me to feel better. I try not to be mad about it. I try really hard to be understanding. It's just so hard. No one else understands and I know that, secretly, they all think I'm like a baby because of my picky eating.

"I'll make sure," I hear Lori say. She puts her hand on my knee and squeezes a little bit, and she's probably giving my dad a reassuring smile.

Dad drapes his vest over me but takes his jacket with him because, apparently, I'm not allowed to wear the jacket when it's warm out anymore. Dad then walks away and Lori pulls the vest a little further up my shoulders.

Lori likes doing mom-type things, like making sure kids eat and comforting them when they're sad, so this is the perfect job for her. She puts her hand on my back, rubbing it up and down over my spine.

Lori is sweet. I like her a lot, even if she used to annoy me a lot. Sometimes she reminds me of my own mom. It's just comforting to be around someone who is a mom, just because, sometimes, if I close my eyes, I can pretend it's my mom who's sitting right next to me, rubbing her hand on my back to try and soothe my anxiety about whatever food I'm about to have to eat.

Boy, being at this prison really has me missing my mom. I just wonder if she misses me, too. Or if she's just used to me not being there at this point. I only got to visit her every once in a great while. Dad said it was because they had to do a lot of things to make sure it was safe for me to see her. Because everyone thought she was crazy, even though she wasn't.

Dad says I've got my mom's smile, and Mom always said I've got my dad's eyes. I'm glad to look like them. I've got a lot of good memories from before my mom went to jail. Sometimes it's hard to tell if they're my real memories that I actually remember, or if they're memories that I think I remember because Dad or Merle told me the stories.

"Remember when Juni turned four and you and your lady took her to the store and let her buy whatever candy she wanted? And she ate it all in one night and threw up in your bed. Shoulda' seen that comin', dumbass. Gave her ten bags a' Skittles and thought she'd be just fine."

"Didn't expect her to eat 'em all in one night! She was s'posed to get one bag after dinner, then I leave for five fuckin' minutes to put some clothes in the dryer, I come back and she ate every damn bag!" Dad had told Merle. "She was fine when we put her to bed. Woke up in the middle a' the night and puked in my goddamn bed."

"Why the hell was she in your bed, anyway? Four years old is old enough to be in 'er own bed."

"She was scared a' the dark," Dad had reasoned, rolling his eyes at Merle.

"Hell, she's scared a' everythin'. You need to toughen her up, man."

Gosh, Merle always brought it back around to me being too much of a scaredy-cat. He's always had good intentions. He just wanted me to be able to take care of myself. It was still annoying, though, being called weak all the time.

Anyway, that was a story Merle talked about one night around the firepit in the backyard. We used to spend almost every night around the fire pit, in the summertime at least.

Dad liked the smell of the campfire smoke and I liked the sound of the crickets.

Merle and Dad would have friends over all the time and they would drink a bunch of beers- except for Dad; he never liked drinking around me- and I would catch fireflies and name each one of them.

Sometimes, even, my dad would run to the gas station to pick up a few more packs of beer, and he'd let me come with him and get marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey's bars. Then we'd go back home and make s'mores while everyone else drank about a million beers.

My dad was always confusing in that way. I mean, when I was little, before my teacher found that bottle of pills in my backpack, Dad wasn't really confusing. He was just Dad. He took care of me and loved me and watched movies with me and played with me. He was good in almost every way. But then after that, he was always confusing. Because, sometimes, I'd love him more than life, and it felt like he loved me more than life, too. He'd let me stay up late and cook marshmallows with me. But then he'd turn around and start yelling at me for getting marshmallow on my clothes.

He says it's because he was scared he'd lose me again and that we'd hurt like we did then. It was stupid of him, I know, but I can see where he's coming from. I was hurting when I was at the Rodgers' house. I cried every night, begging to go back home. I even tried sneaking out one night, but they caught me. I was so, so sad, even though I knew I'd get to go home in a few weeks because that was what Dad had promised me.

Dad, though, had lied. He didn't know when I'd get to come home. He didn't even know if I'd ever be able to come home at all, so that must have been really, really scary for him. I mean, if I had a daughter and I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to see her again, my heart would be broken. So I can see why it hurt Dad and made him so afraid. But sometimes I still hate him for acting how he did toward me. I try not to, though.

T-Dog's got a fire going and he's about to start cooking the meat, so now I have to look away. I lean back, putting my weight on my hands. The vest slips off my shoulders again, but because of that, I notice that there's a little inside pocket. I forgot that this vest had any pockets in it. Dad used to keep his cigarettes in there, but he doesn't anymore because he doesn't have any.

But, even though there's no cigarettes, I can still feel something in there. Curious and nosy, I unzip the little pocket and feel around inside. There are two little folded-up papers in there. I pull them out.

One paper is thicker than the other. I unfold that one first. The back of it is plain white, except for little words written in pen.

Junebug Kindergarten 2005

I flip the paper over and see that it's my school picture from kindergarten. My hair is much shorter and way lighter blonde. I've got on this blue dress with tiny stars on it. I have bangs that fall over my forehead and a nervous smile that makes me look like I have an underbite, even though I don't. My eyes are big and blue and glossy. You can easily tell that this is my first ever picture day. I look really nervous about the whole thing.

After looking at the old picture for a minute, I fold it back in half and return it to the pocket.

Then, I unfold the thinner paper. It's a pink Post-It note folded four times. On it, in black ink, is my scratchy handwriting from kindergarten.

DADDY

I LOV YUO

LOV JUNE

My spelling is bad and my handwriting is even worse. A few of the letters are even backward. I remember getting and making little notes like these. When I went back to kindergarten again, for the first time after what happened, Dad put little notes in my lunchbox so I could open them at lunch.

When I first had to go back, I was so scared that I would ask to go to the nurse about thirty minutes after Dad dropped me off. I'd tell the nurse lady that I had a sore throat or a stomach ache or a headache or anything. Anything I could come up with to get her to call my dad to come pick me up. She knew I was lying, of course, and I had to go talk to the school counselor. The counselor talked to my dad and gave him the idea to write the notes.

So the notes in my lunchbox were an incentive for me to stay at school at least until lunch, so that I could see the note my dad left for me. If I didn't stay until lunch, I wasn't allowed to see the note. It helped a lot.

The thing was, on the back of each note, I wrote a note in return. It was the same thing every time, honestly. Maybe I didn't know how to write anything else.

I flip over the Post-It note, and just as I expected, there's the note from my dad to me. His handwriting is in all capital letters, too, but it's better than mine has ever been.

JUNE

I'M PROUD OF YOU FOR BEING STRONG
AND GOING TO SCHOOL TODAY EVEN
THOUGH YOU WERE SCARED. MAYBE
TOMORROW YOU CAN DO IT WITHOUT
CRYING. YOU'RE GETTING BRAVER
EVERY DAY. HAVE A GOOD DAY

DADDY

P.S. MERLE WAS JUST BEING AN ASS
YOU'RE TOUGHER THAN YOU KNOW

Reading it now, I wish he would have written something like I LOVE YOU or at least put the word LOVE before the word DADDY. I might not have realized it then, but I think I was desperate for him to write something like that. That was probably why I wrote the same thing on every one of them.

Anyway, I don't know why he used the a-word on this note because I definitely couldn't read the notes by myself, which means a lunch aid probably had to read it to me. Dad can be dumb sometimes.

I fold the note back up and stuff it back into the pocket, zipping it shut. I don't know why he kept that one, but I'm glad he did. It just makes me feel important. I don't know.

It put me in a better mood, anyway, so maybe that'll help me eat. I wish I could have the Goldfish crackers Dad used to pack in my lunches. I wish I could go back in time. Maybe then I could fix it all.

🪲🪲🪲🪲

Mostly Juni lore for now because this part of the show is low key boring 😫 it'll pick up again once they get inside the prison